The Well-Hung Gun Read online

  The Well-hung Gun

  virgin captive of the billionaire were-squid gunslinger monster

  by

  Cari Silverwood

  Copyright 2014 Cari Silverwood

  www.carisilverwood.net

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to everyone who beta read The Well-hung Gun – Jennifer Zeffer, Jody Rhoton, Emma Rose, and Lisa Williams. You make writing these so much easier and so much more fun!

  Also a huge thank you to Sally Weber who came up with the title of the book.

  Chapter 1

  Virginia pushed past the junk piled to either side of the narrow room. On rickety shelves rested large dusty bottles, tubs so ancient the plastic had turned brown and the labels were moth eaten, and tubes of something called most efficacious unguent? Where and how was she supposed to find a cure for whatever illness Karl suffered from?

  The dim light from the couple of light bulbs hanging from the ceiling showed the medicine room to be as modern as Frankenstein’s laboratory.

  Supposedly, she would just know what to grab. Sometimes Karl’s superior dominant attitude made for annoying conversations. That he’d thrown the most recent cleaner off the castle roof meant no one was around to help. If she hadn’t given them a parachute, they’d be splattered across the front driveway. All the bikers, from Dangerous Bob to Souleater to Horse, were off on a run collecting some shipment.

  A faint glow at the back of the room drew her onward. She lifted the skirt of her blue dress, tiptoeing past a shelf bearing a skull and a preserved...she peered closer.

  What the hell was that? Something long and white bobbed in a jar she’d knocked with her elbow.

  Wrinkling her mouth, she jerked back. Ugh. A preserved cock?

  Serve Karl right if she took that to him and pronounced it his cure.

  All he seemed to do was moan, clutch the sheets to his chin, whisper about terrible, terrible pain, and sniffle. If it was a man cold –

  Her ankle banged into something rocklike. “Ow! Fuckit.”

  Hopping and holding her ankle, she barged into the shelf on her right, knocking loose papers and sending tubes sliding. One tube ended up under her hopping foot, then her next hop landed on something else that slipped. She hurriedly went to plant her sore leg on the floor. The thing underfoot hummed. A bright orange light flared.

  Eyes wide in panic, she glanced down. A skateboard?

  It rocketed forward, scattering everything, sending papers, jars, and dust flying in a tornado of weird medicines. The bottled cock floated past her face. The entire room flared an eye-burning blue then vanished with an obliterating...silence.

  The skateboard was still vibrating under her feet, as if it were glued to her sandals. Air washed past, fluttering her long hair behind her. She could see nothing but black.

  “Damn, Karl,” Virginia muttered. “What have you gotten me into this time?”

  If this involved more radioactive blow jobs, she might just kill Karl when she got back...if he hadn’t already died from whatever it was afflicting His Supreme Tentacled Monsterness.

  *****

  Yellow light blasted across her vision. In one startled inhalation, she took in the smell of sun-baked dirt, cow dung, and air so dry it couldn’t have rained for months.

  The skateboard wobbled and bumped creakily across the uneven ground then stopped.

  There were cactuses galore too. Where was this?

  Many relevant questions ran through her head. Like...was it cactuses or cactii? How did she know what cow dung smelled like? Why were deserts so dirty and cactus-y?

  No water. No food. Trapped, far, far away from home. To survive here, in this hostile moonlike environment, she’d need to be on the ball.

  Wait. Maybe this was the moon?

  She looked about some more. No astronauts. A pity. Scratch that idea. But she needed to figure out where she was and every possibility erased took her closer to the answer.

  It wasn’t Walmart either.

  Whatever this contraption was, and it looked like an ordinary skateboard, it had travelled somehow, somewhere. It had brought her here, miles from where she’d been. Even the time of day seemed wrong. Scary thing, but she might need it to get back.

  She stepped off the skateboard, picked it up, and tucked it under her arm. A startled bleep emanated from it, and red writing in miniature ran across the middle, before it went quiet.

