Things are pretty hectic here nowadays, so for the time being I’ll keep you amused with some trashy pulp fiction for years ago…
It’s as yet untitled and comes from a whole host of better writers than me, back when cotworld had a writer’s jam in 2000…
Untitled #1
I had just gotten out of the county lockup last July after serving forty-seven days for petty larceny.
They picked me up for grabbing a big jar of money marked HELP JERRY’S KIDS from the Stop-N-Shop over on Westover Street and running like a madman. I would’ve gotten away for sure if it hadn’t been for an overzealous store clerk and the fact that I ran right past Tully Kruller’s restaurant which was just lousy with goddamn sheriff’s deputies.
I did my time like a man. You’d be surprised how fast forty-seven days goes by when you’ve got cable. Nickelodeon ran a Hogan’s Heroes marathon that was fucking A, and I used to pretend I was Colonel Hogan and I kept calling all the other fellows by different names. You know, Carter, LeBeau, Kinch and a skinny Irish guy who stole a car was Newkirk. He was the closest we had to an Englishman. All the boys seemed to enjoy it and hated to see me go, but time waits for no man.
Anyway, I was newly sprung and in dire need of beer money. I’d learned my lesson about petty larceny, but getting a job was out of the question. Who the hell would hire an ex-con who didn’t want to work?
That’s when an excellent idea dropped in on me. I scooped up a handful of change from the fountain in Hopeland Gardens and double-timed it over to the payphone at Tully’s. The fleet-footed deputy who had apprehended me gave me a quick wave and a shit-eating smile from his usual booth as I punched out Vernon Smiley’s number on the phone. I felt like giving him the finger, but only waved back instead. This was no time to stir anything up.
Vernon answered on the fifth ring…
“Hello. Who’s calling?” The voice was tough and defensive and definitely feminine.
“Randall,” I said. I turned to wall. Not that I thought Deputy Dufus could read lips, but I didn’t have the courage to talk to Vernon Smiley and stare at a cop at the same time. “I need to talk to Vernon.” I heard some muffled chatting over the phone and then the girl who answered came back on the line.
“He doesn’t feel like talking right now, Randy. What do you want?”
“I need two beers. Tell him I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”
“Hold on,” she sighed. More conversation. She answered me laughing. “Vernon says he’s only selling three beers at a time today. Sorry.”
“Since when?” I asked. “I usually buy one hit at a time. Let me talk to him.”
“Randy, why don’t you get some sleep and come see us tomorrow. Bring enough for three beers.”
“I’ll give you money for two beers tonight, okay? But I’ll only take one. And then tomorrow I’ll bring you enough for a third beer. All right? Tell him that.”
“Vernon is closed for the day, Meathead. Don’t call again tonight.”
“What the fuck do you mean?” I said. “He’s the one that got me started on this weird shit. Now he’s going to close up shop? I’m standing ten feet from the County Sheriff. How ’bout I bring him over to your place for a snack?”
“The beer is not an illegal substance, Randy. I’m sure you can find it somewhere else.”
“Where else am I supposed to find that? No one has that? OK. Listen, I get some more money…” The line went dead. “Fuck!” I banged the receiver on the wall, cracking one of the tiles. Vernon had me acting like a stupid junkie. I’d never had problems with booze or drugs before. Why now? Why was Vernon’s beer such a nasty habit?
I heard keys and cuffs clinking behind me. The deputy had decided to investigate my unsavoury behaviour. He was leaving his liver and onions to pay me a visit. I fingered the wad of wet change in my pocket, debating whether or not to call Vernon again, or save it for beer. I noticed that the change had left a trail of water stains down the side of my jeans. My sleeve was still dripping too. I could trace my path to the phone by looking at the floor. I needed to calm down and walk away from the phone.
“Thought I locked you up,” the deputy said, loud enough to make everyone look my way. He stopped about five feet away from me with one hand nestled on his gun holster and the other caressing his night-stick. He had a crumb of liver stuck to his cheek.
“You did,” I nodded. “And I appreciate it. I needed someone to set me straight, before I got out of control. Thank you, officer. I was just released from County.”
