Jack Kerouac Can Kiss My Ass
This is a very raw work in progress. It is a amalgam of people, places and things I have witnessed, dreamed or otherwise completely fabricated through many, many hours of lonely travel while roaming the countryside shooting my photographs.
Coolest thing is, this story keeps writing itself.
Wigged-Out Willie and the Great Stone Bar
The seventy-five Sportster was indeed a piece of shit, but a few cans of Rustoleum later and it transitioned into a piece of shit with a halfway decent paint job. I decided I had better take it to a friend of mine, a mechanic in the rinky dink berg of Albright Shores, who immediately confirmed the piece of shit theory with a round of raucous laughter loud enough to wake the dead and an intense brow beating about my ignorance of the value of a dollar. I didn’t have the energy to argue with Willie that the value of a dollar was actually less than twenty-five cents nowadays. Wigged-out Willie as he was called in the Shores was the best mechanic in these parts and I was in awe as I watched him tweaking and tuning my new bastion of freedom. He strummed that bike as if she was a finely tuned musical instrument, and indeed, she was once he finished with her. He spent the most of the afternoon getting her ready for the road and by the time he finished we were both itching for refreshment. “Hey, Willie, much of anything happening at the stone bar?” I asked. He glanced up over the gas tank with a look that reminded me of what a stupid question I had just asked. “Okay, is the band any good?” “Don’t know, never heard ‘em.” “Never heard them? You live in a loft above the bar and you never heard them?” “Wasn’t listenin’,” he replied, turning a carburetor adjustment screw. I decided that a night out on the town was just what the doctor ordered. My nerves could use some fine tuning. The ‘stone’ bar was just that, a bar that was made from old cobblestones that had once lined the streets of this two stop sign river town. Occasionally they had some pretty damned good bands so I figured I’d stick around for the night. “There ya go, she’s all tuned up and ready to go,” Willie said, handing me the keys and I handed him two crisp fifties followed by a hearty handshake. “How far ya plannin’ to take ‘er?” “Not sure, hadn’t thought about it much. California, Florida, maybe both. I’m just going to wander. After Willie picked himself up, dusted himself off and caught his breath from laughing so hard he said, “Shit son, that’s there is a ’75 Sportster, that tune might just get you to the state line. California,” he laughed so hard he started gagging. I could still hear Willie laughing over the rumble of the bike as I pulled out onto the road and headed for town. I swore I heard the damned thing misfire when I took off from the second stop sign. Fucking Sportster. Little did I know that would become my mantra over the course of this little misadventure. I wasn’t having a mid-life crisis, I was having a mid-life catastrophe. I picked up a six pack at the local inconvenience store and pulled the bike down by the river to enjoy some sun and scenery. The beer tasted like shit and was piss warm. You know you’re in a redneck town when then only beer taking up valuable cooler space is Natural Light, Busch and Keystone. The sun started to dip over the river so I made my way down to the ‘stone’ bar to get a cold beer. I hopped off the Sportster and adjusted myself. Strolling toward the front door, I headed into this roadside bar feeling like James Dean and then I caught my reflection in a bar mirror and realized I was looking a hell of lot more like Paula Deen. My feet glided along the sand coating the floor of the place. A gentle breeze blew in off the river, in one door, through the bar and out the other open door. It became very obvious there was a dead carp or an overflowing outhouse down on the river. I bellied up to the bar as far away from the olfactory assault as I could get which put me damned near on top of the jukebox which, much to my chagrin, played Willie Nelson’s You Were Always on My Mind nonstop. This adventure just kept getting better. “What can I get for ya?” a woman behind the bar asked.
I put her somewhere in her early sixties, a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth, the ash ready to fall into her eighteen inch long cleavage. I tried not to eyeball her tiny A cups, but I am a man, and she was wearing a bikini, sort of. Her bikini top looked like two socks with a cue ball in one side and the eight ball in the other. Her Spandex bottoms appeared to be holding the rest of the balls. I resisted the urge to yell out, “Rack ‘Em.”
“I’ll have a Bud draft please.”
“Okay, Bud bottle then please.”
“Let’s make this easy, what can I get?”
“Natty Light for fifty cents.”
“Busch Light for seventy-five.”
“What about a Jack and Coke?” I asked, quickly changing the subject from bush around this woman who looked like she had a squirrel living in the front of her shorts. I would have bet my life I could see something squirming around in there.
“No Coke. Got Faygo.”
“Jack and Faygo it is,” I sighed.
“Rock and Rye or Diet Chocolate Cream Pie?” she asked, adjusting one of her boobs with a clunk.
“With Jack Daniels?”
“That’s what you asked for weren’t it? Look, mister, I ain’t got all day, I got things to do,” she huffed.
I look around at the empty bar and a rack full of filthy bar glasses with a handwritten sign hanging from it that said ‘CLEEN’ and wondered what the hell occupied her time around here other than a pain in the ass out-of-towner. I began wondering when the hell it was I made that wrong turn and ended up in hills of East Kentucky.
“I’ll take a double shot on the rocks with a water back I suppose,” I said, against my better judgment.
“Listen mister, I ain’t got time for none of that city sarcasm.”
“Sarcasm? No, ma’am, I meant I would take it neat, without rocks, no ice, straight up and forget the trouble of the water, I’ll just go get some out of the river myself to save us both some time,” I replied with some of my city sarcasm, against my better judgment.
“Suit yerself,” she said, setting the near empty bottle of Jack Daniels in front of me and walking into a back room that might pass as a kitchen in medieval times.
I sat there for five minutes eyeballing every glass in the rack before settling for straight from the bottle. I laid a twenty on the bar, took the bottle and headed out onto their deck to get some much needed sunshine. I set the bottle down on a wooden cable spool that had been repurposed into an outdoor table and glanced down at the milk crate chairs and decided I had better use the restroom first. I was certain the smell would lead me right too it rather than have to bother the overworked bartender for directions. I was going to have to seize the day so carp be damned.
