***BIO*** KARL KOWESKI is the 320th resident of Alabama to read a book and he has accomplished this feat 40 times.  An enemy of the Amish everywhere, Karl has death warrants out for him in eight Mennonite communities.  His latest collection, a book of smut "Low Life", part of the 69 porn flipbook with Melissa Hansen is out now at Zygote.
© 2010 zygoteinmycoffee Ink.
The Dog Bit Woman Blues
by Karl Koweski
It’s closing in on midnight and I’m walking the aisles of the local Wal-Mart Supercenter.  It’s my third trip to Wally World within the last twenty four hours.  When you live in rural Alabama, there’s not much else to do than continually visit the social hub of the deep south, hoping to run into an acquaintance, so you can stand in the home repair section for twenty minutes discussing the merits of the Crimson Tide’s offensive line.

There’s just not that much out here.  Maybe the Friday night chicken fights on the Chamness back acreage if you’re into the whole poultry UFC thing.  I think steroid abuse in the rooster ranks has compromised the ethics of cock fighting.  Then there’s the ever present specter of fight fixing hanging over every event making even the most compulsive gambler leery of betting his family’s food budget on any given yellow-legged bandy.

I’d also grown weary of the Wednesday night You-Kill-It-We-Grill-It VFW hall dinners sponsored by the Northern Alabama chapter of the Aryan Nation.  The cuisine was usually inedible, the animals invariably having had their bowels ruptured during vehicular impact, and the keynote speakers almost always leaned toward the hyperbolic, offering a lot of lip about the negro problem without giving much in the way of realistic solutions.

And then there was church.  Snake handling and strychnine drinking style like some sort of Biblical fear factor; where you could praise god and associate with all your buddies from the cock fights and the white brotherhood under the same roof.

Being uninterested in these three options, I find myself roaming Wal-Mart, trying to make meaningful eye contact with the dazed fifty year-old woman stocking cans of Alpo.

On average you can ask a Wal-Mart stocker what her astrological sign is 2.25 times before she alerts the manager.

In the past, flirtatious conversation with cashiers have proven to be a precarious proposition, especially on the days my wife accompanies me.  The weirdest look I’ve ever received was last October, as I was getting my purchases rung up and my wife stood behind me lording over her pile of Hostess cakes, I leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially to the cashier; “how would you like to get your flabby thighs tickled by my magnificent mustache?”

So I am flying solo tonight, all ready feeling mildly defeated by the platinum blonde produce stocker who flat out refused to let me test the resiliency of her melons.  I’d gathered a case of Coors Lite for the Main Man of Superior Grooviness (me) and three boxes of Ring Dings for the Old Lady of Perpetual Sorrow (the wife).

I’m given three cashiers to choose from; actually only two discounting the old man who must not have adequately planned for retirement.  Of the two female cashiers, I settle on the woman with the waist, not because I view a mid-torso indentation as a must-have commodity in a sex partner.  It’s just that I have a wife at home who lacks this attribute and I’m a man who thrives on variety.

The cashier refrains from making direct eye contact with me, going so far as to visually shun me completely which I have to chalk up to the way the heavy duty fluorescent lights blaze of the turquoise hula girls and lavender magnolia blossoms on my shirt.

Seeing how my Polish good looks is not enough to turn the tide of her sexual apathy, I fall back on the ole Koweski stare of captivating seduction, a sort of hybrid Charlie Manson/Aleister Crowley glare.  Two seconds of my eyeballs boring into her like ocular termite cultists compels her to turn her head in my direction.  Her longish brown hair drapes back from the left side of her face revealing a brutal scar hooking the corner of her lip.  The scar jags up past her cheek bone, forcing her lip into a risus sardonicus that reveals her saliva glistening teeth and a hint of tongue like a sexy ringworm camping in the small intestines.

My cock stiffens immediately; my thoughts transport me back to the summer of 1990, and my first short-lived love affair with a dog bit woman of the facially-lacerated variety.  You would have to go back even further in the Polish Hammer’s history to find the first dog bit woman fancied.  Not sure if she counts, however, since it was my german shepard that bit her on the arm when she tried to ride it like a horse, while I stood by, dumb-founded and unridden.

Getting back to 1990 when my hair was mulleted and I believed in Warrant’s artistic integrity, I met Jennie the same way I hooked up with a lot of girls back in my middle teens, on the telephone.  Stacey, another girl I liked, pulled the old bait and switch on me, handing the phone off to her friend every time I called until I took the hint and learned Jennie’s number.

“We should hang out sometime,” Jennie suggested after the thirtieth or fortieth phone conversation.

“Hang out?”  I was just beginning to hit my conversational stride via telephone.  To have to talk to her face to face would be akin to starting over from the bottom.

“Yeah, like see a movie or something.  Or you could just come over here and we could watch TV in the basement.  Where no one will bother us.”

“I don’t mind being bothered.”  I spoke a bit too hastily.

“What are you scared of?”

“Well, you might not like me.  I’ve got scoliosis.  And I got mauled by a dog when I was a kid.  I’m all chewed up and twisted.”  Even at that age I realized the wisest course of action for me was to keep expectations very low.  As though all the women in the world were Chicago Cubs fans.

“Stacey never told me about that,” Jennie said.

“Well, me and Stacey never actually met in person.  I met her on the phone through Marie.  Besides, I’m just fucking with you.  I ain’t never been no dog’s chew toy.  I’ll slap a dog’s mouth it even thinks about making a perogi outta me.”