“Looks like you damaged some property there,” he said, pointing at the broken tile. He was going to arrest me again. I didn’t even get a decent meal yet outside of the joint, and this asshole was going to haul me down to the station. I was stumped for an answer for a moment. I couldn’t think straight. God, I needed that beer.
What would Colonel Hogan do?
“Hey Ralphie, your wife’s on the phone…” yelled a plump, but somehow attractive waitress holding up a telephone.
“Oh Jesus, what does she want this time?!” the deputy muttered under his breath.
Having expected a quick trip downtown, I was quite elated when the deputy completely forgot my existence and stumbled over to the squeaky voice of his beloved. With a renewed sense of purpose, I calmly paced out of the restaurant into the street. Once around the corner, I kicked up my heels and made a bee-line for my hearts desire.
You’d be surprised at how hard it is to pry fake finger-nails out of your inner thigh. You’d be even more surprised at how many times you can hit a junkie-skank in the head with a beer bottle before she spits up and croaks. But I digress…
I wandered out of the blood-spattered bathroom and rested on Vernon’s squeaky mattress. Looking at Vernon laying there on the floor whimpering like a lost puppy, I almost felt sorry for the bastard. Of course I still beat him repeatedly until he passed over his last five bottles of beer. For a few moments afterwards, I was in ecstasy – that was until I noticed that Vernon had dragged his sorry ass out into the hallway, down the stairs, and into the lobby – where a 40 year old nymphomaniac with low grade narcolepsy started screaming at the top of her lungs.
I promptly decided it was time to leave…
I needed to think. The screaming downstairs had stopped but now my head hurt and I felt like a mathemagician at a pi eating contest. I stuffed the beer in a bag, broke one of Vernon’s legs, to show him I meant business and hopped out the window to the fire escape. There are days and then there are days.
I made my way down to the alley and realised that I was in no condition to walk the streets covered in someone else’s blood. I’ve done it before but people get mighty fucking judgmental. The sirens were on there way. Two minutes, maybe. My mouth was dry and uneven, the clinking of the bottles weren’t helping my head and a mean gust of wind had come out of nowhere. So had a homeless guy wearing one of those sandwich boards with “The End Is Nigh” written on it. He was wandering through the alley like he had something to prove and I had an idea.
“Perfect.” I said to no one in particular except maybe myself. “Hey, you there, uhm, Mr. Bum, can I take over your cause for awhile, the world ending and all that. Can I borrow your sign?”
“You think your good enough to spread the word of God? To tell the masses that Judgement Day will be upon us? What sort of qualifications do you have?”
The sirens were getting closer. “I can walk real good.”
“Hmmm, I don’t know, how’s your crazy ranting? Do you object to pissing on people? Eating out of dumpsters? I mean, this isn’t the easiest job in the world you know, you have to fully commit to it, it’s more of a lifestyle. I studied at John Brown University, majored in Sign Carrying, minored in Jesusology, where did you study? Do you like to carry around your faeces in a plastic bag?”
The screaming had started up again. “Yes, I can’t get enough of my shit, now can I please have, oh bother, never mind!” I turned on my heels and ran out of the alley into the street.
“If you change your mind you know where to find me…” his voice trailing off as I scurried into the normality of the real world. There are days.
I needed to drink.
I slid onto the barstool at Jack’s Place at half past nine and the three-tap set-up was a welcome site. Unfortunately, a lowlife I knew named Kenny Riddle was tending the joint. He eyed me suspiciously while cleaning a shot glass with a bar rag that had seen better days — But for that matter, so had I.
“Who the fuck turned you loose?” He snarled, walking over to me.
I slapped down six quarters and a few dimes from the fountain and said, “The county saw fit to give me my freedom. Now how about you giving me a cold beer.”
Normally I wouldn’t associate with the likes of Kenny Riddle. He was a known rubber freak and a foot fetisher — whores will talk — but right then I would have taken a beer from Hitler.
Kenny poured a tall one and I drank it down in one smooth shot. I hadn’t realised how shaky I was until the beer steadied me. I guess the events at the Smiley residence and my run-in with that bum had gotten me a little more worked up than I thought.
Then Kenny blurted out of nowhere, “You seen Vernon lately?”
