By Mike Adams
There is a twist of fate hovering above the lives of those both mangy and wild. It is those two legged breeders who continue the shit dance inside the shifting circles of deformity and retardation. They come in packs, communities; watch for them. These rats crumble slowly around each other; decrepit are these monsters’ stability, yet they pose with such brutish vigor, like diseased trees, naked and erect, arms outstretched with degenerate boner lust, eating themselves from the inside out.
These crippled beasts teeter on the sharpest edge of simple death, dwelling underneath the same pissmal grey skies. Some of them jack off with banana peels, while the majority simply lingers within the stench, slobbering on the skin of their next meal. Some of you may digest this society that I am speaking to you about as a cult, but truth be told, it is more of a dung menagerie, looming within a poignant skanktamoneous oblivion. You can choose to ignore them, you can choose not to care, but no matter how furious the battle this abominable, spermicidal populous cannot be killed. Not by me, not by you!
In a place like this the day is best spent trying to forget about it, usually getting piss yourself drunk inside one of the local taverns. I preferred a little place downtown just off Locust Street called Fullerton’s Tavern America. A quiet little shotgun type bar, it’s a fine place to chase away the morning dew with cheap beer, and if your timing is right, a couple of dry pancakes to soak it all up.
Ol’ Gary Fullerton, the son-of-a-bitch who owned the goddamned place, opened somewhere around nine in the morning. Although, if Gary thought you were good shit, you could beat on the back door like a bad dog somewhere around eight. If he was already up and at it, he’d let you in early just to keep the neighbors from raising hell. You would think you really pissed him off because after a couple of knocks you could hear Gary shouting some shit like, “You cross-eyed son of a mother’s cunt.” This just before jerking the door off its hinges, standing in the doorway wearing nothing but his white boxer shorts and a pair of black dress socks pulled up around the fat of his calves. He never seemed to care once he realized that it was me beating his door down, but then again, I always tried to be respectful. I did my best not to abuse his generosity. I didn’t want that bastard to ever turn me away on a day when I really needed a morning drunk.
I. Gary Fullerton: The Diplomatic Alcoholic
Gary was the kind of guy who should have been mid-life by the time he was nineteen or twenty. All I ever saw that motherfucker eat was pork rinds with a bourbon chaser. He had a vile temper, but he was also a really good guy…a pillar of the community in most people’s eyes. The Tavern America served up some of the best food in town, and among other things, was a key sponsor for just about everything from little league to the special olympics. Gary ran a pretty tight ship, and did a good amount of business because of it. He kept all of the typical bar bullshit that usually breeds in that type of place to a minumum. Anytime some asshole decided to get belligerent in front of Gary’s respectable lunch crowd, his face would turn devil red, and yet, he always handled the situation very diplomaticly. Most of the time he’d just politely and quietly ask the asshole to leave, and if they didn’t leave on their own, Gary would personally walk them to the door with his arm wrapped firmly around their necks as if he was walking with an old friend. Usually, the other customers were completely oblivious to what was going on. Gary was just that fucking good at asshole removal, but for those of us who did know, we knew that through Gary’s red faced, diplomatic smile that he was whispering some mafia noise like, “Pull that type of shit in here again and I’ll have you butchered and bronzed cocksucker”. Once Gary got the asshole outside, he’d usually end it by saying something like, “Come on by later tonight and we’ll discuss your manners son.” Some nights the asshole would show. Some nights he wouldn’t. Those who didn’t come around for a while had likely sobered up, realized how much of an asshole they had been, and made the wise decision to put some distance between them and the Tavern America for awhile. Those assholes who showed up later to discuss their manners with Gary usually wound up getting a sawed off mop handle smashed across their face. I mean he’d nearly pull his arm out of socket giving them an old fashion nigger beatdown before choking them out and tossing them in the dumpster… “You little cocksucker. Consider yourself fucking barred cocksucker. If I see your little monkey fuck face in here again motherfucker, I’ll kill your fucking tits!”
I’ve always considered Gary a good friend of mine, and I’m relatively sure he thinks the same of me. He knows I can be trusted and most of the time that is a good enough quality to have in someone you call a friend. Now, even though Gary conducted himself with a certain political protocol around most of the town’s people, he wasn’t a saint by any stretch of the imagination.
Gary was a thoroughbred alcoholic, but one of the most stable of the breed. He could, and from what I’ve seen, he did drink liquor all night, every night…but aside from his words shifting more towards the vulgar, you could never tell he had been drinking. He was a true professional – “booze only, no fucking dope!”, he would say nearly every time I was around him. Gary was from the old school, one who adimantly damns the use of all illegal drugs because he believes they have nothing but a negative influence on young people. He blamed illegal drugs, or “fucking dope” as he often put it, for the degeneration of modern society…all with the exception of marijuana.