I passed a pinball machine that had a sign saying, ‘broke’, and I wondered if that was a general statement about the conditions of the town or just the pinball machine. The jukebox had switched from Willie to Hank Junior and was now on the third pass of Family Tradition. I almost lost it when I passed the pool table and there was a sign that said, ‘don’t work, missing balls.’ The bathroom made the carp seem like fields of lilacs and looked even worse than it smelled. I held my breath, rushed in and stared at the ceiling to do my business. After zipped up I fumbled around for the handle and couldn’t find it after three tries and I was out of breath. For some reason my boys were getting a cold draft blown on them. I looked down to see that the urinal was overflowing with ice. Well, at least I got something on the rocks anyway.
It wasn’t long before the evening crowd began shuffling in and I was starting to feel even more out of place. So far, from the looks of things, you wouldn’t have been able to get a full set of teeth if you combined all the patrons together. Now I knew where all the Wal-mart employees hung out after work. I was about to make other arrangements for the rest of my evening when three burly men came strolling in, each one dragging a large cooler behind them loaded with ice cold beer. My excitement was short lived when I realized the beer was intended for the three of them and one scantily clad bleach blonde who must have been the barkeep’s offspring as she was only a few years away from being a spitting image.
“Happy thirty-seventh birthday, ma. Wooo Hoooo,” the blonde yelled and handed the bartender a bottle of beer with a bow on it. I quickly did the math and still wasn’t sure if the younger blonde was of legal drinking age or not, not that it really mattered in this joint.
The jukebox was on the seventh play through of Tom T. Hall’s, I Like Beer and I found I wasn’t a very Jolly Good Fellow, but I was definitely a dry one.
“Hey, Mister, would you like a beer?” one of the burley gents asked.
“Sure, what kind is it?” I asked without even thinking. At this point I really didn’t give a shit what kind it was just so long as it would get me drunk.
“It’s a little concoction of ours,” he indicated the other two burley dudes who were obviously related, but then again, I was beginning to think the whole damned town was related, “We calls it Hillbilly Homebrew, cause we make our own rules,” he slapped his knee and they all broke out into raucous laughter at some sort of inside joke.
“How much?” I asked.
“How much for what?”
“Awe hell, it’s free, it don’t cost us hardly nothing to make it,” he replied and handed me an ice cold bottle.
I was expecting some old cider jugs to be broken out and passed around with an old washtub and washboard. It was starting to look like this was the only entertainment I was going to see all night. And then the band rolled in and things got even stranger. I found myself wishing I would stand up, click my ruby slippered heels together and get the hell out of this nightmare.
Somehow, and don’t ask me, because I don’t know, I ended up at a table right in front of the stage with all the lights pointed at me. The guest of honor. I took another long swig of Hillbilly Homebrew and found myself contemplating the man’s statement. “It don’t cost us nothing to make.” I thought about that for a minute and shuddered. The more I tasted it the more I starting thinking the water came from the river. I stopped myself right there because I didn’t want to know where they were getting the sugar and I sure as hell didn’t want to know where they were getting the yeast.
My reverie was interrupted by this large Viking with a bass guitar around his neck shouting at the crowd to raise their glasses in a toast to the soldiers fighting in Iraq. I took a long swig and started to put my bottle down but then he started naming every conflict dating back to the battle of John Brown’s ear or something like that, I lost track after fifteen or so toasts. Best damned drinking game I ever played.
For all my trepidations, the music wasn’t half bad, and would have been a hell of a lot better had someone turned the jukebox down, or off. “Just take those old records off the shelf, I’ll sit and listen to them with all the girls I’ve loved before.” Just as I thought things couldn’t get worse, Willie Nelson started his loop again, “Maybe I didn’t love rock and roll, quite as often as I should have so put another dime in the jukebox baby.” I wasn’t sure if it was the Hillbilly Homebrew or the double assault on my auditory nerves but I was getting pretty buzzed up. Thankfully the band took a break so I could concentrate once again.
“Hey, what’s in this stuff? It’s pretty potent,” I asked one of the brothers as he handed me another.
“It’s a trade secret,” he said with a serious scowl.
“Okay,” I replied meekly.
“I’m just shittin’ ya buddy. We been making it about twenty-five years now I suppose.”
“You don’t look old enough to have been brewing beer that long,” I questioned.
“Naw, our pa’s started it, we just continued after they passed.”
“Yeah, we had two pa’s. Me and Dave there had one pa and Scooter and Daisy had another.”
“But you all look so much alike?”
“I know, ain’t it weird? Wanna know a secret?”
“I guess so,” I said, against my better judgment.
“Scooter and me are twins.”
“With different fathers?”
“Yep, even got one of them there DNA test to prove it.”
“And the same mother?”
“Duh, we wouldn’t be twins otherwise now would we?”
Wanting desperately to change this topic I brought the conversation back to the Hillbilly Homebrew.
“So, what’s in this stuff?” I asked again, taking another swig. The flavor just sort of grew on me.
“Well, my two pa’s used to work together for that chemical place up there in Midland,” he started.
I set the beer down, not liking where this was suddenly going.
“They used to haul away some kind of waste from the place. One day they was screwing around trying to road hunt some deer and accidentally damaged one of the barrels. They didn’t want to take it to the place to be buried, it being damaged and all so they let it sit around the cabin for about a year trying to figure out how to get rid of it,”
“Yep, one of them got the genius idea to get rid of it by making beer out of it. Even gave their boss a six pack of the stuff. Ever since then, when hauling the barrels to the waste site, we swipe a couple for the brew.”
“What kind of chemicals are these?” I asked, not really wanting to know the answer and giving myself a once over for a nubbin that might be evidence of my sprouting a third arm.
“That’s what’s so great about it, it’s always different. We never know what we’re going to get. It’s great, we supply the town with the brew and ma don’t have to buy that good, expensive beer like Old Style or Strohs. Sure, we still have a few non converts who won’t give up their Natty Lights, but those codgers will all die off soon.”
I doubted these yokels would outlive the codgers who weren’t partaking of this mystical elixir. Suddenly no longer thirsty I set my bottle down and hoped the panic on my face didn’t show too much. Luckily the band came back from break and took everyone’s attention away from me.
The bassist was now no longer a Viking but a pirate complete with a parrot on his shoulder. A living fucking parrot! I knew I had died and gone to hell when between songs that damned parrot started singing songs from the jukebox until the band started again. Before the third song of the set we were once again instructed to raise our glasses in a toast to the servicemen.
