Puddles by W. J. Howard

**WARNING: ADULT CONTENT**
This is dark humor. Read at your own risk.

At three in the morning the urine odor in the alley between Champa and Stout makes my eyes water. Tonight it’s also burning away all the hair in my nose.

Lucky for Trixy and me, we’ll quit in an hour. We’ll sleep until we have to return to work La Boheme Gentlemen’s Cabaret evening rush. We do it every night, giving blow jobs for ten bucks a shot to guys who paid more for a lap dance before they come looking for us.

This alley is a favorite pass through for Denver’s homeless, and tonight it’s been a hobo convention. Mostly they use the alley as a toilet, so much so puddles of piss form throughout the night. To the pervy bums, this dark backstreet’s also a live peep show. The mentals even go so far as to whip out their cocks and demand free head. Our pimp, Huggy, usually keeps ‘em at a distance, but he’s gone for the night.

Off to my left I spy one of the worst sickos. He’s more of a shadow where he stands with his hands on his hips and his legs split open, like he’s some sort of bad ass.

“Hurry up,” I call out to warn Trixie. Her ass sticks out from an inset doorway, where she’s bent over sucking away on a john. “Crazy Ken’s on the rampage again.”

The john jerked, let loose of Trixie’s hair then took off toward the street. Trixie stood and turned to face me, a puzzled look on her face.

“He must know Crazy Ken,” I said and we laughed together.

“Poor guy shriveled before he was done.” Trixie pulled a wad of cash from her bra, waved it and smiled. “Got his cash though.”

Crazy Ken advanced, swung his arms and picked up speed as if he were The Terminator, intent on a kill. Only we knew better. Like he always does, he abruptly stopped five feet short of where we stood and reached for his zipper.

I grabbed Trixie’s arm to turn her away from Ken. “Bitch, we’ve sucked enough shriveled cock today. Let’s go home.”

Not bright on my part. Ken was in no mood for insults. He jumped forward into a piss puddle. Putrid droplets of mud and urine splashed over our bare legs.

“You crazy fuck,” Trixie called out and flipped him the bird.

Ken gurgled as he laughed, further pissing of Trixie.

She lunged at him, shoving at his shoulders. “You think that’s funny. I’ll show you funny.”

“Don’t touch me,” he whimpered as his arms crossed over his chest and he took a step backward. Ken tripped over the edge of the puddle and fell onto his back.

Trixie lifted her shiny six-inch heal while biting her tongue. She brought the spike downward like a dart in slow motion aimed at a bullseye, Ken’s limp dick peaking out from his unzipped jeans.

“Trixie, no!” But it was too late.

They still talk about his nightmarish screams heard in every corner of the city. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but one strike of Trixie’s heal cleared the homeless from downtown Denver faster than the old Mayor Hickenlooper could ever have them shipped out of town.