nsfw: Bad Fiction Alert

...and SSA? You'd be better off not reading this. 'K?
_____________

Yes, in the finest tradition of bad biker magazine fiction, I bring you this modest offering...a tale of motorcycles and revenge, of leather and the men who wear it, of drugs, produce, and albacore tuna.

These characters are from an ongoing series I've been doing over at UJ. For those of you who've been reticent about taking a squint, take this as a reassurance of sorts. This is every bit as bad as what's over there, minus the sex.

Not the swearing, though.

Because, come on. This is 'Paul'.

__________________________________________


I was going to make someone a great little wife someday.
This was the thought that occurred to me when I pulled my cash out of my front pocket. It was rubber banded to my grocery list, and there were coupons paper clipped to that.

Meanwhile Susan chose me a nice fat baggie from the pile atop the suitcase she was using as a worktable. I pinched out a nice bud and loaded up her bong.

The flame illuminated her face as she fired up. She looked like a friendly witch for a second, uplit features surrounded by rag curls and smoke. Of course this friendly witch had a Colt Navy issue hidden someplace under all those yards of batik, and all her Munchkins rode Harley Davidsons.

At the moment we were largely Munchkin-free. One lay snoring on his side atop the pool table with his ankle chained to a cinderblock. Otherwise, Susan and I were alone in the house as far as I knew.

"Roth ain't here," she said out of the blue.

"Fuck you." I grinned.

"Ranger Rod is," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Anywhere two or more pussy are gathered, he is with you."

"Huh. Fucker still owes me a lump of hash," I replied. "I might go looking for him."

She rolled her eyes again. "Don't expect to collect on that shit and get away. He's a cunthound, that boy. All them mountain lions and wolves and shit up in the woods, man they avoid his horny ass. You lucky motherfuckin' Roth come up when he did. That's worth it. Ranger Rod justa throwed you over the top rail and hogfucked you."

She pushed her hair back over one ear and set the bong aside, drug the triple beam out into its place and reached into a grocery bag at her side. "So what that Roth about?"

I loaded another hit. "Fineass. Put together like a goddamn building."

She put a handful of dope up on the platen and nudged one of the weights with her finger. "Yeah, I heard about you and buildings, man, like that garage building. Couple of animals."

We reached across the suitcase - slap and snap! - and then cracked up at our dorkiness.

"Business doing pleasure with you" she said. I got up, picked up my Slurpee cup and took a drink. "Mind telling me something?" I looked down at her and shook my head. "Why you got all blue teeth?"

I took the lid off my Slurpee and showed her the contents. "Fuck that nasty," she said. "You some kind of circus freak? Carnies drink that shit. Raspberry and schoolboy? You sick."

Well, I couldn't exactly disagree with that, so I just shrugged.

_____________

Generally I wouldn't have walked to the store, but I found myself dawdling along down the block, looking at the neighbors houses, looking at the cars going by, humming a little tune.

Yeah, shit, hoping that Roth would ride past.

I got to the grocery store finally and pulled out the list. I hit the aisles systematically, put all the coupons atop each item they discounted, arranged all that in one neat corner of the basket, and marvelled at my own dorkiness once again. I was good at this shit. Of course, I had to be... I had an allowance to work with, and once the check was cut nothing else was disbursed until the next month. The 'sink or swim' school of household budgeting.

I probably enjoyed it more than I should have, though. I probably took my produce a little too seriously too. I went back to the swinging doors at the rear of the store to see if maybe they had some fresh basil they hadn't put out yet. My inner dork was exulting by this point. Probably hoping I'd pick up a copy of PC World on the way out.

I followed the sound of running water to where a man in a green apron was uncrating lettuce over a set of steel sinks. As I got closer I began to reconsider the benefits of a vegetarian diet; the guy in front of me was enormous. Then I saw the ponytail curled up beneath the hairnet.
'Fuckin' Roth, man!" I said.

Apparently my inner dork was from Oregon.

He turned around with a lettuce in one hand and a Dexter knife in the other. "Well hey. What are you doing here?"

Just....casual.
Just...nonchalant.
Just...'Oh hey, it's that chick I f(edited for the sake of my children) pile of shop rags like a rabid (here too) ravening and slavering, possessed by a thousand priapic (see, you're sorry you didn't listen to me now aren't you). Huh. Yawn. Whatever.'

Simply awesome.

"I'm, um, looking for basil", I said, sounding both sad and lame. "Do you have any in?"

He wiped his hands on his apron and looked off in the distance. "We don't get it in for another three days."

I shuffled. "Oh. I thought maybe you had some back here stashed waiting to go out, maybe, or something. I thought that."
The inner dork was now squeezing out of my pores and engulfing my head.

Lord Jesus. I thought that, did I? Wow. Leave. Leave while you still can. The darkness is descending. Run.

