Bongo & Delilah Break Daytona: B&D Capers, Book 1

Bongo & Delilah Break Daytona by Winnie Winkle ©2022 all rights reserved
Released October 27, 2022.
Books in this series:
1) Bongo & Delilah Break Daytona 2) B&D Capers 2
3) B&D Capers 3

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Bongo & Delilah Break Daytona: B&D Capers, Book 1 By Winnie Winkle ©2022 all rights reserved
Released October 27, 2022

When you mess up your ecosystem to the point you’re on the menu, it’s time to call in the calvary.

Specifically, Earth. Blleburbk arrives outside a Pennsylvania bar and hops in the back of a pink pickup. Bongo, whose husband decided he wanted to live (and poop, apparently) in the woods, left her. Since a timberland apron life is not Bongo’s goal, it’s a good thing her bestie, Delilah, surprised her with a Florida road trip. One slight issue: they end up as ground zero for Earth’s first contact. Now they’re helping Blleburbk, renamed Billy Bob by Delilah, who’s halfway to stealing their hearts. He has to find Earth volunteers without blowing his cover, and Delilah has the solution.

A few quarts of makeup later, Billy Bob is ready to debut as a drag queen.

An attack by a super creepy dude puts them on the run, and Billy Bob is running out of time. Help, in the form of an Elton John impersonator, a shrimp boat captain, and the queen of the Crazy Cute, Vivian Vavoom, may not be enough as Mr. Creepy finds them, and this time, he’s not farking around.

Can they get it together and meet the mother ship? Will Billy make it out alive or be so much dissection fodder? Tune in for their first redonkulous caper.

It’s Space~Snark~Booze time!

Reviews

“I plan to read the HELL out of this. It’s like Priscilla Queen of the Desert meets a best friend’s road trip movie meets a Simon Pegg film but like, weirder than any of them. It sounds super fun!!” — Eliza Sinclair, Author

Excerpt:

Where to start? Convention says the beginning, but after a falling out with normalcy, that I’m still recovering from, I’m winging this story. Buckle up.

Once upon a time, (how’s that for normal, hmm?) I married Steven, then delivered two kids in a single, memorable event that involved me slugging a nurse in the face. A total accident; I was aiming for Steve. She applied an ice pack and asked where I worked out, so Planet Fitness for the win.

Steve started a partnership making widgets. I focused on beating a baggy belly into submission with reasonable success, soccer-mommed my ass off, and the twins managed to graduate high school. They left for college, pursued acceptable amounts of dope and partying, and nobody called me for bail. All worthy of landing in the plus column. In the minus column, Steve lost his damn mind, decided that if dudes on TV could build a log cabin and live off the land, it’d be a perfect post-children, pre-apocalyptic lifestyle for our maturing marriage. Plus, his company wanted to buy his half out, and the money was considerable. A plan, conceived by Steve with no input from me, hatched. 

Then that ass bought me a fucking apron. 

I bought a lawyer. Twenty-two years is a good run. If Smokey the Boyo wants to sashay his bear snacks in the great timberland, I won’t deny him his dream. That said, funding it? Not happening. 

Steve grew somewhat irritated to learn his money pile for purchasing supplies of Deep Woods Off and bacon were half of the original amount, but I assured him that if he bought land with LOTS of trees, he could save a ton on lumber costs. I’m not mean.

After swapping his truck for a four-wheel-drive number with a trailer hitch the size of his enormous feet, he attached a pop-up camper, emptied the garage of tools, and absconded with the groceries. I came home to a beerless fridge and a note.

You should have tried adventuring Bongo. You’re gonna end up old and unchallenged.~Steve

“Everyone ages out if they’re lucky, Steverino, but challenges? I’ve risen to plenty. And your lack of appreciation sucks.”

Still, it rankled, so I drove to Marty’s Bar, parked, and swung open the big red door. Marty’s is a quintessential old time dive bar. Worn reddish leatherette stools tucked under a long, pitted oak bar, a smattering of four tops filled the center, with a pool table. The dart board had so many holes in it, I doubted a stiletto would stick. and a few listing booths struggled along the back wall. If I’d endured forty years of beer farts, I’d list too.

“Bongo! Girl, sit here and spit it. I saw Steve rolling his backwoods thunder on Delancey Street earlier. Are you OK?”

A definition which changes hourly. Right now? Meh.

“Not certain it’s hit me yet. The basics? Money, sure.”

“Good Lord, Bongo. Shut up and drink this.” A Jack with a splash slid my way. 

Delilah and I went to high school together, and our 25th reunion loomed. I’m tall, driven, and sarcastic. I love Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Soundgarden. Delilah, or Deelio, moved up from a godforsaken town in the deep South just in time for ninth grade. A tiny blond with huge hair, big round boobs, and dark blue eyes, she would have slayed in the 80s. It’s unfortunate she ended up wandering through the school’s halls in flannel. Britney Spears was a fucking godsend for Deelio. I clung to the Foo Fighters and cried over grunge’s demise.

We bonded over what, since that night, we referred to as “the incident”. Mandatory air quotes. How a rowdy bitch like me and a southern fried Barbie in need of a growth spurt formed a lifelong friendship in the clusterfuck of high school is nuts, but Delilah was the real fucking deal. She may resemble a Dolly Parton knock-off, but she’s bone-deep smart. Which, I suppose, was the same as Dolly. People play her for a bimbo. Those people are idiots.

“Gimme your keys,” Dee’s hot pink tipped fingers snapped, and I fished my ring and slid it over, watching them disappear into her little blinged-out clutch propped against the back of the bar. “Drink whatever you want; your tab is on me. Just don’t barf in my truck.”

