Family Tradition

Chapter Three

“The crack of dawn for the Crackjaw eel,” Ashton celebrated, rubbing his hands together in the early morning light.

“Hell,” Bob said, rubbing his hands similarly, “even if we don’t catch any, it’ll be great to just get out and see some of God’s Green Earth. The mountains, the trees, the fresh air.” Then he lit a cigarette and coughed. “Plus, I’m dying to break in my new house on wheels. What do you think?”

Ashton put a comradely arm around his brother’s shoulder, and whispered, “Don’t jive me, Bobby. What you’re really dying to break in is that new blonde of yours.”

“Shit, I did that a month ago…and she’s been walking funny ever since!”

Both men brayed laughter, eee-hawing like a couple of…jackasses. Ashton and Bob were twin brothers, forty-three years old, and both looked alike: fat. Close to three hundred pounds apiece. Trimmed beards, long hair pulled back to short stylish ponytails. The only telling them apart was the streak of gray Ashton deliberately dyed into his hair because he thought it looked “entrepreneurial.” And though Ashton was a wealthy man indeed, brother Bobby was wealthier; he was Microsoft’s executive chairman for advanced research projects, and he pulled down low seven figures per annum. Ashton made up for this inequity by reminding Bob that he, Ashton, had had sex with more women in his life. Ashton’s grand total was five, while Bob could boast a tally of four.

So here were the Morrone brothers in a rather large nutshell. Both were unsocialized, both were obese, and both carried egos larger than their belt size. Both, too, were intolerable snobs. But they were rich…so they must be doing something right.

“Yeah, she’s a beaut, all right,” Ashton commented of Bob’s brand new thirty-foot zinc-white Winnebago. The vanity license plate read #4 AT MS, while a glittery bumper sticker read THE LOVE WAGON. “You dog, you,” Ashton added, chuckling. “Hey, let me ask you something. How many times did you stick it to Sheryl last night?”

“It’s Carol,” Bob corrected, “and I gotta admit, even stud-muffins like me can’t be a machine every night. I only bagged her twice. Usually it’s three or four.”

“You dog, you!” Ashton chuckled. “My problem is I wear Sheree out on the first go-round. Gets so she just can’t come anymore.”

“Wow,” Bob said in a hush, impressed.

“Big men like us, we gotta give our bitches a break sometimes, right?”

Bob slapped Ashton on the back. “Damn straight, brother.”

“But I’ll tell ya—last night? I gave her two more pops…just because I felt like it!”

Both men brayed laughter as they meandered toward the Winnebago’s rear. There, hooked via ball hitch, was a brand-new sixteen-foot outboard SeaRay. “Hell, we’re rich men,” Bob pointed out. “We don’t rent boats to go fishing; that would be…” He flicked a pinkie. “…low class. And since I couldn’t fit my sixty-foot yacht on the trailer, I bought this.”

Ashton’s fat face beamed in glee. “This is great! We’ll be hauling those Crackjaw eels in one after another.”

“You sure this lake’s got ’em?”

“Well,,,yeah.” Ashton had previously explained not only his recent embarrassment at the hands of rival restauranteur M. Gerald James but also the overseas marketing potential. “It says so in an old book I found printed in the ’50s.”

Bob didn’t seem as convinced but why be a spoilsport? “Well, hell, even if we don’t find a treasure trove of eel waiting for us…just think of all the poontang we’re gonna have!”

A hard slap to bother Bobby’s back. “Damn straight, brother!”

“We’ll be dippin’ our willies!”

Both men brayed laughter in front of Ashton’s condo building. “Speaking of poontang,” Ashton said, looking at his Cartier diamond-studded watch, “where are the girls?”

Scuffing sounds could be heard, then, as Sheree and Carol lugged heavy suitcases down the steps at the front of the building. “Oh, that’s okay, guys,” Sheree said sarcastically. “We don’t need any help.”

“Yeah,” Carol added. “We’re not really human beings—we’re fucking forklifts!”

Ashton and Bob brayed laughter. “We’ll take it from here, girls,” Bob offered. The men took the heavy suitcases and walked them the remaining three feet to the Winnebago.

Ashton winked at Sheree. “Can’t have the two hottest numbers in the city wearing their pretty little selves out, now can we?”

“We sure can’t, good brother,” Bob accentuated. “Just think of all the red-hot lovin’ they’d miss!”