  She turned on the spot.

  “Fuuuck,” she whispered, as if the empty land was listening. The sky was still, cloudless, and the palest of washed-out blues.

  Beyond, in the sky above a small hillock of dirt specked with yellow grass, vultures flew slow, menacing circles. Watching all those westerns with Karl had finally paid off – vultures meant dead things. Dead things might be icky, but they might also mean water bottles, food, maybe a cellphone?

  This place seemed a long way from nowhere. No car engines revved in the distance. No power poles, no roads. Nothing but her and the suspected dead thing.

  A vulture dived earthward and she broke into a jog.

  On the other side of the low mound was a man staked out and spread-eagled on his back. Though his clothes were still on and someone had constructed a lean-to shelter over him, he looked like he wasn’t getting loose anytime soon.

  She sucked on her lip – an old habit that popped up when she was unsettled.

  John Wayne and a hundred westerns meant she knew what was right. Wasn’t he supposed to be smeared in honey and stretched naked over an anthill? This was like seeing one flower out of place in a perfect arrangement. For all of five seconds, she stood, arms at her sides, clenching and unclenching her fists. She itched to shift him a few yards over to there, where a busy ant hill prospered.

  Going nuts, Virginia. Help the man.

  Besides, there was a distinct lack of honey.

  Fuck. It was PMS time. The man was lucky she didn’t claw him to shreds with her nails, due to her having chipped one, seriously badly, during the trip here.

  The reminder had her holding her splayed fingers before her eyes. A whole chunk was missing.

  Nails? What the hell?

  She detested manicures. Didn’t really care about nails.

  But Karl had sent her here, somehow, even if he wasn’t anywhere near her when it happened. Karl. Mr. Man Flu of the year. And it was fucking hot. The sun was frying her neck. Sweat dribbled.

  Nothing was where it should be! Including her.

  Bees arrived in a ginormous imaginary hive, and took up residence inside her head, buzzing. Everything went just a little hazy and a lot red and black.

  She needed to kill someone.

  Breeeeeathe. Where was a paper bag when she needed one?

  A few calming breaths later, she approached cautiously.

  “You okay there...uhhh.” What did you politely call a staked out man? “Mister?”

  “Woohoo. Pretty lady. Whatever would you be doing out here? Name’s Rafe. What’s yours?”

  Why not. “Virginia Chaste.”

  Cute looking. Red hair. A bit dusty and slightly pink of face but well
built, like a man who worked hard for a living. She inspected the rest of him. Cowboy boots, leather ones, cowboy pants with a large crotch bulge that made her want to do an immediate schlong stat assessment...no, nah-uh, move on...cowboy shirt and what looked like a for real Colt revolver in a leather holster, on a frickin cowboy leather gunbelt.

  Lots and lots of leather. She had a thing for leather. She sniffed. Mm-mmm. Much more than this and she’d OD.

  It all said cowboy with a capital C – one scorched into a rawhide map with a branding iron.

  She frowned, met his eyes. “Is this a movie set? Are we being filmed or something?”

  “Filmed? What? What’s that? Have you been too long out in the sun?” He clicked his tongue. “Untie me and I’ll fetch you to the town doctor, lil lady.” He jerked at the wrist ties. “C’mon. The men just left me out here while they get their first pokes in at the whorehouse.”

  “A whorehouse?” Wasn’t that old west slang?

  “Yeah. Whorehouse. Place where men get to poke loose women.”

  Poke. All she could think of was facebook. Poking there was decidedly unsatisfactory and nothing to do with whorehouses unless you happened to poke a Kardashishaggin sister.

  Had to be a movie. Any minute someone would yell cut.

  A vulture that’d been observing from off to the side made a quick swoop onto Rafe’s chest. It perched there and aimed a peck at his eyes. Without faltering, Rafe darted his head forward and latched onto the vulture’s neck with his teeth. A few meaty gnaws later, with the vulture squawking and flapping its wings, and the bird lay dead on his chest. Feathers floated groundward.