Jennie didn’t say anything for a long time.

“Jennie?  Hello?”

“I guess Stacey didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”  All she really talked about were boyfriends, current and ex, and how I’d totally make a better boyfriend if she ever got desperate enough to give me a chance.

“I got bit by a sheltie when I was a kid.  Pretty bad.  I still got the scars on my chin and neck.”

“Oh…,” I said.  “Well, that’s ok.  I don’t mind.”
It was another twenty phone calls before we got the chance to meet.  True to her word, Jennie had had the fire dog bit out of her.  Scars like rivulets of tobacco spittle raked down her chin.  Another scar sickled from her ear following her jaw line to the cleft in her chin.  I was so goddam pleased to be alone with her in the basement, I kissed the scars and told her she was beautiful.  In turn, she accepted my tongue in her mouth and professed her love for me.  I’d never been the object of a girl’s affection, and I had to say, it beat reading comic books all to hell.

A couple months after our kissie face marathon, during one of our epic six hour phone conversations, Jennie casually mentioned she was pregnant.

“That’s odd,” I said.  “Since, you know, we didn’t have sex or anything, though I think I mighta cum in my pants, but…”  Being raised Catholic, I’d only ever heard of this kinda thing happening once before.  And it was a bit of a momentous occasion.

“No, I fucked some other guy.  But it’s no big deal.  He’s all ready out of the picture.  I’m going to name the baby after you.”

“The Main Man of Superior Grooviness?  Seems a bit unwieldy for a baby, though, I’m sure he’ll be thankful for it once he hits middle school.”

“No.  Your real name.  Karl Arthur.”

“Oh… That name…”

“It’ll make things easier for us down the road.”

True to her word, she named her first born Karl Arthur Cosnowski.  After which I stopped accepting any phone calls for the next five years.  I’ve often wondered during the intervening years, chasing dog bit women, those chewed and tattered windmills of my desire, what ever happened to that poor bastard bearing my namesake.  I gotta assume he’s probably pretty fucked up.

So, it goes without saying, the moment the cashier rears her dog bitten head in my direction, it’s love.  And I’m not talking about the love-at-first sight maelstrom of bullshit emotions that immediately rages within my chest when a stripper I hardly know presses her bare breasts against my face.  This is more an honest, true blue sort of love.  The kind of love that inspires immortal romance novels and half ass columns alike.

“Hi,” I said, my voice oozing machismo.  Thank god for my mustache, I thought.  There’s no way she’s going to be able to resist the stache’s utter masculinity.

“Hi,” she drooled.

Oh, goddam, she’s speaking to me.  It’d only be a matter of time now before I’d have her in purple lingerie, a green wig, and white greasepaint, sucking on my bat cock.

“These Ring Dings are for me.  I like chocolate and beer.  You know.  It’s not for a woman or anything.  Like a wife.  It’s for me.”

“Ok.”  I could see her tongue flopping around her mouth.

My cock was hard enough to sap criminals unconscious.

“You like the Ring Dings?”

“They’re ok.  Coors Lite, though, is like sex in a canoe.  Fucking near water.”

“Heh heh.  I’m trying to cut down on my drinking.  So I’m switching to Coors.  The beer I usually drink, it’s so obscure, you wouldn’t have ever heard of it.  It’s a Latvian beer, so thick, they actually sell it in boxes and you gotta chew the barley like cud.”

“That’s nice.  Your non wife chocolate and water beer comes to twenty three, sixty eight.”

“Here you go.  And that other name of the check is, uhm… actually my sister.  We’re real close, but only, you know, financially.  Not in the usual Alabama sense.”

Oh no, she’s sneering at me.  Or maybe that’s just the way she normally looks with the Joker style risus sardonicus pulling her lip back.  Regardless, with time running out, I have to deliver the sort of crushing line that would melt her heart and moisten her vagina.

“You know, a lot of guys don’t care for dog bit women.  And that’s a goddam shame.  Between you and me, I love facial lacerations and canine-induced deformities.  It’s like, one dude’s bad date is another man’s sexual conquest, you know?  So what I’m trying to say is, despite, no… because of you being dog bit, I think you’re sexy as hell.  And I think we oughta hook up.  We don’t even have to do it doggie style if you don’t want to.  If it brings back bad memories and what not.”

Evidently, the dog attach must have given her a facial tic as well, cause her left eyelid starts vibrating.

“First of all,” she slobbers.  “You’re an idiot.  A married idiot, you don’t think I see your wedding ring?  Secondly, I ain’t dog bit.  Jackass!  I was hit by a drunk driver three years ago.  And another thing.  I got a boyfriend.  And he’s a helluva lot better looking than you.  With a full head of hair and a sensible mustache.”

“I don’t know.  These are matinee quality good looks in Poland.  And my mustache… Good Lord…”

“And I’m sure those clothes would be considered fashionable, too.  But you ain’t in Poland.  Not by a long shot.”

“So you don’t wanna hook up?”

“I’d rather go another round with that drunk driver than spend one more moment talking to you.”

“Ok, princess.  I’m just trying to be a gentlemen.  No reason to take your dog bit aggression out on me.”

I gather my beer and the accursed chocolate cakes and exit Wal-Mart, thinking of the five super centers within a thirty mile radius of my mobile mansion, there are still stores I can safely show my face inside.  And that’s all the opportunity I need to find a nice dog bit woman to shower me with the adoration and constant sex a man like me so richly deserves.