Gary didn’t believe marijuana should be illegal, but he always handled the subject with a certain predjudice and selective secrecy. Meaning, if you ever felt like discussing the politics surrounding the legalization or decriminalization of marijuana with him, you had to wait for him to initiate the conversation. In his mind, certain subject matter could easily compromise his upstanding community relations, as well as make him a target. So if Gary decided he could trust you with his ideas and opinions, he would always make it perfectly clear that everything he said or did after hours within the confines of the Tavern America or his upstairs apartment; everything, all of it was to be considered a solemn secret and taken to the grave.
Some nights, just after last call, Gary would walk around, giving a select few a round of free beer just to stick around after closing and help him clean up. Nothing difficult; just restocking the coolers, taking out a few bags of trash and depending on the night, maybe spot mopping a blood stain off the floor. There was usually no more than thirty minutes worth of work before the lights were out and the doors locked. Afterwards, we’d follow Gary upstairs to his apartment which was conveniently located above the bar.
If you got high with Gary you could always count on being up there for hours, listening to his high speed rants and tales of his life told through an old stoner perspective. One night I heard him say, “I’ve never met a stoner rapist” followed shortly thereafter by, “Smoking pot never gave anybody AIDS.” This much was true. Ol’ Gary wore his convictions on his sleeve much like a wild animal gnashing its teeth seconds after its release from captivity. “A little booze, a little weed, but all that other shit will have you suckin’ cock and homeless.”
II. Gary Fullerton: The Pot Head Patriot
Stoner Gary was as much of a pseudo historian as he was actually paranoid. He would constantly use misinterpretations of history as the basis of his knowledge and beliefs in early America. There was a certain level of bug-eyed confidence that crawled out of the sockets of his mind as he waved us all in just a little closer right before whispering something like, “You know what? The foundation of this nation’s goddamned government was conceived by men just like us. You know, men who not only smoked marijuana, but grew it in abundance. Yes sir, our forefathers, hell they gave us something pretty goddamned good in the beginning. They gave us the right to carry guns. Hell, they even gave us the right to remain silent. This free country of ours was supposed to be a lot simpler, but now, well now all of these coon clit bureaucrats got their fuckin hands and ears in everything we do. They’ve got fucking surveillance positioned everywhere son. There are cameras everywhere from grocery store parking lots right down to the goddamned ladies room.”
Even though Gary was a bit of a conspiracy theorist, he was not entirely wrong… just somewhat skewed, but mostly just paranoid. One night after we all got really fucking high he told me that he believed that local officials like the Fire Marshall and Health Inspector were actually government operatives. He said, “I just know those ass gaskets are in there planting and rotating bugs every time they pull one of those goddamned surprise inspections.” I didn’t know what to think, or even what to say to him. I usually just agreed with him, most of the time saying something like, “You know what Gary, that’s entirely fucking possible man.” A comment like that had him on the prowl. I remember sitting at the bar one evening, and from out of nowhere my nerves were being rattled by what sounded like someone hurling pots and pans at a rat across the kitchen. To the others who had just been startled by the same chaos, to them, the noise probably sounded like a dishwasher had just busted his ass… but I knew what was really going on. Gary got all wrapped up in his paranoia and momentarily snapped, tearing his kitchen apart trying to find a bug.
It was always amusing to just sit back and listen to him carry on and on about “the downtrodden of uncivil society” and “hairy wrecking balls against the foundation” type of shit. I enjoyed antagonizing him, teetering on his exposed nerves, creating a human live wire. All I ever had to do was add some random footnote to one of his rants. I’d say something like, “Hey man, did you know that Thomas Edison was strung out on cocaine, morphine and even strychnine while trying to invent the light bulb?” Man! Old Gary’s eyes would blow straight through the top of his head. He’d get all pissed-the-fuck-off and shout, “Bull-fuckin-shit!”, jumping around like a seizure looking for a home. “Your history book is missin some fuckin’ pages son! There ain’t no way! There ain’t no goddamned fuckin way! I’ve been around a lot of dopers in my time and there aint no goddamned way any of those bastards could ever invent a fuckin light bulb!” To watch him come alive was like watching Tennessee Meat trying to mount a restless breed of Nubian goat. There was a lot of commotion and heavy breathing, but it all fell just a few inches short of getting inside of the fucking point. A man like Gary could never begin to fathom, much less believe in, the idea of one of the greatest inventions of all time having been conceived and manifested by a man under the influence of speed, pain killers, and rat poison. For guys like Gary, easily swallowed ideas and opinions were best. A man like him needed to hold on to a faith in the theory that all great minds and people produced all great things… and that all of the greatest people, with the greatest minds, did not, and would not ever use hard drugs to assist them in becoming great.
