I don't know if I'm dreaming. I do however know my stepmother keeps engaging with this sketchy crack dealer at the flea market. He definitely wants to fuck her in the ass. I think she knows that too. My father seems oblivious. He's too busy chewing the fat with the comic book dealer.
He keeps lamenting the fact he had a great idea for a comic book in the '70s but somebody stole it out from under him. What he never realized was ideas are a fucking dime a dozen, just like all the worthless shit these weirdoes at the flea market are haggling over like it was fucking manna from the land of make-believe.
I'm only fifteen. I get dragged along with my father and stepmother every other weekend to stupid shit like flea markets, used book stores, antique shops, film festivals, Russian tea rooms and everything else that sucks male appendages; not in and of itself mind you, but solely because it is irreparably tainted by the company I am forced to keep by authority of the family court and my quasi-prostitute of a religious fanatic mamasan.
The big black crack dealer smelling my stepmother's mating scent is attempting to con gibberish into masquerading as small talk. He not so subtly gestures across the school yard cum Arabian bazaar to his confederate in the crack game. Yeah, I'm pretty sure the two of them want to lure BettyJo into a God forsaken alley and gang rape the wax out of her ears. I'm even more sure she'll get knocked up and pretend the baby is my father's.
When my father learns of the baby bump he's guaran-fucking-teed to be on cloud nine. He'll tell me how great it is and how he hopes it will be a little girl so as to make the family complete. I'm wondering how the fuck he'll rationalize it when BettyJo squeezes out a litter of African-American Siamese twin triplets.
It'll be the fucking Brady Bunch for the New World Order. I'm wondering what I'm gonna tell the six of them when they're old enough to question why they don't resemble their much older half-brother in the slightest.
I figure I'll just pass 'em the joint of the chronic I'll prolly be fumigating in abject defeat at my life in general. That'll probably poison my whole outlook on humanity. I may even turn to the dark arts. I wouldn't be surprised if I end up in the rarefied climes of Tibet hunting down esoteric knowledge that would empower me to smite my enemies and frienemies alike. Is there really a fucking diff and if so does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?
Fade to crackhead #1:
By this time he's whispering depraved crackhead saccharine sweet nothings in BettyJo's waxy inner ear. She's all fucking constipated shits and giggles and as fate would have it the Metamucil's just out of range.
I try to observe discreetly from the vantage point of a beaten down Staples folding table. The table boasts row upon row of cheap sunglasses and a plethora of rusty wind-up toys recently unearthed from some postal worker gone ballistic's cobweb strewn attic. I'm surveying the smorgasbord of apocalyptic premonition from behind a pair of heart shaped, rose tinted shades, but shit tinted any color is still just that; fucking shit. And it all smells funky as my dilapidated size 12 Pumas.
The crack dealer is jerking his head to the corner of the school yard where all the trucks and vans are parked. BettyJo's shifty eyes are evaluating her chances of sneaking off unnoticed. Yeah. She's thinking about the depravity. Never mind all she talks about is the never ending sanctity of the Pope and Ronald Reagan.
Never mind she's a self-satisfied know-it-all know nothing. Never mind she tells me my room is the fucking guest room because a boy should live with his mother. Even if she beats him daily and throws butcher knives at him when he won't go procure her morning coffee fix with food stamps.
Yeah, BettyJo looks right at me. But my rose colored heart shaped sunglasses disguise the boy all too well. Herman's too busy lamenting to the comic dealer how he coulda been a contender were it not for the family curse and Richard Nixon. But me. Yeah. I know what the fuck is going down.
The crack head's crony is moving through the throngs of artsy hipster douche bags on his rendezvous with his boy and BettyJo's anus. They'll probably film it on their smartphone and it'll probably go viral.
"Hey Danny! Was that your stepmom, BettyJo blowing two crackhead crack dealers at the flea market Sunday morning? It was right? Can I come over to your house sometime and get my ashes hauled?"
Fucking fate of the free fucking world probably hangs in the balance. Fucking butterfly effect is somehow tied to BettyJo's hypocritical sphincter and those two crackhead joes.
Probably go down like this:
BettyJo does 'em both and becomes simultaneously knocked up and infested with Ecuadorian crabs. So she goes to confession and tells the priest about the killer bargain she scored at the flea market in excruciating detail.
Now unbeknownst to her the priest is a sex fiend and starts wankin' it on the other side of the confessional. Unfortunately for the sex fiend priest he has both clogged arteries and a heart defect. So of course he catches a heart attack of the fatal variety.