“Get ‘em up!” he cried out hoisting his Absolute shooter in the air, “Here’s to all the young men fighting in Iraq, and Korea, and that fucking Bosnia place.”
I resisted the urge to correct him and just played along with the greatest drinking game of all time. It was about that time when I noticed something was different about the stage.
“Hey, where did that little monkey go?” I asked the brother who had never given me his name.
“Yeah, the little creepy looking monkey statue with his hand out asking for tips.”
“That weren’t no monkey, that was my brother Able, he’s from our third pa, he’s the eldest.”
“Third pa?” I asked before my brain told my mouth to shut up.
“Yeah, but not like Scooter and me. His dad was just some dude ma shacked up with when she was mad at my two pa’s before I was born.”
“We know Able is a little bit off and runs around here dressed kind of funny, but he can’t help it. Ma drank a shit ton of Hillbilly Homebrew when she was pregnant with him. He freaked her out when he came out looking pretty much like he does right now and she lernt her lesson. She made damn sure she drank no more than a six pack a day when she was pregnant with the rest of us and that seemed to work out jest fine,” he explained.
I had no response so I felt it best to just sit back and listen to Silverbeard doing his rendition of Ted Nugent’s Fred Running Bear. He wasn’t the greatest as vocalists go but he sure played a mean Richenbacher. At one point he was bass soloing where there wasn’t even a solo in the song but it was unique as hell so I just watched and enjoyed the show. My enjoyment came to an abrupt end when a huge blue loogey flew from the stage and hit me straight on the lips. I fought back the urge to spew Hillbilly Homebrew once I realized that the bass player had taken out his teeth and was using them for a pick and I now possessed the knowledge of what an Absolute, Polident, phlegm shooter tastes like. I gagged, grabbed two cold ones from the cooler and chugged them both at the same time. The Double H as I was now calling it was really beginning to takes its toll and I found myself asking the waitress for another shooter from the band. The bartender, Ma, must have gotten off shift because she was now hugging me from behind. Her tits were over my shoulders and resting on the table in front of me and instead of freaking out, I kept knocking them back and forth like a pair of clackers waiting for them to explode into a gazillion pieces. “Good thing you’re fucking cute city boy, cause you sure are a pain in the ass,” she said and then whispered in my ear, “Maybe later, I’ll be a pain in yours,” I swore her voice dropped two octaves and my sphincter tightened to the point I was sure I wouldn’t be able to crap for a week. The third set was interrupted as the other two had been with the voodoo priest bass player holding his glass high in the air. Something was really off about this speech and at first I thought the Double H was getting the better of me and I shook my head to clear the cob webs. When I did this I got just a tad bit woozy and fell out of my chair. Then, while looking at the musician from this angle I realized he had put his teeth in upside down. “And one more for the kids fighting in Toledo,” the bass player slurred. “Toledo?” I asked one of the burley dudes sitting next to me. I wasn’t sure if it was Dave, Scooter or He Who Shall Remain Nameless. “Yeah, ole’ Red there, he doesn’t get out much.” “Is he talking about the Toledo War way back in 1835?” “Yessir.” “He does know that war is over, right? And that none of our ‘kids’ are fighting in Toledo?” “Shhhh, mister, be quiet about that if you know what’s good for you. It’s a thirty mile ride to the nearest hospital, all bad road I might add.” “Hospital?” “Last person who got up the nerve to question Red wound up knowing what a Viking helmet felt like shoved up their ass. And since you’re sitting next to me, I don’t want any of that there guilt by association crap.” Through the fog and the haze the Hillbilly Homebrew had cast upon my every conscious thought I gazed up at what I could only assume were the stars. A disembodied spirit asked where I parked so I mustered just enough focus to wiggle a wavy finger at the piece of shit sportster. The stars were streaking by in squiggly lines and I could not feel my feet touching the ground. Everything felt numb, except for my butt which was experiencing a multitude of sharp, stabbing pains. I panicked. Where was Clickity-Clack?
“Careful with him, Scooter, them city boys bruise easy,” I heard her cackle and breathed a sigh of relief when I realized she wasn’t behind me.
I craned my neck up and saw the tips of my boots pointed north and the heels locked in the meaty grip of Scooter’s meat hunks. The last thing I remember was a piss warm bottle of Hillbilly Homebrew being shoved in my hand. I gave a crooked grin and succumbed to the fog.
And Every Body was Kung Fu Cockfighting
I woke up with the sun beating down on my face, my brain screaming its displeasure with both me and the Hillbilly Homebrew and there was something tugging at my leg. I tried to scoot up and look at what was going on but every time I tried needles stabbed into my brain. Finally after about ten minutes of breathing exercises I managed to get the pain to subside enough to roll over onto my side where immediately I regurgitated a thick green foam I could only imagine was some sort of byproduct from the radioactive concoction. I prayed this would prove to be the only consequence. Again, I felt a tugging on my leg. I craned my neck and saw the largest snapping turtle I had ever seen in my life with a wad of my jeans in his beak and all four feet dug into the mud of the river bank. This snapper had every intention of make me his next meal. I dug my wallet, keys, and anything else of value out of my pockets and let the turtle have my damned pants. As soon as they slipped past my ankles the reptile sank into the murky depths of the Mighty Tit, as I had learned the Titabawassee River was called in these parts. I slipped a fresh pair of jeans out of my saddle bag and spied an old man walking through the gravel parking lot. “Hey, where did everybody go?” I asked, feeling a strong sense of abandonment. “Where they always go I suppose,” he replied. “And where might that be?” “How the hell should I know?” “Then how do you know they went where they always go?” “Makes sense don’t it?” There was an awkward silence as we came to an impasse in our conversation. My belly grumbled and I glanced down at my watch. It was three o’clock in the damned afternoon. How long had I been passed out on the riverbank. I realized I was pretty damned lucky there hadn’t been more than one turtle. In the mood for a nice steak I gambled and approached the old geezer one more time. “Hey, where’s the best place to get meat around here?” “You want Dick.” “Excuse me?” I asked after a very long pause. “You want to see Dick.” I stood there bewildered at the question and pondering all possible responses, none of which I wanted to result in me seeing the man’s penis and definitely not having it for lunch. Reading the expression on my face the old man said, “You damned fool, the man’s name is Dick, as in Dick’s Meat Market out on M Thirty.” “Ah, okay, sorry about that,” I apologized as he walked away mumbling. “Damned fool, why the fuck would