The men barked more laughter. Sheree and Carol exchanged weary glances which said, This is going to be a LONG trip…

««—»»

A long trip indeed. Bob drove while Ashton sat up front next to him; the girls sat facing each other in passenger seats mounted on the vehicle’s sidewalls, their long, pretty legs crossed. Each dressed for a road trip: sneakers and tube tops, Sheree in cut-off jeans and Carol in a short denim skirt. It didn’t take long for them to both get the shared gist. Up front, Bob yakked about his grand job at Microsoft, Ashton yakked about his grand restaurant and tv show, and in between yakking, they both laughed uproariously at their own bad jokes.

“Hey,” Ashton asked. “What do you get when you fuck a bottle of Coke?”

“What?” Bob asked.

“Burpees!”

Ashton and Bob rocked laughter. Bob’s fat face jerked back to Sheree and Carol. “Get it girls? Burpees?”

“Yeah, we got it,” Carol said, and shot a quick frown to Sheree. Sheree leaned forward and mouthed Fat dicks to Carol. Carol snorted a tiny laugh herself.

Behind them the luxury Winnebago stretched deep. A full kitchen, a full bath and shower, a double bed built over the cab and another that could be pulled down in the rear. Not to mention a 200-watt Alpine stereo with a dozen satellite speakers mounted in the walls, and a 27-inch television linked to a dish on the roof. Cases of beer—snob beer: Holsten—had been brought along, and so had a full dozen bottles of Clos du Val 1990 Pinot Noir, which Ashton insisted was “pre-eminent” with freshwater fish. At the very least, Sheree could expect to get a good load on during this very peculiar outing. In the back, Bob had an auxiliary refrigerator hooked up, for all this eel they thought they were going to catch.

They’d taken the ferry from Seattle across to Bainbridge, then cruised up over the Hood Canal, and shortly thereafter found themselves on Route 101, which traced the peninsula around the Olympic Mountain Range. The scenery was beautiful. But as far as Sheree was concerned, better scenery could just as easily be found in National Geographic and it didn’t require her to spend an entire weekend with two overweight nerds. To the left, the mountains loomed, spiring high into dense clouds. To the right: the Strait of San Juan, across which they could see Canada with binoculars after Ashton’s enthused bidding. But then it occurred to Sheree that she had no real reason to want to see Canada. Big deal, she thought. A chunk of land that happens to be another country. Big deal.

The two fat men up front reveled at the rush of scenery, Ashton snapping picture after picture. Eventually, Sheree and Carol settled into their doldrums, sipping beers from foam-rubber sheaths.

“So, Carol,” Sheree asked. “What do you do?”

“I—” She paused over her beer, her breasts thrusting beneath the tight tea-rose-pink tube top. Then she shrugged. “I live off of Bob.”

“Damn straight,” Bob cackled. “Pig-shit rich and a great lay. What woman in her right mind would turn that down?”

Ashton cracked similar laughter.

“What about you?” Carol made the same query to Sheree. “What do you do?”

Ashton’s fat, bearded face shot back over his shoulder, his grin blaring.

“I live off of Ashton,” Sheree admitted. “Because he’s pig-shit rich and a great lay.”

Ashton and Bob, to no surprise, brayed laughter. Sheree and Carol rolled their eyes at each other.

More bad jokes from up front cursed the trip: “Have you heard about the teacher who was fired for being cross-eyed?” “She couldn’t control her pupils.” “What do you give sick birds?” “Tweetment.”

Sheree considered suicide as an alternative to this—Ashton, she knew, was a supreme asshole, but in league with his brother? He was ten assholes. At least the “trip” wouldn’t last forever. Eventually she’d be back at the luxury suite, driving her Bimmer, spending Ashton’s cash where and whenever she saw fit, and even copping a stray lay now and again. Sure, she cheated on Ashton; he was too busy braising rosemary racks of lamb and flambeeing Divers Scallops in Gingered Sesame Sauce to keep a total track of her. She remembered the last guy she’d picked up, at the Four Seas bar in Chinatown. Looked like fuckin’ Gary Oldman with long hair and tattoos, and a pound of potatoes in his pants. That pound turned to two or three once she’d gotten him back to the motel. It was so big even Sheree’s porn-seasoned pussy about exploded when he stuck it all in. She came once a minute for an hour, felt damn near retarded when he was finally finished. Sheree was actually blowing spit-bubbles on the last round, then he pulled out, jerked the rest of it off, and whipped her face with lash after lash of hot cum.

Few and far between, though; Sheree knew she had to be careful in such ventures. She had a lot to lose. Not just three-hundred pounds of fat jackass but the car, the joint, and the cash.