BettyJo, so absorbed in her own shit, doesn't realize the priest is a stiffening stiff and just keeps up her relentless onslaught of jibber jabber.
Meanwhile, waiting patiently for the past hour to both confess and seek holy counsel is a young man named Viggo Spaggio, who has been beaten daily since the age of four by his alcoholic stepfather, Earl. Viggo also worries he might be gay and this cognitive dissonance deeply disturbs his devout Catholic sensibilities. In short, the guy's a mess.
Viggo has also been fantasizing about taking out his aggressions on the entire school body at his local parochial high school where he reluctantly receives wedgies on a daily basis from the jocks. These wedgies have interfered with his bowel movements as of late rendering his ass a bloody mess as a direct result.
People have begun to detect a strange odor that no amount of Axe body wash can conceal thus making Viggo a de facto pariah. So now he is a hair's breadth away from taking out his fellow students with some heavy ordinance recently procured on Silk Road 2.6.3 and delivered to his ramshackle house by the very same Postal worker who soon thereafter went ballistic himself.
That's the one whose rusty wind-up toy collection is at the self-same flea market where all this convoluted shit catalyzed thanks to none other than god damned BettyJo fuckface.
Now, because of my narcissistic stepmother causing the priest to expire with his rigor mortified dick in his wart covered hands the young, possibly gay, but definitely abused, beaten and bullied man has no kind soul to talk him down from the metaphorical ledge and thus goes on to cross the Rubicon.
He wipes out a bunch of wedgie terrorist jocks and innocents in the process before finally ventilating his tortured cranial cavity which of course results in his rampage making the six o'clock news and the usual viral tizz of social media consisting of bad puns, dubious moral outrage and general vitriol from a rapidly desensitized populace.
Unfortunately, this wholly avoidable pathos included the one innocent who could have saved mankind. The one innocent who never done Viggo no wrong, no how, no way; even when said messiah's proboscis was being tortured by the wedgie fumes. This aborted messiah had a name and that name was Ignacio Montoya Schwartz. Ignacio was the one guy who was gonna grow up to be President of these United States and thereby stop global warming, parental labeling and the onslaught of the Police State before it was too late.
As a result of this unspeakable yet unknown loss the country proceeds on its current path ending up 104.5% fascist. Checks and balances are flushed down the crapper for good along with the full faith and credit of our multi-trillion dollar deficit treasury ushering in a world wide depression and third world war. In short, Western Civilization ironically ends up smelling like Viggo's tush.
And now what? I'll tell you what. All across the big blue marble little babies are fucking glowing in the dark from the radiation and their furry pet cats who woulda, under normal circumstances, been on the front page of reddit or some shit, instead eat the little fuckers cause Purina done fucking gone under with the rest of Western Civ.
Why? Cuz fucking BettyJo's a two-timing prima-slutski; that's why! And because I saw it all coming from behind purloined rose colored glasses and didn't do jack shit on a buttermilk biscuit but say, "Hey! She ain't my wife! If my burnout Dad can't keep his shit together it ain't none of my bee's wax."
So what would you do in my stinky pumas?
Fade to crackhead #1:
Yeppers. Shifty crackhead motherfucker is ushering BettyJo to the ad hoc truck stop. He's gonna fucking destroy all the fucking babies thirty years from now. That'll really fuck up my mid-life crisis. I'll be looking to get a new young asian wife to salvage my shriveled ego and dick after a miserable first marriage but I'll never get the chance cause BettyJo fucked it up.
Well, maybe on any other day that shit would be palatable but if the lunch lady wants to serve Sloppy Joe's to the troops she better be eating the first, second and third helpings.
I spy a Samurai katana peeking out of a box under a table full of Japanese martial arts paraphernalia. Whaddya know? It's on my way to the truck stop/porn shoot. I'm shivering even though we're in the middle of a global warming heat wave. Abnormal is the new normal. Least ways that's what the weather man said.
I push an old man with a cane into a fat lady and they have words. I bend down to tie my Birkenstocks and grab the sword. The fat lady grabs the old man's cane and menaces him with it.
I take off at a friendly jog singing Sinatra's Summer Wind and closing the gap. I chance to look up. I spy one of the concrete gargoyles adorning the old public school. It's definitely snarling with nut rage. It seems directed at yours truly.
"Hey, kid!" the gargoyle snarls. "Mind yer fuckin' business and let nature take its course."
Undeterred I shout back, "Fuck you gargoyle and your mother!"