he think I wanted to show him my dick,” he said, glancing back at me with pure contempt. It took a full three minutes to get the Sportster to fire up before I pulled out of the stone bar parking lot headed for the state road. A few miles down the road I saw the sign for the meat market and pulled into the parking lot, my mouth watering for a nice T-bone. The market was in a small strip mall with only two businesses and something else I wasn’t quite sure of. Dick’s Meat Market, You Can’t Beat Our Meat, read the hand painted sign showing a smiling cow and a smiling pig. I wasn’t sure why the animals destined for slaughter were so jovial, but hey, it wasn’t my sign. The second sign floored me. Unlimited Dicks, Where You Can Always Beat Your Meat with a caricature of what I could only imagine to be a large smiling clitoris riding a dildo with an even bigger smile. I guess they both had a hell of a lot more to smile about than the damned farm animals did. Of course I felt compelled to slip inside for a brief moment. As I started for the door on the right a man stormed out of the door on the left. I could only imagine this was Dick, of meat market fame and not Unlimited fame. “You plan on going in there?” “Well, I was going to go in there and check it out.” “Ain’t nothing to see in there but a bunch of dicks.” I resisted the urge to point out the irony of my seeing a Dick in the other place as well. I flashed him a neighborly smile and stepped into someplace beyond my wildest imagination. There were literally dicks everywhere. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones and one Oh My God I don’t want to ever meet the woman who needs that one. “Can I help you?” a gorgeous young woman asked from behind the counter and I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here. What could I say, no I’m just looking? Hell no I couldn’t say that, even it if was the truth. “Are you looking for something for yourself?” she asked?” Again, I was at a complete loss for words. But then, I realized that silence was worse than an answer. I felt like saying, I’m looking for something that will ream my ass out so big I can carry a bowling ball in my anus. Except I knew that she would point me toward that huge scary one in the package labeled Dongzilla. “Sorry, I must have walked in the wrong door by mistake, I’m not from around here,” I squeaked. “Oh, you wanted the other Dick. I love the other Dick’s too,” she confessed. “Is that so?” was the only thing I could manage. “But I can’t have any of Dick’s Meat.” “I resisted the urge to let go of a schoolboy chuckle, “Why can’t you enjoy Dick’s?” “On account of the feud between Dick and Harry.” “So why are they mad at each other?” “Harry’s not so mad, it’s Dick who is pissed.” “And why is Dick pissed?” “On account of Harry giving Dick’s wife Darlene the clap.” “Oh so Harry was screwing around with Dick’s wife?” “Nope,” she grinned. “Hmmm then how on earth did he give Darlene the clap?” I asked, really wanting to hear this story. “From one of the rentals.” “Excuse me, the what?” I said, setting the little wind up dick I had been playing on the counter where it took off in a wobbly line spitting little white candies out of the top. “Rentals.” “I heard that, but exactly what is it you rent?” “Dicks of course.” “What? You mean to tell me that you actually rent these?” “Not all of them, just the special ones.” “Special ones?” “Those over there on that wall,” she pointed to a display of dicks of all shapes, colors and sizes. “What makes those so special?” ”They’re molded from real people, celebrities, sports figures, but mostly some of the better looking townies.” “Wow, who would have ever imagined Gary Coleman being that, uhm, large? And Vanilla Ice being that small, okay, not so surprised by Vanilla Ice. How did you manage to get these celebrities?” “Can you keep a secret?” “Sure. I can keep my mouth shut when it comes to dicks,” I responded. She missed my sarcastic entendre. “Most of the celebrities ain’t really the celebrities the box says they are. Harry just goes into the city and pays homeless guys to make molds.” “I see.” “Darlene rented Tommy Ferguson’s, his is one of the biggest, and our best rental.” “Tommy Ferguson?” “Yeah, he’s a local sports hero who made it kinda big, but then he got hurt.” “And she caught the clap from it?” “Yes, sir. And Dick swears up and down it’s because the thing wasn’t cleaned before it got re-rented.” “And wasn’t it cleaned?” “Why yes sir it was.” “How can you be sure of that?” “Because I personally give each and every dick a good rubdown with alcohol and moisturizing oils when they get turned back in. Dick is just mad because he knows Darlene must have caught the clap from something other than one of Harry’s rentals and he doesn’t want to admit it.” “Maybe Darlene liked the rental so much she wanted the real Tommy and he gave her the clap.” “Hey, I never thought of that, Tommy certainly does get his share of visitors out there on his daddy’s farm. You ought to be a detective mister.” I laughed, “Lucky guess.” “Maybe you ought to get yours up there on the wall,” she said, seductively eyeballing my crotch. “No, I don’t think the local ladies would be interested in the Dangerfield model.” “Oh, wow, what a cool name.” “Oh, no, that’s not my name. I was referring to Rodney Dangerfield,” I started, “You know, the comedian?” I finished after the deer in the headlights look she shot back at me. “Never heard of him.” I shrugged with nothing left to say. There was an awkward silence passing between us and she had quit giving my package the once over indicating I had totally blown her mood and probably even the slightest chance I stood with her. A noxious gas bubbled dangerously up from the pit of my writhing stomach. I darted outside with barely a second to spare and expelled the nastiest tasting burp I have ever experienced in my life. My eyes rained tears from the pain in my nostrils. The sudden vacancy left my gut feeling like a deflated punch ball and borborygmi reminded me of just how hungry I was. Time to set my sights on another Dick. The market was as cold as, well, as cold as a meat locker which felt rather good given my weakened condition and the kicking back of the Homebrew. It was a rather small place with only five or six aisles and a long meat counter. Dick was eyeballing me from the register so I did my best to avoid eye contact and moved through the aisles pretending to shop. “So?” his voice interrupted the gentle hum of the neon sign as he picked what I hoped were his pants out of his crack. “Excuse me?” A young woman, mid-twenties, walked passed trying to avoid eye contact, grabbed a shopping cart and quickly moved in the direction of the frozen food aisle. Delicate laughter exploded from the cooler containing the frozen peas. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Dick asked, again, fidgeting with his pants. “I wasn’t really looking for anything.” An elderly woman, late sixties, walked passed while avoiding eye contact. Her smile showed perfectly polished dentures. She was not able to contain her laughter any further than the cereal aisle. Dick remained unfettered as if nothing had happened. “I see. Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked. “Not that it is really any of your business, but yeah, I had a nice chuckle.” Just then a group of three young men, late teens early twenties, walked in dressed in camo. Obviously hunters. They made it about three feet into the store before they burst into uncontrollable laughter and fell all over themselves. “Alright boys, that’s about enough of that. Go about your business,” a voice boomed from the doorway, emanating from a very large specimen of the human race decked from head to toe in camo right up to his camo cowboy hat adorned with a badge. “Thank you sheriff,” Dick moused and shook his right leg as if trying to dislodge something. Maybe the boys were sticking together, it was kind of humid for a spring day. The sheriff tipped his hat and made his way down to the canned food section where he joined his tribe in raucous laughter. “Do you see?” “Do I see what?” “Why I hate that bastard Harry from next door. He did this to me.” “Sorry, I’m still at a loss here. Did what to you?” “Made me the laughing stock of not just the town but the whole damned tri-county area.” The three parties that had entered the store must have converged near the meat counter as the laughter had grown to a crescendo of operatic proportions in blends from falsetto to baritone. I felt a round of my own laughter growing in my belly and at this point I just had to ask. “So how on earth did Harry manage to get all these people to laugh at you, Dick?” An eerie hush descended upon the market, it seemed even the cooler fans took a break from their normal routine. I felt trapped in an E.F. Hutton commercial. Dick fidgeted as he knew what the silence meant. He leaned in closer to me. “It all started back in grade school. Harry and I were always competing against each other in everything and I ended up on the losing end more often than not. He made captain of the football team, and I barely made chess club. He was homecoming king and I was court jester. He ended up marrying the vision of chaste and purity, (Marilyn chambers real name) and I was stuck with Darlene, the town tramp.” “I see,” was the only response I could muster as I was distracted by the shuffling of feet of the encroaching patrons as they inched closer and closer to our position. “But I could live with all that, it was his practical jokes that finally pushed things too far.” “Please, do tell.” “In our younger days it was the usual, baby powder in the hair dryer, Ben-Gay in the underarm deodorant, cigarette loads and Crisco on the door knobs, that sort of stuff.” I chuckled a little, but it was old school stuff that had lost its charm over the years. “As we got older things progressively got worse. He hid a 12 point buck mount in the woods across from my tree stand. I was so excited, I had never shot a buck before so I called everyone and their brother and told them to get over to my place right away because I was throwing a party. My excitement was a lot shorter lived than my embarrassment.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“Oh it gets worse. He put laxative in my champagne at my wedding so I spent my honeymoon on the shitter while my new bride banged the bass player from the band.” “Oh my goodness, I can’t imagine,” I said, and I couldn’t.
The place had gotten so quiet one would literally have been able to hear a pin drop on a memory foam mattress. I sensed there was even more to the story.
Dick moved even closer until I had a Dick in my ear and said, “But the final straw was the latest of his bullshit pranks and I have finally had enough.” “My life will never be complete unless you tell me why.” “The bastard went too far, that’s what.” The look on my face encouraged him to elaborate and he moved in even closer until my ear was a steaming hot mess of Dick breath. The unobtrusive gathering of patrons reminded me of a jack in the box whose crank was poised one click away from “Pop.” And although I didn’t think it were humanly possible, Dick moved even closer to the point I thought he would penetrate my brain. “I was watching the internet one day and saw something that made me a little curious so I discreetly ordered one from Harry’s place. In retrospect I should have just ordered it off the internet and had it delivered to my home but I was trying to avoid a spectacle.” “You mean, Unlimited Dicks?” I questioned. He nodded and continued, “So, I ordered this device and picked it up from the shop a week later.” “You mean, from Unlimited Dicks?” “Yeah, yeah, from Unlimited Dicks, but get the perverted ideas out of your head, it weren’t no dick I ordered.” “We’ve already established you don’t like Dicks. So what was it?” “Something I thought might spice things up for Darlene and me. Are you aware of what a butt plug is?” I controlled my laughter because I absolutely had to see where this conversation was leading. “Yes, I have a limited but general knowledge of the product.” “This one here was a top of the line, vibrating model that was guaranteed to give a man the ultimate pleasure.” “Not my cup of tea, but sounds interesting. What’s wrong, did Harry tell people about your purchase?” “Oh no, of all of Harry’s shortcomings, lack of discretion is not one of them. Kind of his business code. Nope, Harry didn’t say a word, he didn’t have to.” “But then how does everyone seem to know?” I asked, alluding to the growing snickers from the peanut gallery. “I’m getting to that. Come on you ruthless bastards, you all have heard this story a dozen times over,” he said, addressing the shadows in the condiment aisle. “Bastards,” he again said under his breath. “Please continue, you have my undivided attention.” “Somehow Harry must have found out about my ordering the product and tampered with it.” “Tampered with it, how?” I had a full regimen of laughter stored inside that was screaming to explode forth. “Okay, you fuckers,” he said as one of the boys could no longer contain his laugher. “I already mentioned Harry loves practical jokes, well, I got the thing home and thought I’d try it out before mentioning it to Darlene, just in case I didn’t like it. So, I pulled the thing out of the package and it looked kind of big and I wasn’t so sure I could get it in there dry, being my first time and all. That’s when I noticed a little tube of lube in the bottom of the box so I squeezed copious amounts of the lubricant all over the device and twisted the base to turn it on. It took several tries but it finally slipped in.” He paused as the laughter from the aisles was starting to grow. “Please,” was all I could muster. “It was okay for the first ten minutes or so, but then it started to get really intense and that is when my troubles began. First I tried to turn it off but it was too far inside to twist the base so I tried to pull it out. It would not budge, that bastard Harry had replaced the lube with a super adhesive designed to adhere to skin. And the bastard used super strength, super long lasting batteries. I was in a panic. I ran a hot bath to try and loosed the adhesive but that only relaxed me. And then that’s when things got worse.” “They got worse? I can’t imagine how,” I said while trying to hide my smile. The peanut gallery had exploded into full on guffaws with no attempt at temperance which was driving my need to let loose. “Oh yeah, they got worse. I’m not sure if it was the hot bath or the over stimulation but some things got rock hard and others started to get loose.” “Get loose?” I tried to hide the panic in my voice. “Do I have to spell it