I gave him my best Hogan look, pushed my glass to him and said, “Why? Does he owe you money?”
“Nope.” He said, refilling the mug, “It’s just that he’s supposed to be here now to pick up his beer supply. It ain’t like him to be late. I’ve called him three or four times already and there ain’t no answer.”
I took a healthy pull on the brew and my mind slipped into gear. I always was one to spot an opportunity.
“Of course there ain’t no answer.” I said, leaning back on the stool. “He sent me over here to pick it up.”
Kenny went blank for a moment and paused with the cloth, then pursed his lips together and sucked in through his nose.
“Yeah? Z’at so? How much’d he want again?” Kenny was reaching under the bar now and the door jangled as Deputy Dufus wandered in. Some days, I swear, it’s not worth getting out of bed.
The spark of recognition when Dufus saw me, gave me shivers. This prick would likely run me in for the broken tile at the phone just for the joy of it. He came toward me.
Kenny came up from beneath the bar, with a set of keys. He saw Deputy Dufus approach, looked at me, and grinned.
“So how much was that he wanted?” he asked again. My mouth was full of sand.
“Same again I guess. He never told me.”
“Who’s this then?” Deputy Dufus to the rescue. Kenny grinned again, nodded and disappeared with the keys. Dufus stood beside me, stared and smiled, waiting for an answer. He had no idea how close he was to a night-stick enema.
“Look sheriff, I just got out of jail and the last thing in the world I want is to be looking for trouble.”
I tried the innocent approach as I was cornered by this hump of shit with liver in his teeth, who stunk of onions. I swear, I almost grabbed his stick and shoved it in his eye. But, the innocent thing worked.
“Kenny! Get me a beer will ya.” He never took the grin off his face as he squeezed into the stool two seats from me.
Without taking his beady eyes off me he yelled out to the back where Kenny disappeared.
“I’m off duty.” He said in that snide manner which accompanies all sheriff’s when faced with the enemy. He was surely a poker player
For the first time since I got out, I felt something close to relief, although I’ve not know it in a long while. My heart skipped a beat. I needed to get the hell out of there as fast as I could.
Kenny was back with a smoke dangling from his mouth, a beer for fat-fuck, and two cases in one arm.
“Here you go sheriff, enjoy.” He said. Then he faced me.
“Tell Vernon to give me a shout will’ya. Here’s your beer.” He spoke, puffed away on his cigarette, and carried out that complicated situation of setting down the beer. I was awestruck.
“No problem.”
Again, my heart skipped a beat and I almost lost it right then and there. I downed my beer and as casually as possible got the fuck out of there.
I heard the sweet sound of the streets, my pounding heart, and the doors close behind me. But, the clanking of the beer was the ultimate sound of heaven, even better than the hearing fat-fuck squeal.
For the second time that day, I felt… Relief.
Beer. My mouth watered, my stomach released a butterfly, and my heart began to dance. I needed to be alone so I could sit quietly, savour the flavour and stroke my cock.
I rounded the corner, looked for an alley, found one, and entered it’s shadows. Nestling down amid the piss and paper and placed my hands upon the case. It rattled now. The clink-clink-clink reverberated softly and carried down the empty alley and was eventually lost in the hum-hum-hum of the city. Ritualistically as always I passed my hand over the case as if it were Annie’s tits, peeled back her blouse and felt the nub of her nipple. I twisted my hand and released the pressure bottled inside, along with it’s wonder, along with the voice… That sweet siren voice, drawing me closer and closer into the void.
“You liked it didn’t you…”
“Yes.” I did like it. “You’re talking about Zardoz, right?”
“Yeah. An all time classic movie wouldn’t you agree?”
“I know.” By this time the day had taken it’s toll on my system and I was ready to go to that special place… And only the beer knows the way… “Time to go to sleep now”, I said to no one but myself.
…My head was full of bumble bees as my sight slowly returned. The light crept into my brain and my vision blurred, corrected, then blurred again. When it finally popped clear, I wished it would go away for good.
Deputy Dufus and Kenny were sitting on crates staring at me as I lay sprawled on the storeroom floor. Visions of Pulp Fiction immediately flooded my stinging melon, and if somebody had said “bring out the gimp”, I think I would have shit in my pants.