III. Sweet Mary Hell: Callaway Axe and the Ol’ Adderall Eye
Even the fuckin’ dumbest fuckin’ redneck knows that you cannot just walk onto some farmer’s property and steal his mule. No sir! There is some serious legwork that any good animal thief must endure before attempting a heist. In this case my brother, Brian, got mixed up with a psychotic gang of satanic Hispanics led by The Brothers Chavez. These guys didn’t have to do half the shit they did in order to make a living.
They owned two Mexican restaurants within a half mile of each other, both of them packed every fucking night. Of course, these fucking spics couldn’t do anything on the up and up… they got fuckin’ bored. The entire fuckin’ gang was more vicious than any wild fucking animal… even a goddamned rabid elchupacabra would tuck tail and haul ass after being beat with a ball bat wrapped in bloody rags soaked in turpentine, but these motherfuckers.
One night after a fuck load of tequila and a chimichanga chaser, that dumb fuck brother of mine makes friends with these guys. After they shacked him up in the Valley Court Trailer Park, got him cranked out of his fuckin’ mind, promised him a piñata, and let him bang some skanky little gutter whores to the Tijuana Brass… That fucker promised them a mule.
So there we were… Planning to steal a donkey for these bendechos, a task that had to be handled with kid gloves, because of course, not just any four legged ass would do. It goes without saying, but if we fucked up and stole a donkey that didn’t meet the spics’ specifications, we would run the risk of not selling the goddamned thing. Then we’d be stuck holding a borrowed mule, so to speak.
To do a job like this right, you have to first locate some prospects, photograph them without being captured or killed, and then present them to the prospective buyer, allowing them to pick from a photo lineup. A good ol’ fashion donkey heist is a two man job. Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. Add more people than that to your crew, and not only do you cut into your profits, but your odds of getting caught increase well beyond the largest risk involved. You’re going to need a digital camera. Not one of those easy share pieces of shit either… you want to store your photos on a memory card, not directly onto your camera. This way you can get rid of the evidence that you took any fucking pictures of a dumbass donkey. You’re also going to need some heavy, someone like my crazy-ass brother, to feed the beast handfuls of shredded carrots while holding a loaded fucking pistol pressed firmly against its head. The carrots are usually enough to keep a donkey still during a barnyard photo shoot… The pistol is a literal kill switch. No matter what, if the mule gets spooked and starts all his buckin’ and hee-hawin around, you’ve got no choice but to lay that fucker down with a single bullet to the brain.
Most of the time the carrots are enough to keep the beast calm, but you never really know how the animal will react until the second immediately following the first flash of the camera. You’ve always got to go prepared for the worst, just like anything involving probability and farm animals. Most times, the goddamned animal just stood there like it’s posing for a fuckin’ glamour shot, but every now and then, just as you’re crawlin’ around in a thick mix of mud and donkey shit, bitchin’ to your partner, saying something like, “Why am I always the one crawling around in this shit, taking snapshots of donkey dicks?” The donkey sneezed. There’s no buckin or hee-hawin’, no fury vicious enough to cripple either one of us, just a sneeze…and then it happened… BANG!
“Goddamn!” I shouted. “God-fucking-damn!” The blood filled my eyes. I was literally choking on donkey brains, and aside from blindness and throwing up the cerebral cortex of a jackass with an allergic reaction. The sound of the pistol had deafened me. After I rubbed the blood out of my eyes, I could see the look of terror on my brother’s face. His lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear a fucking thing. There was just a ringing in my ears, a tone like a test from the Emergency Broadcasting System reverberating inside of my fucking skull. Brian was waving a smoking gun around in my face as if he was attempting to pistol whip some kind of redneck sign language. I didn’t get it. I was disoriented. I felt like Helen Keller waking up from a nap in a fuckin’ slaughterhouse.
The two of us ran for dear life, leaving the headless ass behind. We jumped into the truck and kicked ass out of there, burning down the road at top speed without our headlights on.
“What the fuck just happened?” I asked my brother, trying to get some fucking clue as to what exactly provoked him to execute that goddamned mule.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind? You nearly killed me back there. I mean, what the fuck?”