out for you? My bowels, my bowels decided right then and there they were not enjoying the ride and wanted off the roller coaster.” The look of astonishment on my face made it obvious I had run out of responses. “After half an hour I could stand it no longer and knew I needed professional help but there was no way in hell I was calling 911. I got in my car and started the ten mile drive to the hospital. Sitting on the vibrating plug was not my best idea to date, but the proverbial wheels had already been set in motion. The combination of extreme arousal and the immediate need to evacuate forced my legs to stiffen which of course was connected to my foot which was on the gas pedal. I think I was doing about ninety when I rounded the bend on South Hoover, lost control and crashed into Old Man Jass’ pond.” “Were you hurt?” “Just my pride which was going to take a lot more abuse as the day wore on. Of course, Hugh, that’s Old Man Jass, was working his field and came running to see what had happened. And as Murphy would have it, Pastor Jenkins was out in front of the church across the road from the pond planting flowers. He came running as well. I was dazed from the airbag hitting me in the face so some details are foggy at this point. They managed to drag me out of the car and up onto the bank of the pond. When I came to I looked up at two bewildered faces and wondered if I had died. It was then that I realized I was flopping around on the grass like a fish out of water and moaning like a tabby cat in heat.” “At this point the reverend started screaming something about my having been possessed and ran back for the church to gather the items necessary for him to perform an exorcism. Once I had my wits about me again I struggled to my feet. Something must have happened during the accident that damaged the device from hell lodged in my rectum because it started to intermittently change from a somewhat tolerable low speed vibration to an outrageously fast wobble that cause me to dance the Jitterbug, the Macarena and the Limbo all at the same time.” Laughter broke out in the toiletries aisle where the three young men were re-enacting Dick’s plight. Ignoring their mirth at his expense he continued, “Now, I was jerking with spasms so violent that my pants dropped down around my ankles exposing my very angry erection which was now forcibly thrusting at Hugh Jass, seemingly with a mind of its own. The old man, in a panic, proceeded to stumble backwards getting tangled in my pants and tugging me down on top of him in the process. Pastor Jenkins returned to the scene, Bible in one hand, a chalice of holy water in the other and three crucifixes hanging around his neck. Hugh Jass was thrashing about trying to escape a penile implant and I was thrashing about because of, well you know why I was thrashing about. Pastor Jenkins saw this melee of flesh and let loose a scream befitting of a snared beast. His eyes flashed from me to Hugh and back to me again. He screamed something about us both being possessed and there were demons loose after his soul. He turned and ran smack dab into the ambulance that had come to my rescue.” “Hugh Jass had managed to free himself and was running for home just as fast as his ham hocks would carry him. He never once looked back. The paramedics quickly went to work on Pastor Jenkins and in the chaos I remembered one very important fact, I had to shit and I had a plug in my ass.” At this point his story was interrupted by hysterical laughter and the sounds of cans falling off the shelves. From the sounds I deduced more than one person was breathing into a paper sack trying not to hyperventilate. My ribs ached from the pain of hold back my laughter, but be damned, I was going to hear the rest of this damned story. No longer able to vocalize I simply made a gesture for him to continue.
“I was thrashing about so badly the paramedics thought I was having a seizure. Pastor Jenkins definitely had a broken leg and a head injury that had rendered him currently unconscious. They were unaware of my anal malady and began arguing over which of us was the worst off and needed immediate care as we both could not fit into the ambulance. A toss of a coin eventually led to Pastor Jenkins being the first to be loaded into the ambulance and they would come back and get me once they dropped him off and I would have to wait. About the time they were closing up the doors my little anal intruder decided to go on a fast wobble tour of my posterior. A moan escaped my lips that sounded like I was knocking on heaven’s door which caused the EMT’s to opt for an against protocol double occupancy of the ambulance. They put me in the back seat where the EMT would normally ride and they rode double up front.”
My subconscious let loose a yawn as the story was starting to take a blasé turn.
Without missing a beat he continued, “The seat was directly across from Pastor Jenkins and was metal which put pressure on the plug and in turn on my filled to capacity bowels which had become very irritated with me at that point. I had been using my hands to push myself up to relieve a little of the pressure but my arms grew weary and gave out on me just about the same time the plug decided to go into another high speed wobble. It was getting louder and stronger and I was suddenly afraid this device might actually explode in my ass. The loud banging against the steel seat jarred the pastor from his semi-comatose state and he was suddenly face to face with phallus that a full bottle of Viagra could not have produced. Faced with my own dilemma I was unaware he was conscious.”
“The pastor screamed, startled I screamed, the paramedic peered through the partition window, saw my predicament and he screamed which in turn startled the driver who then screamed and steered straight into a ditch. This tossed me up onto the pastor where once again I began thrashing wildly about and speaking in what the poor man thought was tongues. As soon as the paramedic opened the doors to check on us the pastor frantically freed himself from my thrusting assault and ran towards the woods without ever looking back.”
“Seems like quite the ordeal,” I commented. “I was sprawled out on all fours in the back of the ambulance, pants still down around my ankles. I shall narrate the conversation that ensued.” Paramedic one said, “What the fuck is that?” while pointing at my backside. Paramedic two said, “Is that what I think it is?” “What do you think it is?” “Sir, is there something stuck in your backside?” I mumbled something incoherent and gyrated my hips as we were in high speed wobble mode. “Was that a yes?” paramedic two asked. “Sir, would you like us to pull it out?” paramedic one asked which then caused a silent debate between the two of them which was going to have the honor. At this point he continued his story, “To make a long story even longer, they both had a go at trying to remove the device while waiting for the tow truck to pull the ambulance out of the ditch. Then, the tow truck driver had a go at it without success. At some point, after trying half a dozen different tools he suggested maybe hooking it up to the truck’s winch which I vehemently opposed.” Kind of lost in the story I asked, “So how long had you two been conjoined at this point?” “I’d say two or three hours at that point.”
“What happened next?” I prodded.