“Who do you think you’re fucking with, boy?” the Deputy asked, leaning forward like a snake. “Do you think we’re a couple of goddamn amateurs?”
I guess the question was rhetorical, because before I could attempt a smart-ass answer, Kenny grabbed me up by my shoulders and shoved me toward the back door.
“Come on outside,” he said, “we’re gonna head on over to Vernon’s and straighten this shit out.”
Jesus. Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of jail.
I walked as casually as one could walk with a gun pointed at his balls, and a strange calm came over me as we neared the building that contained what was left of Vernon. Some say that there is always a moment of calm that overcomes you before your death, but this was different. I was calm because I had a plan.
When they found Vernon’s body in the lobby next to that old nympho bitch (passed out – from the screaming, I assume), they made me pick him up and carry him up the stairs. And, I must admit, I was rather delighted when the deputy started puking upon noticing my handiwork on Vernon’s bitch in the bathroom.
The deputy stumbled back into the bedroom where Kenny had me on my knees with a gun at the back of my neck. “You sick fucking freak!”, He started screaming..
“I know, it’s pretty bad in there, huh?”, I replied nonchalantly.
“You seem pretty calm for a guy who’s about to die” Kenny replied.
“Oh, I’m not going to die…”
“FUCK THAT, YOU ASSHOLE! YOU’RE GONNA DIE RIGHT FUCKING NOW”, screamed the now maniacal deputy. He pulled out his gun, and aimed it right at my face. Then Kenny piped up, “Don’t fucking point that thing in my direction!” Then, I felt the barrel of Kenny’s gun rise from the base of my neck, and I quickly flicked my head back into his groin. Kenny’s gun went off shooting the deputy in his left eye. The deputy’s gun fell to the floor, and I swiped it, swung around and shot Kenny in the wrist, causing his gun (and part of his hand) to fall to the ground.
Kenny screamed in pain and clutched what was left of his hand.
“Well, well, well. Looks like we have an old fashioned Mexican Stand-off”, I spat out joyfully.
“This isn’t a fucking Mexican stand off, you idiot”, Kenny screamed, shaking his head.
“Really? I thought a Mexican stand off was when one guy was totally wounded and without a weapon… and the other guy had a gun and was about to win the fight”
“No, A Mexican stand-off is when there are two dudes left, and they both have guns, and their both aiming at each other, with no real way out…”
“Oh… Okay…”
*bang*
“What the fuck?”, too late, I drew my last breath and realised it had to be one of those days, mama told me there’d be days like this… If only I listened.
Death isn’t at all what the aliens told me it would be.
There were no birds chirping in paradise; Vernon was singing, but his drunken rhapsody resembled more of a tortured lobster squeal than a nightingale’s song.
I was in a white hallway, lined with smiling photos of Hillary Clinton. Vernon leaned against the wall with a grin. Instead of legs he had beer bottles tapping the floor in rhythm with his oily tune. The starved nympho was cleaning debris from the deputy’s eye socket. “Your good eye is so beautiful,” she said to Dufus, who appreciated her warmth and clung to her like a maggot on dung.
“Thought you’d never make it,” Vernon said to me. “Did you bring the money?”
“I don’t want that beer,” I said, wincing at his knees. Vernon’s bottle legs were oozing yellow around the labels.
As I turned around I faced my murderer, Kenny, squeezing his bleeding hand and checking himself for other wounds. Kenny was not like the rest of us. He was breathing real air. His body was solid. And he didn’t seem to notice us at all.
“We’re supposed to watch over him now,” Vernon said, “and make sure he’s safe.”
“Kenny?” I asked. “Who told you that?”
Immediately, I realised the unlikelihood of my situation. It really was as if I had awoken from a dream. I had been living in some subhuman nightmare for years and never even noticed. Aliens, for god’s sake? What I mean to say is, that they were real, sure – but I didn’t see the implications of their existence or anything else until it was way too fucking late.
So there I stood, Guardian dipshit to a stumpy jackass dealer of Jim Bean and bunk brew. And I still had no idea where he had gotten the fucking gun from.