"Maybe I'll fuck your mother," the gargoyle threatens.
"Come down here and say that!" I reply and continue on my not so merry way.
I make it to the trucks and instantly smell the crack vapors wafting along a hot air current. It's that unmistakable smell. Smells like. I dunno. Victory.
I round the corner of a big Hertz and sure enough, there's BettyJo getting bent over.
"Yeah, bitch. This what you want? You want the big fucking snake on a plane?"
Okay. I get the big fucking snake reference. But the plane metaphor is just fucking forced as fuck and that enrages my fifteen year old idealistic sensibilities. If you're gonna fucking end the world as we know it at least get your fucking metaphors straight.
"Yo! You better holster that fucking snake if you don't want it all sushified Clyde!"
"Oh. Ho. Who the fuck you calling Clyde? Motherfucker?"
"Yeah," says his crony. Scratching a never ending itch and wearing a fucking down jacket in 103 degree weather. "Who you calling Clyde?"
"Take your pick motherfucker. It's all fair in love and death."
"Danny! It's not what you think," says BettyJo. "Don't tell your father! I-I-I-... I LOVE YOU!"
"What? You know this punk bitch?"
"He's my stepson. Danny."
"Oh, way to go BettyJo. Just tell Mr. Rapist my name. Why don't you give him my address and phone number too?"
"Oh fuck this noise. I'm gonna fucking stab you in the fucking heart like a little bitch and then impregnate your stepmother twice."
"Yeah! Twice!" said the itchy one.
"To the pain then," says me.
BettyJo remains bent over at a perfect 90 degree angle. She's looking at me via crooked head and strained peepers. I figure it's a no-vote of confidence but I equally figure that since the constituency is mentally defective I should not let such trifles derail my mission from God.
"To the pain!" agrees Mr. Rapist.
He comes a charging. He is a juggernaut. His itchy partner in crime charging with a ferocity only surpassed by the frenzy of his full body scratching.
I am one with the bull god as I unsheathe the big katana only to discover it's just a fucking wooden bokken practice sword. Unfortunately, the dynamic crack duo have real hunting knives not unlike Crocodile Dundee's as in, "that ain't a knife..."
Fuck. And it's hot as sweaty balls in a Russian steam bath. And I brought a fucking wooden stick to a knife fight. And fucking BettyJo is just hoping it ends fast so she can get double stuffed.
"What a revolting turn of developments," I opine to no one in particular.
The big crackheads' big knives are now less than a foot from my squishy parts.
I hear a giant whooshing sound behind me. The sun is eclipsed. The crackheads look up in abject terror. BettyJo screams. Blood sprays every which way but loose. And then it stares at me. A fucking nine foot gargoyle with a tremendous wingspan. The crackheads caught in its monstrous jaws. They scream their last as they are devoured.
The gargoyle belches releasing a scorching wind that blows back my hair. BettyJo remains bent over with her jaw more agape than not.
"What did you say about my mother?" the gargoyle inquires menacingly.
"Oh. That."
"Yeah. That. What? You think I was gonna let that shit slide wiseguy?"
"Well, you started that shit. Telling me to mind my business. As if the fate of mankind wasn't mankind's business? And who knows more about that shit? A man or a gargoyle?"
"Well, fuck me sideways and confuse me with a Sasquatch," says the gargoyle. "When you put it like that... Well. Okay. My bad."
"Don't worry about it. This fucking heat is driving everybody fucking bonkers."
"Yeah. It's a fucking scorcher. Any word when it's supposed to break?"
"Maybe by Wednesday, but you know the weather man don't know shit."
"Amen to that brother."
"We cool, gargoyle?"
"Yeah. No hard feelings?"
"No, but since I got you here can I ask you a favor?"
"What's that?"
"See that woman bent over there with her short shorts around her stupid ankles?"
"Unfortunately, I do."
"Well... You got room for one more?"
"There's always room for one more," the gargoyle says and gives me a wink.
"Thanks. You don't need me to stick around for it, do ya?"
"Nah. I got it covered."
"Danny?!?!? Where are you going?" BettyJo asks scared out of her dim half wits.
"Away. I'm going away BettyJo. Just like you."
"No! Don't leave me. Don't lea-"
Then BettyJo screams a bit and I hear gnashing sounds. I keep walking and I think about taking up smoking. Yeah. I'm definitely gonna start smoking. Fucking unfiltered Luckies too. Either that or wake the fuck up soon.
From Crucifiction by Krafto Matix.