  Oh myyy... What the...

  Virginia rushed over and untied the leather bonds, freeing his arms. He sat up and reached for his legs.

  “Thank you kindly. They were comin’ back for me before sundown but this way I get to some whores before they is all plumb worn out.”

  “The vulture?” She fluttered her hand at the limp carcass that had rolled from his chest to the ground.

  “It’s dead. Damn thing shoulda known better than to come near my teeth.”

  Animatronic? The blood and feathers said no. Was it animal cruelty if you chewed through the neck in two seconds flat?

  Not going there. Ew, ew, ew.

  Rafe dusted off feathers and slowly stood, unfolding to a full...five foot three. She squinted downward. Maybe this film was being authentic? Weren’t men shorter back then? Accidentally, her gaze drifted. Crotch bulge. Jeez.

  Nine point five inches...and growing.

  “You wouldn’t by any chance be one of Madame Betty’s new whores? Come in on a stagecoach and lose your way somehow?” The hope in his voice was bright. “Like a ride before I takes you in? Standing up, lying down, ’gainst a wall even, if there was one in the near locality.”

  Dumbfounded, she stood with her mouth fallen open.

  He picked up his hat from the ground then pronounced his next words with it held in front, in both hands.

  “I would enjoy parting your downbelow petals and sliding my shaft of joy inside your bounteous lady garden, Miss. May I?”

  “Uhhh.”

  “See, I been out on a cattle drive fer months and the poor thang needs to let off before it exploderates in my pants.” Rafe licked his lips and fidgeted, then he forged onward in a monotone like he was reciting poetry in front of a scowling audience. Granted, the scowling was true. “I guarantee an ocean of lust will be released by the union of our loins and sweep us into a land where you will find such joy as you have never known. Ahem.” He rotated his hat a few times, standing there grinning with teeth showing.

  Virginia hesitated. Such an enthusiastic boy-man. So eager. So in need of admission to a mental hospital.

  Bounteous lady garden? Petals?

  She was torn. Which impulse should she obey? Hit him with the skateboard and tie him up again? Or get out a hoe and do some weeding?

  Perhaps encouraged by her stunnedness...Virginia frowned, that absolutely was a real word...he sidled up.

  The skateboard bleeped and big letters ran across it.

  Warning. MORON PROXIMITYALERT.

  “Really?” she muttered. “As if I didn’t know.”

  Great. The skateboard talked.

  Rafe looked bemused at her five seven height but he kept on sidling forward until what was definitely a superb erection nudged her dress.

  The man had no shame. Though her brain had rung with silence at his words, Virginia was now struggling not to giggle.

  In the old days, a nine point fiver would’ve had her drooling, but after Karl, no. Her search for the rare ten inch schlong had already borne glorious fruit.

  “I’m taken...sir.”

  And you’re so short I’d need to do you with you standing on a stack of dead vultures.

  “Just lead me to this town where I can find a phone. Wait, can I borrow yours?”

  “My what? Foahwen?” He said it like phone was a foreign word. Talk about staying in character.

  “Mmhm.”

  “Don’t have one. Is it some newfangled thing you whores are using?” Rafe grinned.

  “I am not a whore!” Frustration boiled over into anger. “It’s a phone! Not a fucking dildo strap-on something! Take me to your town before I shove your damn nonexistent cellphone up your ass!”

  “Whoa.” He stepped back, eyes wide. “Hold on there, Miss Pretty. I ain’t aiming to do whatever you just said. Though I’m sure back in whatever place you come from it’s all fine and dandy. My ass does not need nothing, there, at all.”

  She stood glaring.

  “Noth-thing. Never, ever.”

  She grunted, glared some more, stamped her foot.

