TWELVE

We honeymooned at the Riviera Motel. It was nothing special, just a two-story strip motel on the rougher side a Lorain Road. I couldn't complain -- it was no worse than my apartment. The walls were stained a little yellow, the mattress smelled a little like dead bodies, and the toilet flushed only one turd at a time. But the room cost $35; so, aside from the stains, it was a good deal.

Janice didn't have no money -- she'd spent it all on wedding preparations -- so I paid for the booze, the ceremony, the licenses, and the hotel outta my measly paycheck. After the first night I ran outta cash. We'd just gotten done fucking when I realized my wallet was empty.

"So how are we going to spend the rest of our honeymoon with no money?" Janice asked.

I turned from the window since I was looking out at a shitty view of an asphalt courtyard I really didn't give a fuck about while I shook out the last drops a cum outta Big Ole Cock.

When I turned around Janice was laying prone on the bed, wearing nothing but a hot pink g-string, her skin all balmy with sweat. "This is not how I expected to start out my marriage," she said. "Penniless, broke. This is unbearable! I should turn some tricks to get the cash flowing again."

"Fuck that!" I said.

"I'm not spending my entire honeymoon broke, Bob."

The acid in her voice corroded my heart.

"Do you have any other suggestions?" she asked.

I tried to think a something, but thinking ain't one a my strong suits. The only thing my brain would tell me was to fuck Janice again.

"I ain't any good with money," I finally said. "You know that. I can't just make it magically appear."

Janice said, "I can. I just shake my ass, and -- BOOM. Money."

It made me jealous.

I turned back to the window, hoping to come up with something she'd accept so she didn't realize she'd married a loser less than twenty-four hours ago, which, if you based your judgments on my accomplishments, is what I was. "We could always roll somebody," I said.

Far as ideas went, it wasn't the best; but, fuck, I ain't about being the best. I'm about scraping by.

She didn't seem too excited about it, but an hour later we had a plan, nothing elaborate, just plain and boring and functional, and we stood up on the catwalk in front a our hotel room, the hours dwindling away until I had to pay for another night, hunting out the victim. We found us a gray-haired man in some blue coveralls, just like I wear to work. You'd think I'd feel some solidarity for my fellow workingman; but don't let none a the political ideas fool you -- people are out for themselves. We took off after him like a couple a bloodhounds, tracking him for a couple blocks into a residential area, where I was sure we could find a good place to roll him. I knew we had to get him before he got home or wherever else he was going or else we'd lose our chance. So I pushed Janice ahead. I hid in a bush and watched her do her thing.