Time for one of my famous fiction posts…

Yes, it’s time… and fuck anyone who thinks this story is about them or anyone they know. The usual disclaimer still stands. This is a work of FICTION. And just to clarify, it’s NOT about you or anyone you know. 😉 I made the whole thing up and I can prove it.

It was a happy day at the meat processing plant. Everyone on staff had gotten a five dollar raise, thanks to the president’s decision to cut Social Security benefits for the old geezers. Now, Big Bertha, Little Myrtie, and their trusty sidekick, Pretty Shitty could go out on the town. Not that there was much to the town where the trio of women lived. They were all long time workers at the processing plant. It was a dirty, nasty place to work, but at least they didn’t have anything to do with the truly grossest part of the work. That was handled by the men.

Little Myrtie was Bertha’s friend. She was much too squeamish to work with the pink slime. It offended her delicate sensibilities. Myrtie’s talents were for cleaning, which was a valuable skill at the processing plant. She kept everything sterile, which made it possible for the meat processing plant to make a good product that turned a profit rather than stomachs. Myrtie was also very frugal and knew how to pinch pennies until they cried. More than once, her efforts to cut costs had saved the plant from closing down. Of course, the plant was a blight on the landscape of their small, rural town in nowheresville. Maybe some people would welcome the closure of the foul smelling business. But, the truth was, it kept people working, even if it did detract from the town’s charm.

Pretty Shitty was not really a friend of Bertha’s and Myrtie’s. She was more of an admirer… a wanna be. She wanted what Bertha and Myrtie had. It didn’t even matter to her exactly what Bertha and Myrtie had– she just wanted it all. Shitty was a somewhat attractive woman, with long hair and fluttering eyelashes that framed her big brown eyes. In most other small towns, she’d be considered one of the prettier girls. Maybe she’d even be in with the “in crowd”. Unfortunately, her parents were from nowheresville, a town so inconsequential that they didn’t even bother to give it a proper capitalized name. And Shitty’s parents purposely named her Shitty because they thought it was a pretty name and they wanted to be creative. They had considered other names besides Shitty, like Uvula, Syphilis, Fallopia, and Gonorrhea. But they chose Shitty for its simplicity, ease of spelling, and the fact that it rhymed with the adjective, “pretty”. And pretty she certainly was, even if she did have the personality of a venomous snake.

nowheresville was mainly known for the meat processing plant, the simple, but relatively friendly population, and its one and only bar… Pink Tacos. One would assume the name might reference a certain unmentionable part of the female anatomy, but in fact, it really was Pink Tacos because it served pink tacos. The meat processing plant was famous for its production of pink slime, so important for the manufacture of fast food burgers. There was always a surplus of the stuff that couldn’t simply be dumped in a toxic waste facility. So the owner of the plant, Mr. Alfred Neumann, decided to sell it to Pink Tacos for just a few pennies on the pound.

Willy Reitzenhammer, the owner of Pink Tacos, would then turn the slime into fanciful creations that vaguely tasted of mystery meat and Old English furniture polish. No, it wasn’t the greatest food there was, but the beer was cheap and the tacos were filling. And Billy’s wife, Joshua, had a way with sculpting the stuff into fancy creations that looked good, but smelled and tasted like shit. Yes– her name was Joshua. Her parents were big fans of 19 Kids and Counting and had decided to name their only daughter after their favorite Duggar child. Every Sunday night, it was a sure bet that Joshua’s parents would lament about how unfair it was that their favorite Duggar no longer got any air time. But then they’d praise the Lord that he could still at least get his wife pregnant.

When the whistle blew in the processing plant, signaling the end of a shift, Myrtie, Bertha, and Shitty let out a collective “Yahoo!” and headed for the door. It was mud wrestling night at Pink Tacos. Sometimes Big Bertha would get in the ring and try to win an extra $25 for her beer and bunion surgery fund. Big Bertha, who weighed in at a substantial 250 pounds, was quite muscular thanks to her job hauling buckets of pink slime. She usually did well at the fights, especially when there was mudslinging. She wasn’t shy about jumping in– up to her armpits, if necessary– and wriggling around in the filth with any comer. She reveled in the stench and spread it around generously.

