Finally, what everybody’s been asking for: More about the gang of the Razor-wire, courtesy of our esteemed Pervert Savant. Biff takes front and center this time. It’s her day off and we join her as she is preparing to paint the town Diesel Dyke red.

Catch Up: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Lingerie on the Razor-Wire

by Pervert Savant

A Heartrending but Sadly True Account of a Young Transsexual’s Struggles within the Mesquite-Scented Den of Homoerotic Iniquity that Today Passes for the Texas Penal System.

Chapter IV: Cocktails with Lupita

Head Prison Guard Mary "Biff" McGurk smiled broadly at the face in her bathroom mirror. Biff had just finished liberally slathering that face with a double-dollop of her favorite scent — Mennen’s Skin Bracer. The resulting manly aroma on her beefy jowls complimented the bolo tie, plaid cowboy shirt, and rodeo boots that were Biff”s regular "go-into-town" garb. Yes, it was Saturday night — Biff’s night off from the prison.

"Yeah baby!" Biff yelped approvingly to her reflected visage. "Biffy’s gonna have a hot one tonight. Hormiga better look out, "cause this is one babe that’s gonna have some F-U-N!"

Hormiga, Texas — Biff’s intended destination on this particular Saturday evening — was a prairie oasis located approximately five miles from West Texas Correctional. It featured a small gas station, a tiny grocery, a smattering of rundown mobile homes, and "Rosa’s" — an erstwhile feed store that one Dagoberto "Rosa" Gutierrez had converted into an air-conditioned cantina and gay bar — the only one extant within the arid geographic confines of Suggs County, Texas. In addition to the gay bar — which was aptly called "Rosa’s“ — Rosa also owned the gas station, the grocery, and most of the mobile homes that littered Hormiga. Not surprisingly, Rosa was also Hormiga’s mayor and the top drag entertainer in her converted establishment.

Biff adjusted the turquoise-encrusted slide on her bolo tie and made sure that the unfiltered Camel cigarette she had placed over her protruding left ear was at its customary jaunty angle. Then she carefully fingered her Stetson, making sure its crown was perched on her pate just the way she liked it.

"Your lookin’ good, honey," Biff intoned to her image. "them lezzies at Rosa’s are gonna be losin’ their money when you start knockin’ them pool balls around tonight!"

Satisfied that she was ready, Biff seized the snakeskin carrying case that contained her cue stick and sauntered out, in her customary fashion, to her lime-green Volkswagen Beetle loudly singing the lyrics to Tennessee Ernie Fordâ’s "Sixteen Tons" into the warm night air.

"I got one arm o’ iron, the other o’ steel. If the right don’tt get ya, then the left one weeeeel."

Biff grinned happily to herself. And why shouldn’t she be happy? After all, wasn’t she Warden W. Lester McCobb’s Top Prison Guard? His "Numero Uno" as Biff liked to refer to herself. The Real Thing. The Big Kahuna. Wasn’t she the only prison guard at West Texas Correctional possessed of an Associates Degree in Modern Criminology? Wasn’t she the one that W. Lester McCobb relied on to keep the prison’s fiercest cons in line? Yes, Biff had a right to be happy. She was the envy of her peers, an American success story.

Biff slid her meaty haunches onto the driver’s seat of her VW and grunted approvingly when the vehicle’s engine answered to the turn of her key. She then expertly slipped the transmission out of neutral and into reverse, spun the tires raucously, and –“ after punching the radios buttons to her favorite Del Rio C & W station — set out once again on a familiar, tune-filled trek to Hormiga.

On arrival, Biff swung into her customary parking spot at the gas station across the street from Rosa’s. Emerging from the car, Biff could see that the weekend festivities at Rosa’s were already well-underway. Lupita LaLinda, a diminutive midget drag queen, was in the process of leading a conga-line of Rosa’s regulars out from the bar’s well-lighted entrance. The line was snaking around "Old Buck" — a large plaster statute of a Longhorn steer that Rosa had seen fit to festoon with Christmas tree lights. Old Buck was an advertising relic of the cantina’s glory days as a feed store and Rosa — always the opportunist — had artistically placed red and green lights on the noble bovine’s motionless form so as to spell out, in flashing letters, the name of her watering hole.

Biff snorted amiably as Lupita and the coterie of regulars circled the statue of the steer. "Dumb asses," Biff chuckled. "Hell, it’s only eight o’clock and Lupie’s already four sheets to the wind."

Biff’s appraisal of Lupita’s condition was not far off the mark. The tiny queen was attired in her Saturday night best — a minute cobalt blue, off the shoulder, sequined ensemble that Lupita had daringly accessorized with a peewee-sized feather boa and a matching set of platform heels — on which she was now pivoting none too steadily. The little Mexicanâ’s tiny mitts additionally clutched her customary beverage–a Mason-jar sized martini. Lupita was taking impressive swigs from the jar as she simultaneously steered her festive conga around Old Buck’s impassive backside. Inebriation was in the air. It was Saturday night in Hormiga.