  “Just one thing.” His voice squeaked. “If you’re not a whore, would you by any chance be a mail order bride for John Beastwood?”

  “No!”

  He gulped. “Okay. I’ll take you to Peckerwood Springs. Just don’t blame me if John takes a liking to you and drags you into his lair.” He swiveled on his cowboy heels and set off.

  Finally.

  Sometimes PMS had its uses.

  She muttered through her clamped jaw, “Whoever the heckitty this John Beastwood is he’d better watch his step or I’ll imbed a skateboard in his skull.”

  Bleep.

  This device is not to be used for physical assault.

  Her growl made the red lettering vanish. The skateboard vibrated.

  She frowned, staring at the thing, but it was silent and not talking. Scared of her? Good. All things should be scared of her on This Day of the Worst Ever PMS.

  What the hell was with the heckitty anyway? This cowboy shit was infectious.

  *****

  A good old western town came into view as they topped a rise. The light was failing, the sun breasting the horizon, and the shadows were long. She peered down. Saloon. Bank. Sheriff. Lots of timber houses, dirt streets, horses. Creepy three story mansion reminiscent of Dracula’s abode? Hmm.

  The cameras were so well hidden she was going to grow eyes on stalks if she didn’t spot them soon.

  “Like her?” Rafe gestured. “Peckerwood Springs. Built thirty years ago in 1830 at the behest of John Beastwood’s father. Started out as a ranch, then they mined awhile, then when the ore petered out, it became this modern cit-teee.”

  All hundred or so houses?

  Something wrong with what he’d said. Maths, where was it when she needed it? 1830 plus 30 equaled 1860?

  “It’s nice. Are you bad at adding up by any chance?”

  “Me? Why no. I am an ex-cell-lent numerologist, if I do say so myself. Thirty pokes and twenty pokes is one helluva sore dick. See?” He was still laughing as he took off at a trot toward the town. “Woohoo!” He did a leap and clicked his heels.

  The man was too fucking happy.

  Movie set. He was getting away from her and yet still he cackled. She gritted her teeth, lifted her dress to make it easier to run, and followed Rafe. She even
managed to stop wishing for a Winchester rifle to stick up his possibly virgin ass.

  On the way down the slope, she decapitated a cactus with the skateboard.

  Because. Just because.

  Chapter 2

  She caught up to him and managed quite well at not beheading Rafe, despite his crazy grin when he found her running alongside. Dealing with the cactus had let her lose some of the homicidal annoyance.

  “Never knew ladies could run like that,” he hollered at her, one hand on his hat, the other holding up his gun belt.

  Chauvinistic pig. She poked out her tongue and sprinted past him. With a whoop, Rafe sped up and they ran side by side.

  As they reached the edge of town, hoof beats thundered closer and closer from behind. Rafe yanked her aside and they huddled against a building as seven men rode past. Many weapons hung from their belts – pistols, knives, and sabers. They rode straight in the saddle, with set mouths, and the froth from the mouths of their steeds flew like the rain of demons. In other words, some of it landed on her face.

  “Fucking ew.” She wiped the horse spit away. Horses were icky. She’d probably get herpes from this.

  They drew and held aloft silver guns. There was evil intent in their demeanor; either that or she needed glasses. Alas, she couldn’t behead all of them with a single skateboard.

  Bleep.

  Yay.

  The word sped in red letters across the board.

  She raised her eyebrow, staring at the skateboard. Was this thing reading her mind?

  No.

  “Phew. Thank heavens for that. Waaait. I’m not that naive, not anymore, not after doing blow jobs on a demon rock star whose cock resembled the space shuttle. Are you sure you’re not reading my mind?”

  She shook the board, thinking maybe it was like an etcher sketcher and would come clean if she jiggled its digital brain.

  Yes, I am sur-u-ure. St-op-op do-ing that.

  “Oh.” She smiled. Her torture had worked. “Good.”

  The SPCS is going to hear about this.

  “The what?”