I crawled across the grass, feeling every bit of gravel in my knees. I was still tied up, so I probably slithered without the use of my hands, dragging my tits, and using my knees mostly to propel myself forward.“We just have some of last night’s left-overs for you, I hope you don’t mind,” he said as he pointed to a spot at his wife’s feet. He pushed a 12-ounce bottle full of dirty water into my asshole and called it a “Hillbilly Enema.”“Got some green beans, Georgia Mustard Barbecue, a little cornbread,” he smiled down at me.“That’s okay, I am used to table scraps, Sir.”I was thankful that Master had prepared me to basically be a garbage disposal to eat whatever I was given and not be picky. I couldn’t have been ready for what Uncle Evil was serving me though!At first, I thought they were pushing a bowl of mud in front of me.“Wife made it for you, fresh!”“Bon Appetit,” Aunt Evil laughed with that husky smoker’s couch kicking in.It was her piss and shit. He pushed my head down into. . stepped out.The kid freaked. Remember, Bill is bigger than any two men. Carrying the kid by his belt, Bill stepped out the side door and chopped the older fella standing guard in the throat. It didn't kill him but he was going to be drinking soup through a straw for a long time.Bill dialed the local FBI and the NTSB. The FBI said don't touch anything. The NTSB said the FBI could handle it. This was a Federal crime. The Feds handled it ... the kid was the nephew of the fixed base operator ... he had some 'splainin' to do.'Splainin' ... Ricky Ricardo's Cuban version of explaining.When everybody was happy ... except for the alleged guilty parties ... Bill called and ordered a new GPS, the Feds kept the old one ... evidence ... and stepped in the hangar.Ah ... November, 1945. Cold and windy, but Bill was ready for that. He walked to the tower, confused everybody inside, had a bowl of chili and asked for a ride. Since the war ended, the hangar Bill parked in was empty and he arranged to.
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