Buck-arsed naked after downing a quart jar of bad hootch slap dab in the middle of Big Earl’s House of Porn and Bait Shoppe, shapely Lucille slipped up close. Oh, lord her endowments felt good. “You finished your predictions yet, Nostradamus, Jr, “she whispered.
Lord have mercy, them predictions hadn’t crossed my mind in months. The whole dang crowd in Big Earl’s knew I was recovering from a three-month binge and were betting if I could pull it off yet again. Lucille, shimmied up and down, weaving them hips enough to hypnotize most mortal men, but not Nostradamus, Jr ,when them annual predictions called. I thought, one night of fun with Little Egypt and twelve imported belly dancers with super-perilous curves and tomorrow I’d go.