“Dammit Dee, I’m forty-two years old,” I protested. “It’s been at least five years since I mismanaged my booze.”

“We’ll see if that record gets a reset.” Delilah plopped a bowl of crunchies next to the Jack and headed to the far end to refill the Bud Light boys. Marketing in action, those two. Drive or die Bud Light drinkers, they pitched a fit when it wasn’t available, just total tools. Raging prima donnas over crap beer, reminding any unwilling listener in earshot they’re every inch ‘accomplished’ gentlemen who know what constitutes a good brewski. Their wives sure hauled in a pair of big fish.

Thanks to copious amounts of crunchies, I was buzzed with a caloric base by 10:00 pm. The kids—partiers in their 20s and 30s who drink until 4 am, then arrive for their workday with ninety minutes of sleep—rolled in to lay their pre-club buzz. Marty’s was a cheap start for the clubs. They came in, drank the shit out of the $7 shot and tap beer special in their sparkling clothes, and eased out to munch ecstasy, dance for hours, and hook up in bathrooms I’d never want to clean. Ah, youth.

Excellent tippers, though, so Deelio swapped the music over and turned up her sassy patter. Most worked in hospitality at some point, and it showed. The rest of the regulars sat, people-watched, and nursed our drinks. By 11:30, the crowd moved out and NSYNC arrived, ready to dance with Delilah. I’m drunk enough to nod along, a sure sign I should switch to beer, but a fresh Jack lands with a quick hand pat. 

God, I love this woman. And that’s not the bourbon talking. She gets it. Steve fucking hurts. It’s a big ass rejection of US. He wasn’t bummed to close this door. I won’t show a sad face, but inside, my whole life requires reorganizing. In our marriage, I looked good; I paid attention. Invested? Check. All in? Yup. Committed for the entirety. Steve never tried to change me. Until he did. And that, for him, was it? When I didn’t go along, it was ‘Bye, Felicia’? 

“Fuck you, Steve.”

Delilah raised an eyebrow. Guess we’ve reached the internal monologue goes audible portion of the evening. To be fair, a place where I make my most entertaining decisions.

Midnight found me needling the Bud Light guys with a bottomless Jack. BL-One tells me I blew a good thing by letting Steve go and how he knew why I was so fucking uptight. This, I correctly parsed, was an opening gambit to see if a pity fuck might happen. I held my long fingered hand palm to palm with his stubby fingered one, and said I was confident he was a disappointment to women both real and fictitious. BL-Two whipped his hand up, and I shot a side-eye that should have melted his balls. 

“Do you think I’m considering either of you married ding dongs? That’s a hard nope.”

With an elaborate over my  head wave, I returned to the general vicinity of my crunchies. After a miniscule stagger, I plunked my ass on three quarters of the stool, corrected, and grinned at Delilah.

“Jack’s making me happy. Those two aren’t any prettier when I’m loaded.”

“Small favors.” 

“My money’s on very.”

Delilah glanced at the dwindling crowd. “Last call!”

She ran tabs while I swirled my bourbon and mulled the long road ahead. The twins were good. After college graduations in May, they were off to jobs and futures. I was fading in the rearview. Each would resurface, but I remembered my first few years of freedom. Mom was not on my radar. I wouldn’t be on theirs, and I was cool with being sidelined. Steve too, I guess, since he was en route to hang with bugs and poop in the woods. I assumed he’d show up for graduation, but it turns out he’s no longer my headache. 

Time? Yeah. That carried the harbingers of a major problem. I liked math, and math returned the favor. I kept books for a variety of small businesses and handled audits and taxes for several more. A nice, profitable little home office biz that lets me be at every game, drive the kids, and handle the fam. So two full-time jobs. The judge for our dissolution, to Steve’s dismay, was a woman. Totally fair jurist, but she understood my contribution and settled our shit without his drama swaying the result. At this point, combining what I socked away and future earnings, I could stop working in my early fifties. Which sounded appealing until time was all I held. Now I sat swamped in lots of empty hours. Tons. Multiplying. 

“What the hell am I going to do? So many fucking minutes.”

“Bongo, we need a road trip,” Delilah said, zipping up the deposit pouch and dropping it in the safe for Marty to gloat over tomorrow. Deelio killed it every Friday.

“Such as what?” I hiccupped, which was my body’s way of suggesting I’d consumed one Jack over my limit. If I stopped now, rooms would not spin. We’d see.

“Florida.” Delilah tapped a nail at my glass. “Finished?”

The ice in the half-full bourbon clinked as another hiccup shook my chest. “Fuck it.” I drained the drink and passed her the empty, which she washed, sanitized, and dropped on the rack.

“Time to go. I told Marty that I’m taking two weeks. He blew a hole in the roof, but he’ll never fire me. I already packed. Let’s pop over to your place, grab your things, and head south.”

“You what? Without asking me?”

“Girl, that house is preying on your brain. You need to be somewhere Steve-less. I want a vacation from Marty’s terminal ass pinching. Consider this an aligning of the stars, Bongo. Providential.”

“Huh.”

We, well I, stumbled out the rear door. Deelio’s custom pale pink pickup sat in the nearest spot of the otherwise empty parking lot. I slithered into the passenger seat and practiced baby owl blinks while breathing as she locked the bar and climbed behind the wheel, turned the key and backed out of the space.

The engine died as the black top lit up, a flashing Christmas on steroids. 

“Are we busted? What the fuck did we do?”

The truck shook harder than a terrier’s new toy. Delilah’s eyes cut to mine as a knock rapped on her window; heads turning with a slow motion swivel, we stared at the lengthy fingers and narrow palm pressed against the glass.

I may be hiccuping like a tossed over waste-case, but that fucker was green.

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