you wanted some fresh gash, and you thought betty was easy. you came on strong and that didn't work. you offered her money. she told you she was on the rag, and that was the final straw. you wanted to make her bleed for real--
you plied betty with drinks, got her to talk about her old boyfriends and came on like a pal, like the nice little corporal willing to leave betty to the real men, the men who saw combat--
you took her to a toolshed, maybe one of those abandoned warehouses out by the old ford plant in pico-rivera. there was some twine and lots of cutting tools lying around, and you got a hard-on.
yes, reddy, yes. you thought of every girl who said "i don't suck", every time your mommy spanked you, every evil eye you got from real soldiers when you played your trombone in the army band.
that's what betty had to pay for wasn't it?
god hates liars!
tell god!
checked for the smut pad. goose egg. peddlers--double goose egg--
n-n-no, russ. no file on issler. gone.