The three women decided to be thrifty and share a ride to Pink Tacos. Gas prices were going up and the women didn’t want to waste money on fuel. Besides, they did enjoy each other’s company at times. Big Bertha had a mean streak, but she could be funny when the mood struck her. Little Myrtie was always good with a mean spirited joke at someone else’s expense and she always knew how much everything cost, right down to the penny. Of course, one had to watch Little Myrtie when it came time to split the check. She wasn’t above taking advantage of the meek or the math challenged. And Pretty Shitty was good to have around because she attracted men… Granted, the men weren’t the most hygienic, educated, or sophisticated, but some of them still had their own teeth and some hair… even if the hair wasn’t necessarily on their heads. One of the best guys in nowheresville enjoyed letting his nose and ear hair grow, just to see if he could style it.

So, the ladies arrived at Pink Tacos at the usual time. The air hung like a thick, suffocating, woolen cloak, bursting with the aromas of smoke, sweat, vomit, and stale beer. The mood in there was ugly. It was mud wrestling night, and the pit was full… but not of the usual brown, viscous, earthy mud that Willy Reitzenhammer had regularly trucked in. No… tonight, it was full of pink slime and bits of light foam that flitted around above the mess.

“Hey Willy!” Bertha yelled, “What the hell is this? We can’t mud wrestle in this shit!”

“Sorry, Bertha,” Willy said apologetically, “but I couldn’t afford to buy any mud this week. I had lots of pink slime, though. I thought it would make a good substitute before it goes totally rancid.”

“Eeew…” Myrtie said, shying away from the mess. “That is disgusting. I think I might have to leave the premises.”

Shitty gave Myrtie an evil grin as she noticed how close her “friend” was to throwing up. It’s true. Myrtie could not stand it when things were dirty and out of place. She could barely tolerate the usual mud wrestling sessions and went only because otherwise, she’d be alone.

“Well, we’ve got an extra $15 between us,” Shitty said with a flirtatious wink. “and that’s enough for an extra pitcher or two of the best beer available at this dump. I say we start drinking…”

Myrtie’s eyes widened at the suggestion and it looked like she was about to say something. But Shitty headed her off and said, “You can have red wine, Myrtie. I know you don’t like beer. Not ladylike enough for you, I guess…”

Myrtie smirked as Willy handed her a glass of Barefoot Merlot. It was classy stuff in these parts.

“Well, I gotta get fortified if I’m gonna take on the beast this week.” Bertie said, flexing her muscles. “Hand me a tank of Schlitz, Willy.”

“Sorry, Bertha.” Willy apologized. “I ain’t got any Schlitz today. How about Pabst?”

“PBR?” Bertha sneered. “Well, I guess it’s better than nothing.” She accepted the head free liter of cheap suds and began guzzling it. When she was finished, she let out an odiferous belch that made Myrtie’s arm hair stand on end.

Just when the women didn’t think things could get any uglier in the bar, the Gatalin boys came callin’. Yep… the very same ones Kenny Rogers sang about in his hit song, “Coward of the County”. There were three of them. 41 years hadn’t been kind to the boys. They had long, stringy, greasy hair, big, fat beer guts, and a noticeable lack of teeth. They’d made a little bit of money on a defamation lawsuit they filed after “Coward of the County” became a hit in 1979, but the money was depleted. No one wanted to marry the Gatalin boys, because they were rumored to have defiled the town’s one respectable resident, Becky. Becky moved away without explanation in 1980, and everyone assumed it was the Gatalin boys’ fault. It didn’t help that Tommy went on to be a famous country singer with an odd affinity for plastic surgery.

“What you doin’ in here, Bertha?” one of the “boys” sneered. He was in his late sixties, but looked a bit older and smelled like he’d been dead for a couple of months already.

“Fuck you, Walt.” Bertha snapped. “You know it’s mud wrestlin’ night. I’m here to supplement my pay.”

Walt laughed. He and Bertha had a history. They were married for awhile… about seven years or so, until Bertha decided she could do better and Walt’s part of the settlement was depleted enough. She divorced Walt and extorted money from him whenever she could, all the while telling their children that Walt wasn’t their real father. And, the truth was, he wasn’t. Walt was sterile, thanks to an industrial accident at the meat processing plant. Bertha’s kids were mostly grown, though, so she needed a way to make more money. She was used to living the high life, buying whatever Franklin Mint trinkets she wanted when they were advertised on late night TV.

“Nice to see you workin’ for a change.” Walt sneered at his ex wife, as he turned to his brother, Larry. “Hey man… you got any snuff in that pocket?” he asked.