She sighed to herself, then flicked a momentary glance at Carol—long tan legs crossed in the tight denim skirt, tits bulging in the skin-sucking tube-top. Carol’s blond hair shimmered almost perfect white over the cherubic naughty-girl face; Sheree recalled the lezzy scenes she’s done with Savannah and Zoe and Rachel Ryan when she’d been a blonde, and it occurred to her just then that she wouldn’t particularly mind parking her pussy firmly over Carol’s mouth. Just a fleeting fantasy. Up front yet another bad joke resounded: “What do you call a rabbit with fleas all over him?” “What?” “Bugs Bunny!”

The men brayed laughter as Carol and Sheree winced. It was a coincidence, then, when Sheree, after another appraising look at Carol’s impeccable body, thought, I wonder if Carol cheats on Bob… Carol reached forward, tapping Sheree on the knee; she passed Sheree a quickly scrawled note, which read: I cheat on Bob any chance I get. Do you cheat on Ashton?

Sheree took the pen and piece of paper, and wrote FUCK yes!

Carol shrieked in response.

“What’s going on back here?” Ashton asked, his eternally fat face glancing back at them. “You girls having some fun without us?”

Don’t I wish, dick-wad, Sheree thought. “We were just laughing about your great jokes. Tell us another one, honey.”

Ashton grinned in sheer pride. “If you insist. What does a dog do that a man steps into?”

“What?” Carol asked.

“Pants.”

Bob brayed laughter so hard the Winnebago rocked. Carol and Sheree wanted to die.

“I know it’s funny, but don’t laugh too hard, girls,” Ashton said next. “Because, guess what? We’re here.”

««—»»

Bob had taken a narrow and poorly marked road a ways past Port Angeles—Sheree had spied a badly painted wooden sign, which read Sutherland Lake. It was only minutes later that Bob was maneuvering the girthy Winnebago and its laden trailer through heavily wooded roads that seemed more like hiking trails. Fog sifted through the trees, condensation seeping down from the mountains.

“No wonder nobody knows about this place,” Sheree commented. “Who’d drive through all this shit just to fish?”

“And that’s our good fortune, sugarplum,” Ashton replied. (Sheree’s face creased when he said sugarplum.) “The fewer people who know about this spot, the better—for us.”

Carol’s mammoth breasts swayed when she leaned up between the two men and peered out the windshield. “This looks—this looks…funky,” she articulated. “Are you sure there’s a lake back here?”

“A big lake, baby,” Bob said. “Why don’t you girls stick with what you know: looking pretty. Let the men do the navigating.”

Sheree yanked Carol back by her tube top…before she could put her hands around Bob’s fat neck. Another minute, though, a crude wooden sign popped up, its enameled letters informing: GREAT FISHIN’ 1 MILE! BAIT SHOP! TAKE THE PULL-FERRY!

“See, schnookems?” Bob countered to Carol. “You saw the sign. Good fishing coming right up.”

“Yeah,” Sheree posed, running a finger across her chin. “But what’s a pull-ferry?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Ashton said. “I hope they’ve got a water hook-up for the Winnebago.”

“And electric,” Bob added.

Soon the giant vehicle pulled out onto a long coast road, lining the shore of a broad, spacious lake. “This is it!” Ashton whispered in a hot breath.

Bob: “Yeah, but where’s this bait shop? Where’s the trailer grounds? We need electric to keep the brew cold.”

Then another sign popped up: TRAILERS AND RV’S WELCOME. HOOK-UP CHARGE $5 A DAY. COME ACROSS TO THE SHOP TO PAY.

“What the fuck?” Sheree pondered. “Come across to what?”

“They mean come across the lake,” Ashton speculated. “To the island.”

He pointed now, and they could see it: the heavily forested island tiny in the distance, like a fat, green clot floating in the lake. Abruptly, a clearing opened, with water hoses flanked next to electric hook-up. PARK HERE, a sign announced. $5 A DAY FOR ELECTRIC, $5 A DAY FOR WATER. $5 A DAY FOR PARKING. TAKE THE PULL-FERRY ACROSS TO PAY.

“Those five-dollar charges are racking up,” Carol noticed.

Ashton grinned over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, hon. Bobby and I got it covered.”

“I guess that’s the pull-ferry,” Sheree surmised. They parked near a rickety dock and crude gravel boat ramp. A red Ford Explorer sat parked further down. The “pull-ferry” was nothing more than a rowboat connected to a pulley system of thick rope which stretched all the way to the island.

A wooden sign informed: PULL-FERRY FEE $5.

Ashton chuckled to his brother. “Think we can afford it, big guy?”

