Catholic School girl gone bad

I saw her; blond hair with pink highlights, checkered skirt, white shirt, black patent leather shoe. Yes, only one shoe, for on her left leg she wore a giant cast. A cast tattooed with silly drawings and illegible signatures. An elderly priest held her waist, as if he were trying to help her across the parking lot of the Catholic school. Wink. Wink. I watched this while sitting at a stoplight across from the school and little did I know that there was a party about to break out right there in the parking lot.

The school girl stopped. The priest stopped too and sat down on the pavement Indian style. The girl pushed on the top of her cast and it split in two. She removed the cast and straightened the folding legs that had been hiding inside. The cast formed a perfect little table and she set it right in front of the priest who by now was licking his leathery lips.

There was something I should have noticed right away but I didn’t because I was focused further up on the school girl's leg. You see wrapped around the school girl’s calf where the cast had been was a little bearded man. He clung to her calf like a Koala bear clinging to the trunk of a eucalyptus tree. He was slimy like a snail and his eyes were pale blue like those of the fish that live in t he deepest darkest depths of the ocean.

I was so intrigued that I got out of my car and left it at the stop light. Cars honked their horns. I reached behind my back and gave them the finger. "Fuck off, cocksuckers," I yelled.

As I drew closer I saw the tiny man was giving the Catholic school girl a hicky. She was up on her toes now writhing in ecstasy.

“That is so fucked up,” I said.

“Please don’t swear on church grounds,” the priest said. He had stripped down to his boxer briefs and was licking his thumb like a lollipop.

The tiny man unlocked his lips from the school girl's calf and then swung around the calf like a stripper doing a pole dance.

“He’s my little Jesus,” the girl said.

“That’s not Jesus,” I said.

The girl shrugged and took off her backpack. She removed a bottle of Grey Goose from the leather satchel, a martini shaker, olives, vermouth, and a baby bottle.

“What the Hell?” I said, sitting beside the priest.

The school girl mixed the Grey Goose and vermouth in the shaker and then poured the mixture into the baby bottle with four olives. The little Jesus or whoever he was had stopped spinning around her calf and clung now to the copious field of hair there like a baby opossum on its mother’s stomach. I wondered why she only shaved one calf but then I realized it must be to keep the little Jesus warm.

She handed the little Jesus the bottle and as he drank she stroked his tiny beard.

I stood and dusted off my suit. “I’ve got to get to work,” I said.

The little Jesus stopped drinking from his bottle. “Wait my son,” he said. I stopped and he removed a ticket from his loin cloth. “This is a free ticket to watch the Catholic school girl at the titty bar down the road.”

“Thanks but won’t I go to Hell?” I asked.

“You’re going anyway,” he said.

“Right,” I said, and took the ticket.