“For sure.” Larry said, digging into his pocket. He pulled out a small tin of snuff as well as a used condom and a tube of K-Y Jelly. Walt grinned when he saw the other items, and Larry said, “For later.”

“Hey there, Shitty” the third brother, Daryl, said to the pretty woman at the bar.

Shitty gave him her most shit eating grin and said, “Eat your heart out.”

“Might be an improvement over the pink tacos.” Larry quipped helpfully.

Daryl had a crush on Shitty. Most men in the town did. She was a comely wench with a strong, but skewed, sense of justice and a nose for nosiness. And she was pretty, dammit. That’s really all that mattered to most of them. If she never spoke, all of the men and half of the women would be happy to just look at her.

“So when do the festivities begin, anyway?” Bertha snapped impatiently. “I’m getting hungry and I don’t wrestle well on an empty stomach.”

“Five minutes.” Willy promised. “I think you’ll like tonight’s competition.” he added with a sly wink.

“Oooh… I do enjoy a challenge.” Bertha said as she left out a sonorous fart.

Myrtie cringed again, suddenly looking frightened as she daintily sipped at her wine. The truth was, she HATED her life. But she also hated being alone, and hanging out at Pink Tacos was the only way she could have any company. No one liked hanging out at Myrtie’s house because all of the furniture was covered in plastic. Every time anyone moved, the plastic creaked and it sounded like a cacophony of farts.

The door opened again and in walked a very handsome looking woman. Handsome, as in, she could have passed for a young man. She wore a suit, had very short hair, wore no makeup, and was scrupulously clean.

“Hey… speak of the devil!” Willy said with a broad smile. “Here’s the chick who’s come to take you on.”

Bertha snorted. “She’s no match for me. I could crush her. She looks like she can’t stand to get dirty.”

The woman cast her eyes at Bertha and licked her lips. But she didn’t say a word, which made Bertha feel nervous.

The Gatalin boys let out a simultaneous whoop when they saw her. “Hot damn!” they yelled.

The woman stayed silent, but put down her briefcase and removed her tidy suit. She wore a leotard, not unlike those worn by gymnasts, and revealed a trim, muscular body.

Bertha guffawed as she looked at her competition, who appeared to weigh about 100 pounds ringing wet. She was clearly much smaller than Bertha and would never be able to knock her down.

“What’s your name, little girl?” Bertha hissed at the newcomer.

“Joan.” she replied.

“Get in the fucking ring, Joan.” Bertha sneered.

“Are you kidding? You would pound the shit out of me. I’m not wrestling with you.” Joan said.

“This is wrestling night and you ARE going to get in the ring.” Bertha said.

“No, I don’t want to.” Joan said. “But I’ll pay you $100 if you and your friends get in the slime and wrestle.”

Bertha thought about it for a moment and said, “You gotta deal.” Of course, she didn’t think to ask Myrtie and Shitty how they felt about this arrangement. It didn’t matter. Bertha just went over and picked the two friends up, like cords of firewood, and handily deposited them in the pink slime. Then, plugging her nose, Bertha took a flying leap over the low slung boundaries and landed square in the middle of the nauseating pink sludge that smelled oddly of old meat and offal.

“Whooooo!” the people at the bar yelled as the three women went at each other like enraged pitbulls on crack. The music was turned up to something gritty and southern… perhaps a Lynyrd Skynyrd rip off. The Gatalin boys lit up cigarettes, swilled more beer, and threw a bit into the pit as the three meat processors grabbed and writhed in the stuff of nightmares that they worked with daily.

“Hey! Don’t pull my hair!” Myrtie shrieked as Bertha went into full on psychotic mode. Shitty jumped on Bertha’s back and whaled away at her with her tiny fists, not making a single dent in the mountain of a woman who was giving them a good thrashing.

Joan stood by the side of the pit, smiling victoriously at the scene. She took notes and video, still looking like a dynamo in her gymnastics leotard.

“Hey Joan!” Bertha squealed. “Why don’t you join us? It’s great in here!”

Joan wrinkled her nose and stepped back a couple of paces. The odor was overpowering and she never did enjoy rolling in shit. But this was just part of the job… and her job was a very powerful one…

Maybe I will continue this story if people are interested… for now, I’ll just say that this was fun to write, even if it makes no sense.