“On the way to the hospital our convoy, the tow truck driver refused to go about his business and had to know the outcome of my predicament, was joined by the county sheriff, a local constable, a state trooper and for some reason I have yet to explain, the mailman.”
“Had a lot of folks on your tail,” I quipped.
“As the paramedics were unloading the gurney with me on all fours out of the ambulance after we arrived at the hospital the tow truck driver looked at the mailman and said, “Bet you never had this kind of special delivery.” This caused the paramedics to crack up and they dropped the gurney which in turn did something to the device and instead of gentle vibration or a high speed wobble it kicked the thing into a pulsating piston making my anus look like a baby sucking on a pacifier.”
“The doctor arrived on scene and just suggested they pull the damned thing out. The paramedics shrugged and after a brief moment the doctor had a go at it with no luck. Now, all this extra activity had my innards churning and I knew I was going to blow out of one orifice or the other. Again, I will narrate the sequence of events.”
“Son, is that a butt plug stuck in your butt?” the doctor asked.
“Mmmmhmmmm,” was the best I could do.
At which time the Sheriff interjected, “Son, did someone do this to you? Who did this to you?”
“Sick bastards,” the state trooper added.
“Son, is it stuck?”
“How? With glue?” the doctor asked after tugging as hard as he could on the base of the device.
“Mmmmmhmmmm,” I vocalized louder.
“Nurse, get me some fingernail polish remover,” the doctor order and rolled me up into the doggy position. It dawned on me what he was about to do and with the gallery gathering at my backside I began to struggle.
“Hold him still sheriff,” the doctor said, taking the bottle of acetone from the nurse who also joined the others to witness the spectacle, all curious as to what this thing was that was stuck in my ass when they should have been much more concerned with what was about to come out.
“I’m trying Doc, but he’s a lot stronger that you’d imagine. Wayne, grab his other side,” the sheriff instructed the constable.
“Need us to do anything,” Rusty, the tow truck driver asked.
“Grab his damned ankles and keep him up on his knees so the doc can get at him.”
At some point the small market had begun to really fill up with patrons, most of who had called a friend and had this whole conversation on speaker phone. Place sounded like the set of a Carol Burnett show during a Tim Conway skit.
“I could see camera flashes reflecting off the steel frame of the gurney and my heart sunk to new lows. I knew this was going to be on YouTube, MeTube, TheirTube, and every other internet site known to humankind. By now there were at least a dozen onlookers, probably more. The Anal Avenger was pumping and full speed and I was on the brink of death. I felt a cool liquid running down my legs and hoped it wasn’t coming from me. And then I heard those two dreaded words, “It’s loosening,” and I tried to warn them.”
My gag reflex kicked in and I got a dose of Hillbilly Homebrew which made me gag even harder.
“I will save you all the gory details, just imagine one of those cheap practical joke Nuts in a Can with the spring snakes inside. Well that went on for a minute or two before the lawn sprinkler kicked in and I started shooting poop pellets across the room due to my anus conditioned to pump in and out from that damned butt plug.”
Someone screamed out through their laughter, “Poop pellets,” and it was more than I could stand and I dropped to my knees and finally over onto my back. My ribs ached and my lungs refused to work. I struggled to get to my feet and staggered for the door. Turning back I said, “Well I can certainly see why you hate Harry, Dick.”
The sun was beating down pretty hard for a spring day, but then again, Michigan was known for one being able to experience all four seasons in one day. I had put about a hundred extra miles on my keister since the debacle of Dick’s due to a dozen or so orange barrel detours so I was getting pretty parched. I found myself daydreaming of Hillbilly Homebrew and suddenly had an unnerving craving for the toxic concoction. Small handmade signs started leading me in.
If you like ice cream . . .
If you like bowling . . .
If you like titties and beer . . .
You can find it all here at Lickety Split.
Again, against my better judgment I started slowing down.
The Lickety Split came into view about a mile down the road. It was an ice cream parlor, bowling alley, bar, Showbar Extravaganza! and daycare center. The sign extended the length of the long building and had a half-naked woman riding a banana, rodeo style with two big X’s over her nipples, indicating strikes I assumed. There were two huge bowling balls situated rather suggestively at the tail end of the bucking banana. Several signs across the street reminded me I was in God Fearing country and was about to commit blasphemy. But against my better judgment, I was compelled and as previously mentioned, parched. A sign above a little shack with a sliding screen window said, “Our soda’s have lids, our servers don’t.” I moseyed up to the ice cream stand wondering what in the hell that meant and was met by a topless woman who must have been Buck Brown’s muse. Saggy, wrinkled and hanging in my hot fudge sundae, and yet, I just had to look. Nice piercing,” I commented on her unique nipple jewelry, the numeral seven in sterling silver with two black bowling balls in either side.
She wiped nut crumbles from her cleavage, which went directly into my sundae and replied, “Oh thank you, that’s my stage name.”
