The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2

106
‘If you can get that Blubberbucket’s bellows
blowing again I’ll reconsider,’ wheedled Flynn. ‘Just
pump his chest or something.’
‘Would somebody phone a fucking ambulance!’
Pale as tap water, Sandra had finally found her
voice, and it sounded disconcertingly like a chainsaw.
The itch in Boyle’s butt sprang up in sympathetic harmony.
‘How will I explain this?’ Flynn was asking
the ceiling, the walls. ‘Third time this bloody quarter.’
He pointed to the prone and pallid Bob. ‘Fix this,
Boyle, or I swear by the Seven Holy Bastards I’ll fix
you.’ Sandra trailed out in his wake, reluctant to be left
alone with either Boyle or Bob.
What now?
Boyle’s knowledge of CPR had deserted him
as soon as he had finished the class; he recalled nothing
save the little redhead sat two rows in front, the
one he had tackled in the car park and - and the itch
burned fiercely once more as Bob turned a worrying
shade of blue.
Boyle straddled the big man’s belly, feeling
like Mowgli astride an elephant, and starting pumping
on Bob’s chest, then pounding with his fists; there
was no danger of breaking this fat fuck’s breastbone,
armoured as it was by an igneous layer of flesh.
He ceased abruptly as his sphincter drew in
a long cool breath that momentarily froze his heart.
There was a door slam clench and the itch was replaced
by an orgasmic rush as hot blood seeped
around his buttocks.
Boyle closed his eyes as Bob’s innards were