He looked at me for a second. "We don't stash basil," he said finally. "That's...not something we do." He stood looking down at me, one eyebrow raised slightly.

"...OK then," I said. "I'll go hit the rest of the store. So. See ya."

I was completely engulfed in dork. It was controlling my movements like a horrible brain sucking alien. I strolled on out casually, so very obvious; obvious as hell, obvious with the intensity of a raging Norse war-god, while dork-nano generated black, horn-rimmed glasses that sent biomechanical tentacles burrowing into into my face.

Mustering my last shreds of self respect, I resolutely bypassed the magazine rack and rented a copy of Videodrome on the way out.

____________________________

I heard a motorcycle come up behind me while I was waiting for the bus at the corner, and I grinned like a pirate. "You son of a bitch", I thought. ' You totally messed with my head.' I shifted the bags. "Yeah, you'll be stashing some basil when I get done with your ass."

Of course I didn't turn around when I heard the engine switch off.

"Hey," said a voice.

There sat Ranger Rod.

I looked at him over the top of my sunglasses. He looked at me over the top of his and smiled.

"You got my hash?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Not on me."

"Then fuck off," I said, and turned away.

I heard the engine start, and the gravel crunching beneath his tires as he started down the street.


I should not have thrown a can of tomato paste at him.

Luckily the bus arrived right then. He followed it for quite awhile before he finally turned off.

_____________________________

So I was a can of tomato paste down, but I'd made a new friend. I reflected on my good fortune as I made my dinner. I was so rat fucked I couldn't believe it. I always did this. I always did this. Why did I always did this? Why?
Think. Then act. Think FIRST.
I always messed that part up.

I picked up the skillet and grabbed a fork, then I went outside and sat down by the creek to eat. Leaves fell into my food and I picked them out. I threw an occasional noodle into the shallow water by my feet and watched the minnows school around it, picking and darting.

I heard something come through the brush at a run.

I stood up swinging the skillet and nailed Ranger Rod right in the side of the head. Noodles flew everywhere. The pan landed a county away.

I backed up fast, my hand over my mouth, tripping and panicking and losing my shit, Oh Jesus Christ Oh God Oh shit, and turned and ran.
__________________________

OK now, I thought, sitting on the curb. OK. Now I know what the smart thing to do here is. The smart thing to do would be to call the police. Be totally up front. This was clear trespass. I was...

No wait. My dad would come home, there'd be a record, all kinds of shit would come down,

No wait. I knew what the right thing was to do. I knew it. Maybe it would be OK. Maybe it would.

Or maybe it wouldn't either. I nailed the guy with a cast iron skillet for the love of shit; his ass was deceased.

I should go check.

-Like fuck I was going to go check. That would look great forensically, wouldn't it? Like I went back and gloated.


A beat to shit Toyota came to an idle in front of me. Roth rolled down the window and looked down at me for a moment. " I just got off work and I thought I'd stop by and say hi."

"Hi," I replied. "I just killed Ranger Rod. He's back down by the creek."

He rolled his window back up.

A few moments later he pulled into the driveway and parked his car. He got out. Still dressed for work, minus the green apron. "This way?" he gestured toward the line of maple trees in the back yard. I nodded.

_____________________

"Well, here's what we have to do, " he said quietly. He was standing next to me where I still sat on the curb, a fair sized mountain of cigarette butts on the pavement in front of me. "Once it gets dark I'll come back with a truck and pick up his bike. It's got to be parked someplace close. Then once I get the bike taken care of me and a couple of the guys will come back and take care of the rest. "

I didn't say anything; I just shook. This was so fucked up. This was so wrong. Oh my fucking fuck this was messed up beyond all belief. I couldn't even think about it either; every time my thoughts approached the point of 'skillet' they went veering off wildly like scared animals and I had to light another cigarette while my vision faded to a tiny point of static.

"We need to call the police," I said. mostly to my shoes. "Don't get, I mean, it's not, just, call the...oh shit." I put my shaking hands over my face.

A pair of arms closed around me hard from the rear, pinning my arms to my sides. Before I had a chance to kick or scream another pair clamped around my legs, and I was being carried.

I was shifted, none too gently. My face was pressed hard against someones side. Someone running fast.

I heard breathing and jingling, feet pounding over turf, over pavement, over turf again and then we began going downhill.

I was leaving my body. I was falling upward fast, hands tingling, the cold rising. I could feel dirt falling on my face from someplace high, high above, falling like leaves.

That was when I hit the water.

_____________________________________






I stood and dripped on the back patio. I was thinking hard.
I had both pieces of Ranger Rod's helmet sitting on the cement in front of me.

All things considered, Rod and I were even. I still wanted to staple a weasel to his ass, but only for the sake of general principle. Ranger Rod was background noise at this point.