“Stage name?” I queried as my mind began drawing mental images of something I did not want to see. “Well, yeah, honey, I’m one of the stars of the show next door in the big house.” “I see. Pretty unique stage name I must say.” “My twin sister is the other half.” “Twins?” “Isn’t that every man’s fantasy? Twin sisters?” “I suppose in some context in might be. So, what is your sister’s stage name?” “I’ll let that be a surprise. Finish your ice cream and head on over, you can meet my sister, she’s bartending right now, but we go on in another 10 minutes.” “Go on?” “On stage, haven’t you been listening?” “I heard you, but it looks like I am the only one here,” I said, scanning the empty parking lot. “Show business is in our blood, we do our act even if there’s no one here.” She smiled and disappeared while I sat picking nut crumbles out of my ice cream and flicking them into the bushes. I chewed several spoonful’s of vanilla ice cream and hoped it was just a few nut crumbles I missed. It was the hairy bite of what I thought was a cherry that had me practicing my jump shot on the waste can. A beer was definitely in order now and my curiosity wouldn’t let me leave without at least meeting the sister. And who was I trying to kid, I was my destiny to stay for the entire show. “Well hey there honey, what can I get you,” the woman from the ice cream stand asked, sans the number seven nipple rings. “You must be the sister. I’ll have a draft, please,” I said. “Why, how did you know I have a sister?” she asked coyly, knowing full well what the answer was already. Again, I couldn’t help staring at her nakedness even though her breasts looked like they could pull double duty as the bowling pins. I noticed that she didn’t have a nice piece of jewelry dangling from her kiwi sized nipple. Yes, you’ve already guessed it, against my better judgment, I had to ask. “So what is your stage name?” I asked, giving her nipples a glance to indicate I noticed the lack of bangles. “Ten, of course. Here I’ll show you,” she said, climbing up onto the bar in front of me despite my frantic gesture of declination. Her bones and joints sounded like an overzealous popcorn popper as she clambered upon to the bar onto her belly first, then her knees and finally after several wheezing breaths, up to the standing position. She held up the universal gesture and I gladly gave her the minute she was asking for. Hell, take ten, twenty I wanted to scream out. She stood above me on the bar in a G-string that I had absolutely no desire to see the back of and writhed as seductively as Rosie O’Donnell trying to dislodge a camel toe wedgie. From this vantage point it was obviously that this woman had spent more time outside in the sun than George Hamilton. Her skin was the color and consistency of a homemade kiwi fruit roll-up. “Are you ready to see why they call me Ten, sweetie?” she asked. And before I could say not only no, but hell no, the G-string came off and a dozen or so small silver hoop earrings dropped down onto the bar. At first I thought she had dropped a dime on me, a handful in fact. Then I realized these were piercings, and they were touching the bar! Her hooha looked like silly putty that had been left on the dashboard of a car during the dog days of summer. I swear I saw the Sunday Funnies version of Charlie Brown’s face in one of her labia flaps. “Well, what do you think so far?” Ten asked. I was speechless, mainly because I was trying to not to spew all over her. “Hey, you started without me!” Seven pouted on her way into the bar from the bowling area where, from the smell of it, also worked in the shoe counter. And then it dawned on me, that may have been Ten I was smelling and I shuddered. “I was just giving him a preview,” Ten smiled, took my hand as I helped her down from the bar. We made our way, more correctly, I was dragged from the bar to the dance stage which was (what?). The groping that ensued on our little trek made me gain a new appreciation as to why Taylor Swift felt so violated. “Oh, honey, this is about to get nasty,” I heard a voice over my shoulder say and when I turned around to locate where this voice was coming from I was assaulted in the face by a hairdo that would have been the envy of Aevin Dugas. But turned out to be I was just in a beaver of a Nubian goddess. I could feel something wet leaking down my chest and wanted nothing more than to escape. My beard now smelled of cocoa butter and was glistening under the disco ball reflecting off the mirrors surrounding the stage. “You can pay attention to me later, sugar, turn around and watch this can’t miss show,” her voice boomed down from about 4 feet above me although it was too dark to see the person whom it emanated from but I was certain she would tower over me. “You ready?” Seven asked, flopping her set of bowling pins up onto the tip rail to my right.
Suddenly there was this God-awful noise in front of me and when I turned to look I immediately had full understanding of the term Shock and Awe. I tried to look away, really I did, but my brain just wouldn’t let me. It had to see this train wreck literally unfold before my very eyes. Ten had started to drop down into the splits and things were happening to her body that I was certain would end up killing her. Seven was providing her with a very enthusiastic drum roll that sounded as if someone were slapping giant Jell-O filled water balloons.
“Replacement hips,” Ten commented in response to the astonishment painted on my face.
Ten was about three quarters of the way down when Seven reached over and gave the first piercing a good whack and set a human Newton’s Cradle in motion. Not even Peter witnessing Jesus walking on the Sea of Galilee could have looked as flabbergasted as I did at that moment. And like a Pavlovian dog I just sat there, eyes following the little silver rings as they swayed back and forth in rhythm while salivating.
“And now for the grand finale,” Seven said while fanning her arm like a magician’s assistant and it was going to be pure magic if Ten was able to get back to her feet again.
Ten landed flat on the bar with a sound that I would only be able to recreate with a plunger and a greasy bicycle chain. I was not relishing the sound she would make if and when she ever got back up.
“There, now you have witnessed the infamous Seven-Ten Split,” Ten commented while wiping herself down with a dirty bar rag.
I know, at this point I should have kept my mouth shut, but if you haven’t learned by now, I just don’t have that kind of discipline or self-control. “Wasn’t that just a Ten Split?” I asked without thinking. Both women just stared back at me with their hazy gray eyes, Ten, still in the splits, Seven finger-tapping her fleshy bongos. Then they both broke into smiles. “Guess you have to show him,” Ten said. “We used to do that as a team, but I had little mishap a couple of year ago. A kind of entanglement shall we say,” Seven explained while scooting even closer to me. She walked up to my seat at the rail and before I could object or make a break for it, she dropped her panties and showed me what I can only describe as her lady parts looking as though they had been used as a cat’s scratching post. Barely able to contain my urge to vomit I simply nodded my head and hoped she’s pull up her panties and put sea anemone away. “I see,” was the only words that would come out of my mouth. “She tried something new for a fancy pants city boy who came in here one night and she put on fishnet stockings. I told her I didn’t think it was such a good idea, but I just wasn’t too sure myself why I thought that way,” Ten explained. “Half way down to the floor my piercings got caught up in my fishnets and I was stuck. I might have been okay if it weren’t for the Queen Beever over there getting cocoa butter all over the stage before our act and my feet slipped and I shot straight down. Ripped every single piercing out and pretty much shredded my main attraction.” Seven continued talking but my attention had been hijacked by the hirsute dancer swinging around the pole I had recently been face first in. I didn’t have to stretch the imagination to deduce why she was called Queen Beever. The way she was bouncing across the stage in her high heels reminded me of watching Moochie Norris in the paint. And then I had a flash image of her hooha giving me a patented Freddie “Boom, Boom” Washington, “Hey, there,” as she strutted by. I was torn between laughing hysterically and spiraling into a deep, dark depression. I was completely awestruck and dumbfounded from the events of the past fifteen minutes. “So, cute little city boy, would you like to see the rest of our act in the privacy of our trailer out back?” Ten’s raspy voice rudely interrupted my crazy train of thought. Yes, folks, against my better judgement I shrugged and said, “Awe, what the hell!” It was the first time in my life I was able to pick up a seven-ten split.