Ignoring the tail of Lupita’s conga, and pool cue firmly in hand, Biff confidently strode into Rosa’s. And it was Rosa herself, from her customary position behind the bar, that was the first to greet Biff on her arrival.

"Hey! Lookie hoose heer! Eets Chon Wayne!" Rosa chortled loudly to no one in particular. "Yoo lookin’ reel good tonight keed-o! I kood smell that after-shave loshun yoo wear from feefty yards!"

Ignoring Rosa’s good-natured taunt, Biff swiveled her 230-pound frame onto a stool in front of the bar and growled: "Gimme a Tecate, you old pervert!"

"Hey, Chon Wayne he always dreenk weeksie. Wassa matta Sheriff, yoo seek or sometheeng?" Rosa responded.

Not waiting for a rejoinder from Biff, Rosa plunged her hand into a cooler and emerged with Biff’s requested quaff. Rosa was in her customary attire — a wide-skirted Mexican wedding dress, a jet-black wig that featured a large silver comb, and her ersatz coiffure crowned with a sweeping black-lace mantilla. Rosa was proud of her Mexican heritage and her get-up befitted her matronly station as the bar’s proprietor and Hormiga’s pre-eminent senior citizen.

Rosa handed Biff her beer and tried to maintain her banter over the noise of the drag-show that was underway on a small spotlighted stage to Biff’s rear. Biff decisively declined Rosa’s offer of a glass and took a pretentious swig of the beer from the tendered bottle. Rosa clucked disapprovingly:

"You donâ know who mighta be peesing on that beer fore yoo dreenk it, Sheriff. Yoo shood use a glass."

Rosa eyed the snake skin carrying case that Biff had placed on the bar and quickly put two and two together.

"Looks like yoo gonna play some pool tonight, eh honey?"

"You betcha, Rosa," Biff grinned, taking another defiant slurp from the beer. "An’ after I get through taking all those lezzies in your pool room for their paychecks, I’m gonna take some o’™ their tail too!"

"Well, buena suerte weeth that, Sheriff," Rosa sniffed skeptically.  "Yoo been comin’ een heer for tree years now an’ yoo ain’t peek up nada that I see."

Biff let Rosa’s rebuke to her social skills pass, opting instead to swivel around on her barstool to watch the show. The cantina’s featured entertainers, a motley group of Mexican queens known as "The Fabulous Cucarachas," had been attempting to lip-sync their way through an old Supremes’ number. The Cucarachas’ choreography, however, was being thrown into disarray by some of their admirers in the audience, who were tempting them with outstretched hands holding dollar bills. Seizing the moment, the prancing Cucarachas — one by one — had abandoned the stage and were now churning through the audience hell-bent on grabbing the proffered money. All the while, a grainy recording of "My Baby Love" continued to play –“ now somewhat pointlessly — in the background.

"Damn!" Biff muttered, eyeing the entertainers. "They look like a buncha zoo lizards in a feeding frenzy."

Bothered by Rosa’s observations about possible urination, Biff took a more-tentative swig of her Tecate. Detecting no untoward flavors, she then reached for her pool cue, and warily eyed the side alcove where Rosa kept her pool tables. Biff’s decision to adjourn to Rosa’s pool room, however, was abruptly interrupted, when Curtis McLurvey, a local gay rancher and an erstwhile member of Lupita’s conga-line, re-entered the bar suddenly and in an obviously agitated state.

"Rosa, you’d best come outside real quick-like. There’s sumpthin’ wrong with Lupita!"

Rosa immediately left her station behind the bar, adjusted her mantilla, and then followed McLurvey out into the street. Biff ambled along as well, together with the trio of Cucarachas and most of the bar’s other patrons. There, prone on the pavement outside and silhouetted in the blinking lights cast by the electrified statue of Old Buck, lay Lupita — rolling to and fro amid the shards of her broken Mason jar and moult from the tattered remains of her feather boa.

"What the hell’s wrong with her?" Biff queried, as the denizens of the cantina surrounded the midget queen on the pavement.

"I dunno, Biff," Curtis McLurvey responded. "She was havin’ a good ole time an’ all of a sudden-like she just started rollin’ aroun’ on the ground. Ya think she’s one o’ them eperleptics? Maybe she’s chokin’ on her tongue!"

"Could be," Biff propounded sagely. "That’d explain all that rollin’ around. It’s a damned sight sure she ain’t doin’ it cause she’s religious."  Biff took the opportunity to take a thoughtful swig from her beer, which she had presciently brought with her from the bar.

"I know one thing," Biff added. "If she’s havin’ herself an eperleptic fit, I wouldn’t go stickin’ none of my fingers in her mouth rootin’ aroun’ for her tongue. You do that an’ she’ll bite one o’ yer fingers off, sure as shit."

The concerned crowd continued to watch Lupita writhe about in the mammoth shadow of Old Buck. Her painted face now resembled the color of her dress and her spiked heels were kicking about in potentially lethal arcs, causing the onlookers to step away in the interest of safety.