Bob pulled out a choke-wad of cash. “Aw, gee, I don’t know! I guess we better go back home!”

Sheree frowned at the laughter which was now obligatory.

The Winnebago literally rocked when Ashton and Bob got out; Sheree thought of two cows being pushed off a cattle car. Her eyes, however, felt snagged to Carol’s ass as she climbed out. A big perfect swervy ass filling up that tight denim skirt. Sheeze, Sheree though through a prickly flush. Two pinpoints of heat speared her nipples. If I was a man I’d want to fuck her hard in the dirt… She got out behind Carol, cruxed by the sudden kindle of lust. Sure, in the porn business, Sheree had licked more pussies than the average kindergarten kid had licked lollipops, and so much hair pie had sat on her face she thought she was a fucking park bench. But it was all for the show, all for the camera and the billion-dollar-per-year industry of men jerking off in front on their tv sets. Personally, Sheree wasn’t into women (she was into cock). Her mind drifted back to previous Hollywood boyfriends and suddenly her birth canal grew slickened at the constant recollection of touch, handsome men slapping her down and fucking her hard. Chicks didn’t do it for her.

Her breath felt short when she glanced at Carol again. Suddenly she could think of nothing but eating Carol out and boning her with a 14-inch strap-on. And then receiving the same ministrations. Guess it’s just been too long since I’ve been laid, Sheree deduced. Fuckin’ Ashton, the fat limp-dicked pompous ass. I guess when there’s no Option Number One, Option Number Two doesn’t seem too bad.

It was just a coincidence, of course, but once Sheree’d gotten out of the Winnebago, her muse of lust lingering on Carol…

Carol turned around and smiled.

“Come on, girls!” Bob insisted. “Chop chop.” He irritatingly clapped his hands twice very loudly. “Let’s get across the lake, get our account settled.”

“Yeah,” Ashton hooked on. He, too, clapped his hands. “Plenty of daylight left.”

Sheree and Carol straggled after the two rotund twins. When the four of them stepped onto the row boat, Sheree thought it might actually submerge from the excess of weight. As Ashton and Bob turned the crank, the boat began to creep across the lake’s surface, reeling up rope as it went. It wasn’t much for speed, but Sheree had to admit: the scenery was unbelievable. The lake water was clear and shimmering as Waterford Crystal, and the upcoming island seemed to glow in a variety of fresh, fecund greenery. But they had traversed a third of the way across the lake before—

“Whew!” Bob remarked.

Ashton drew a fat forearm across his brow. “Damn!”

Then they both sat down on the boat’s forward seat.

“Sorry, girls,” Bob explained, huffing and puffing and lighting a cigarette. “We’re tuckered out.”

“Yeah,” Ashton followed. He lit a La Corona Whiff petite cigar. “We’re old men compared to you two young racehorses. Hope you don’t mind taking a turn on the crank.”

Oh for God’s sake! Sheree yelled in her mind.

“No biggie, boys,” Carol said, shooting Sheree a knowing grin. “Sheree and I would love to.”

“Besides,” Bob added with a chuckle. “You don’t want us wearing ourselves out, do you?”

“Yeah,” Ashton added. “Then we’d be no good for tonight.”

You’re no good for anything ANY night! Sheree thought.

The two women stood up, got on either side of the handles. They began to crank. But Carol’s frequent grins proved she was going along with the joke. The grin seemed to say This is the price we pay for living with a pair of fat stooges.

Now that Sheree and Carol were on the crank, the boat began to make some headway, in spite of her conclusion that this “pull-ferry” was about six hundred pounds heavier than it should be. Every time Carol rowed down to display her immaculate cleavage, Sheree squeezed her lip between her teeth. Christ, I’m soaking…

The brothers smoked and swapped more bad jokes as Sheree and Carol cranked for all they were worth. The smoke from Ashton’s cigar kept sweeping Sheree’s face, such that she could see herself slapping it right out of her loving boyfriend’s fat mug. She was glazed in sweat by the time they’d cranked to little boat to the ramp on the other side.

“Good job, girls,” Bob complimented, flicking his cigarette butt over the side.

“Yeah,” Ashton said. “You both get an A…for Attractive!”

And you get an F, Sheree thought. For FAT.

The boat raised a good six inches when Bob and Ashton stepped off. Carol stepped off next, and grabbed Sheree’s arm to help her off.

“Oh, gross,” Sheree remarked instantly. “Sorry I’m so sweaty.”

“I am too, so don’t worry about it,” Carol assured. Then she leaned to Sheree’s ear and whispered, “Besides, I’d love to lick it all off.”

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