Roth, on the other hand, was going to take some consideration. And I was going to do this by the numbers, dammit. Learn from the lessons of history. Listen to the voice of the past.
These things, as Margaret Hamilton once said, must be done carefully.

My World History teacher had a poster series of famous men and their notable quotes on the wall in the front of his class, and as something to do one day I'd copied some of them down in the back of my folder. Three of them stood out as being immediately relevant to my situation:

1. If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.

2. No enterprise is more likely to succeed than one concealed...until it is ripe for execution.

3. It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.

Now the question was, 'What Would Machivelli Do?'

Suddenly a solution sprang into my mind.

Machiavelli would stock up on Starkist.
___________________

I received an actual standing ovation when I went back a week later to buy some more herb .
Every degenerate in the place took his thumb out of his ass and gave me a warm, warm welcome. Oh, how we laughed. Aw hell yeah, what a fuckin' excellent joke! Oh, I just bet the look on my face was priceless! Wow, ol' Ranger Rod about puked from laughing so hard, huh? You say Roth almost drove off the road he was laughing so hard? Wow! I'm laughing hard too! Yes, I'm just laughing this aaaaaaaaaaall off! Yessiree!

But...could you speak up a little bit, please?

The Ranger himself came over and did the ol' buddy hug around the shoulder routine. Oh heavens no, you skulking degenerate, no hard feelings WHATSOEVER. I'm exactly the kind of person who takes this kind of thing lightheartedly! I bet you were just out in my woods looking for wildflowers to press in your bible, huh! Sure! We're buddies! And you know what, buddy? I'm gonna catch you sleeping someday and superglue your dick to your stomach! Yeah I am!

I had to ask him to speak up a few times. Complete sentences went by without my replying; I just stood there and looked at him expectantly.

Roth came up to speak to me on the front porch as I was leaving.

__________________________

"....Calm down," he repeated. I was shaking, tears running down my face. He held my arms down at my side and looked down at me. "You have to calm down and speak because I can't understand a word you're saying. Now just tell me. Come on."

I took a ragged breath. "Whu whut?"

"Calm down," he repeated.

I took a ragged breath. "I've been l looking for it all wuh week...My dad is going to ki hi hill me. He's going to fucking kill me. He'll ha have to come home and and he's right in the middle of shit because thuh thuh thuh they can't cut ano nuh nother check out of the account without a thumbprint signa na na ture fuh from him....." I lost it some more. " I loo luh luh looked everywhere! It's not there! I looked! Buh by the d driveway and all in the guh grass..."

"Now what do you mean? What got lost here?" He asked.

I looked up at him with pure hate, tears streaming down my face. "My CIC."

He looked puzzled.

I snuffled and blew my nose on the handkerchief he offered me. "My hearing aid."

_____________________________


He pulled into my driveway several hours later. I was sitting out on the porch with the watering can, having a cigarette.
I moved the watering can down onto the grass and came halfway across the lawn with my hands on my hips.

He got out of the car , and kept getting out of the car, and standing up, until he was looking down at me. "Have you checked down by the creek yet?" he said.
________________________

It was a beautiful afternoon to be out wading around in the water. I wished I didn't have to take it so seriously; the sun dappled down through the leaves, the little fishes darting from rock to rock. We started upstream on opposite banks, bent low over the surface, turning rocks and feeling around slowly. "It's going to look like one of those foam spinners, you know? So if you think it's a fishing lure, pick it up anyway and check. It has a kind of short little aerial thing that pokes out of one end.'

"An aerial?" he said.

"Huh?" I replied.

We let the silt wash downstream. Then we moved down a couple of feet and crossed back again. Dragonflies flittered and skated low over the water, leaving trails of circles that spread and were lost. My feet were getting pruney.

After nearly an hour I splashed on past him back toward the house. "I gotta take a piss."

"No problem," he said.

"Huh?" I replied.

_________________________

Once the door shut behind me I took off like a scalded cat up the stairs, through the house and out the front door. I only stopped to pick up the watering can on the way.

Windows of the car rolled down? Excellent!

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled gas station towel. Just in case.

Then I stuck the long spout of the watering can down the passenger-side vent.

And filled it with tunafish oil.
_____________________________


"You know, I can pay for it," Roth repeated. We were walking back through the yard, up around the side of the house.

"Hey, that's excellent. How much does a produce boy make?" I replied.

"It could still be in the grass around here. It could still turn up. Maybe I can come back and"

I went into the house and slammed the door on him.

He got in his car and left.

Halfway down the block he stopped and opened the door. A cat jumped out.

Come the first frosty morning a couple of months from now, he was going to turn on his heater and old Charley Tuna was going to jump out. And kiss him right on the lips.
Really old Charley Tuna.
Night of the Living Dead Charley Tuna.

He'd be riding his motorcycle everywhere for quite awhile.

I hoped it was a long, cold winter.