"Shit, she’s kicking around like a dyin’ click-beetle," Biff observed to Curtis. "But I wouldn’t worry none. If she’s just havin’ herself an eperleptic fit, it orter die down soon. Them things don’t last long. She’ll prolly be all right in a little bit."  To reinforce her prognosis, Biff took the opportunity to light up a Camel.

"Well, she don”t look so good right now to me, Biff," Curtis noted.  "She’s turnin’ kinda blue-like. Mebbe it’s somethin’ else."

Biff took another swig of Tecate. "Hell, what do you know, Curtis. You deliver a couple of heifers on your farm and now you think you’re a doctor. I say it’s eperlepsy, just like you first thought."

While Biff and Curtis continued their medical speculations, Lupita’s frenetic spasms continued apace. The pint-sized drag queen’s convulsions had caused her to roll under the immobile torso of Old Buck, leaving a train of detached aquamarine sequins in her wake. The sequins shimmered eerily in the winkling red and green lights adorning the steer that intermittently flashed out "ROSA’S.".

“You blockheads! Can’t you see that she’s choking to death!" someone in the crowd shouted authoritatively.

Biff, disconcerted and wondering who the blockheads were that the voice mentioned, spun her head around in the night, looking for a glimpse of them.

Biff quickly discovered that the observation had come from none other than Cherie D’Amour, West Texas Correctional’s Prison Nurse, who had pushed her way through a gaggle of concerned Cucarachas and was now attempting to find a way to approach Lupita without being impaled on the midget’s slashing stilettos. The crowd parted accommodatingly as Cherie — in stilettos herself — eyed Lupita’s frenzied spasms, trying to time them in order to optimize her approach. Unfortunately, Lupita was in no mood to cooperate.

"This is all I need," Cherie groaned. "My one night off from the infirmary and I wind up having to give first aid to a dwarf version of Gloria Estefan."

"Yoo go goorl!" one of the Cucarachas agreed sympathetically.

Exasperated, Cherie took a last drag from her Virginia Slim and then threw the cigarette aside on the pavement.

"Desperate problems require desperate measures!" Cherie muttered.  If I wind up breaking a nail on this, Lupita’s going to be paying my technician for a whole new set!"

Grabbing Lupita’s feather boa — which was providentially still wrapped around the midget’s tiny neck — Cherie managed to pull the impersonator out from under Old Buck’s stationary underbelly. Then, ducking another kicking spasm from Lupita, Cherie extended a nyloned leg of her own and, with the tip of her shoe, carefully toed Lupita over onto her stomach. As Lupita’s kicks subsided, Cherie seized the gasping midget around her cinched in waist, pulled her to her feet, and began pushing her ample breasts against Lupita’s back — something that brought Biff to a state of rapt attention.

Unfortunately Cheri’s midget-appropriate Heimlich maneuver had no immediate effect on the choking Lupita. Seeing this, Cherie abandoned it in favor of an alternate methodology — pounding on Lupita’s back with the open palm of her splayed hand. Cherie then reverted to another Heimlich — this time with more telling results. Lupita, eyes bulging, and still gagging, suddenly ejected a large green cocktail olive from the inner depths of her lipsticked gullet.

The Cucarachas, watching the arc of the olive’s trajectory, gasped in unison. It looked to all like a sinister and ominous green eyeball as it eerily landed and rolled for a time along the concrete pavement.

The source of her malady thus exorcized, Lupita responded with a brief spasm of markedly unfashionable vomiting. This too seemed to aid the healing process. While Lupita still looked none to well, the previously bluish tint to her complexion visibly returned to its normal matte finish. Relieved and cooing words of encouragement, Rosa and one of the Cucarachas obligingly assisted the petite entertainer back into the cantina. Most of bar’s other s patrons followed suit.

For his part, Curtis McLurvey retrieved Cherie’s purse — an expensive Gucci clutch that Warden McCobb had bought her after a seminar in Waco — and dutifully handed it to the young nurse. McLurvey too returned to the bar, pausing only to taunt Biff with a final "I tole ya it might not be eperlepsy" before doing so.

Cherie, now alone with Biff, swiftly removed her compact from her purse and began inspecting the damage that her exertions with Lupita had wrought to her makeup.

"That was nice work that ya did there with that midget, sweetcheeks,"  Biff observed.   "You got in there just before I was gonna take action. Y’know, I had a semester of First Aid at Amarillo State Junior College an’ I could see the situation was gettin’ serious."

Cherie, engrossed in refreshing her lipstick, tried her best to ignore the beefy lesbian. She managed this quite nicely until, suddenly and surprisingly she felt a distinctive tingling on the upper part of her chest. Looking down quizzically from her compact, she noted that two of Biff’s outstretched and unmanicured fingers had tightly locked around the tip of her left nipple.

"C’mon, baby," Biff intoned. "Let’s you an’ me have us a drink"

***

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