Donnie Dicuhardt & Remy Snow -vs- The Milfs

I looked to the side at the peeling retro grande wallpaper, the yellow diamond pattern seeming to mock me somehow as hollow footsteps echoed in the public (pardon the pun) shithole. Snow turned to me from his side of the toilet we were both hunched atop, our kneecaps hitting our chins.

\"Great job, dickload,\" he whispered sardonically.

\"Shaddap, it was your idea, you shyster bastard,\" I hissed right back.

Not only was I stuck in the most cliche hiding position ever, but it was with my ever so suave companion fag. It has always been my belief that if you\'re going to do anything, including cower in fear, you must do it in the most extravegant, wonderously absurd way possible, in true Dicuhardt fashion. This.. this was just unacceptable.

Now, why were we in this position, I\'ll bet you\'re asking. It\'s all the fag\'s fault, first off. As for details? Well, it started out simply enough.

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It was four in the morning at International House of Pancakes and Ratshit, Chicago. Illinois isn\'t my usual beat, but hey- swingers clubs with a jazzy theme, who am I to refuse? The patrons looked at us as if asking, \"What the hell are two sons of bitches like that doing up this early,\" and it took every bit of willpower in my oh! so sexy body not to reply, \"You mean, what are we doing up so late?\"

The answer? The fag had a plan, apparently. It was after a long night of drinking fruity drinks and consentual depantsing down main street that he turned to me and said, \"IHOP.\"

Lofting a naturally perfectly arched brow (after a bit of professional waxing, but only a bit), I pulled his head out of the stripper\'s lap and asked in a perfectly comprehensible tone, \"Muh?\"

He finished his line and slurred, \"Innter nashunul howwwse ovuh pannn-\"

I grabbed him off the table (silly bitch was on all fours) by his hair and led him out, not really wanting to go to the disgusting little resturaunt, but lacking anything better to do. After a mighty swagger downtown, my slovenly friend and I settled into one of the many fine booths. We amassed our fair share of odd looks, me being the magnificent beast I am, him the.. well, he was the buggered glam fag he usually is. His pale but bloodshot eyes peeked out from a mess of uncombed black hair at me, a shit-eating grin on his face. \"It\'s flawless.\" Fuck. I shook my head, putting my both hands up in a \'no way\' fashion, \"No more plans, your plans suck.\"

\"Flawless.\"

He was rarely this sure of those horrid get rich quick schemes and the look on his face intrigued me. I poured some brandy on my pancakes and put my elbow on the table, cheek on resting my palm. \"Alright, shoot.\"

He steepled his long fingers as if the son of a whore actually knew what he was talking about. As for that? I highly, highly doubted it. After what seemed like a long time, he finally spoke. \"What\'s your opinion on milfs?\"

\"Babymakers with baggy tits and emotional problems, what\'s more to love?\"

He shook his head, still slurring a bit. \"No, no no no, I mean the hot trophy wives. Inept husbands always at work, diddling the pool boys, kids at boarding schoo-\"

\"I\'m not cleaning pools.\"

\"Shaddap, let me finish. What we do is, we set up a \'counseling service,\' it\'s this new bullshit thing called a \'life coach.\' We go down there, give them a little life coaching or whatever the fuck it is those people do, which inevitably leads to a little somethin-somethin.\"

Seducing vulnerable women, taking advantage of their emotional shortcomings and desperation.. Not a bad plan.

\"Best part? We get paid for all this.\"

I was in.