Gerald Gets His Rocks Off

Gerald, the slow rotting Easter bunny, got a wild hair up his ass and hitched a ride out west. He was aiming for Los Angeles, but when it got more and more difficult to catch rides he figured he would settle for Vegas.

He woke up on a sidewalk in Reno, two blocks off of Virginia, having passed out in a car from a poorly thought out mix of bar bourbon, flea spray and some suspicious mescaline he got from a kid driving a Volkswagen bus. He knew where he was as soon as his eyes opened, and was more than unhappy to find himself in Reno again.

"Fucking Reno," he said, pulling a pair of shades from the leather travel sack slung over his shoulder. "I fucking hate Reno!"

Two sets of grandparents, dressed in whites and oversized sunglasses, were passing him at the time. One of the seventy-something women, whose hair looked as if it had been set in the early sixties with some sort of alien resin that barred the hair from moving in any way, turned her head to look at Gerald disapprovingly as she passed.

"What?" He barked at her. "Blow me!"

The group waddled on a little faster.

Gerald checked into a bargain rate motel mere blocks away from the bowling stadium. One of his first actions, aside from opening the window which served as the room’s air conditioning, was to call the number on the hooker flyer he was clutching in his greedy little paw. When she arrived, Gerald was not surprised to find that she was considerably older and heavier than the girl pictured on the flyer.

Breeze, the woman in question, gave him a hard glance.

"What're ya here for a 'furry' convention?"

"Naw baby, this is all me."

"What's that smell?"

"Before we get down to business, I need you to do a little pre game action."

Gerald lay on the bed face down and explained what he wanted. Breeze shrugged her shoulders and sagely stated, "Your hundred bucks".

Gerald awoke with a sickening pain from the base of his head, a pounding that spread up and around the rest of his skull. He groggily looked around the empty room. Breeze was gone, as was his leather satchel that carried what cash he had as well as an extra pair of socks. The last thing he remembered was Breeze doing as he had asked, removing the objects that had become lodged in the fur on his back during his travels.

He closed one eye to keep the room from spinning. On the bedside table stood an empty bottle of no name rum that she must have knocked him unconscious with. There was also a pile of burrs, a piece of chewed gum and three or four little stones. He picked up the largest of the pebbles and looked at it with a grimace.

"That fucker made every trip west of Arkansas a bitch. Worse than hemorrhoids."