“He fuckin made a move,” my brother replied.
“A move?” I shouted, “It fucking sneezed Brian!”
“All I know is the motherfucker tried to bite my motherfuckin’ hand off.”
“You fuckin’ watched the ‘Reservoir Dogs’ today didn’t you?” I asked. “Because something got you acting like motherfuckin’ Mr. Pink back there!”
“Mr. Blonde,” my brother replied.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You accused my behavior, which ultimately led to the death of that jackass, of being similar to that of Mr. Pink.”
“Yeah, Brian, you’re Mr. fucking Pink, and I’m Mr. fucking Grey!”
I wanted to kill him.
“There aint no Mr. Grey in Reservoir Dogs” my brother replied. “There’s a Mr. White, a Mr. Orange, Blue, Brown, and a Mr. Pink, played by Steve Buschemi, who fuckin’ laid it down badass. And last but not least, there is Mr. Blonde, who you have mistaken for Mr. Pink. There’s definitely no fucking Mr. Grey.”
“It’s a metaphor you fuckin’ ass clown!” I shouted. “I don’t give two fuckin’ flying shits if you’re Mr. Pink, Blonde, or Mr. Nigger Fucking Yellow. Take a good look at me. This mess, the one that has me covered in a blanket of jackass brains, is your mess. You need to get me to a fucking lake.”
“Look, I’m fuckin’ sorry” my brother shouted. “What was I suppose to do? As far as I’m concerned, that bitch hit the fuckin’ alarm button. It’s the donkey’s fault. He shouldn’t have hit my fuckin’ alarm button.”
“It fucking sneezed Brian!”
At this point, I was beyond pissed.
“That’s not a cause for alarm. The fact that I’m coughing up bloody jackass brains, now that, that’s a fuckin’ alarm button. Mr. Blonde my aching ass!”
“Fuck you! New fuckin’ rule, no more fucking gangster movies before we go to work. I mean it Brian. No more wise guy shit.”
“Look,” my brother said to me, trying to explain his position further. “I did what you told me to do. Right before we left your house you said, ‘Brian, no matter what, if the donkey cries, the donkey dies.’ Did you or did you not say those very fuckin’ words?”
“You’re the one who said that you fucking cum-quat” I shouted. “I told you if the donkey starts to kick and buck, he’s fucked! Nowhere in that statement could any sane person comprehend that as, ‘execute the fucking beast, if it fucking sneezes!’”
I shook my head.
“You know what? Fuck you man! The whole night is fucked and all you can do is complain about swallowing a few pieces of brain. We’ve got to get the brothers Chavez a donkey by next Tuesday or I don’t even know what’s going to happen to us.”
“To us? You know what, you’re right Brian. The entire night is fucked. In fact, this rudimentary idea of stealing a live fucking animal for these trailer park spics is just about the most fucked up mess you’ve ever gotten me into. So fuck me… fuck you! I’m not getting paid to eat the brains of your idiot mistakes just so these guys can have a circle jerk, or finger fuck farm animals!”
We had photos of two donkeys, one with its head and one without. It was the best we could do. Now, all my brother had left to do is show the Brothers Chavez what we had and hope the one we hadn’t killed was good enough. Then my brother and I could formulate a plan for safely obtaining the donkey without being arrested and charged with theft, animal cruelty, and now thanks to Michael Bessigano, perhaps even bestiality. The entire state of Indiana has been in an uproar since the story of Michael Bessigano hit the papers a few years ago.
Legislature passes bill outlawing bestiality
NIRPC LOOKS TO GET PAID ON TIME
Story (from Northwest Indiana Times)
April 13, 2007
INDIANAPOLIS | Legislation to outlaw sex with animals is on its way to the governor. The recent parole of a man convicted of sexually assaulting and killing a chicken in a Valparaiso motel room sparked the move to make bestiality a distinct crime in Indiana.
Michael Bessigano, 36, received a 10.5-year prison sentence after admitting he stole a farm chicken in May 2001 and took it to a U.S. 30 motel, where he killed the animal while having sex with it.
Bessigano had a history of arrests involving alleged abuse or theft of dogs, geese and a rooster, all of which helped prosecutors secure a maximum sentence for animal cruelty. But prosecutors couldn’t charge Bessigano with bestiality.
“For some reason in the recodification — and no one seems to know why — in 1977, the offense of bestiality was left off our criminal code,” said state Rep. Linda Lawson, D-Hammond.
Lawson sponsored House Bill 1387, which would make a sex act with an animal a misdemeanor punishable by up to a year behind bars and a maximum fine of $5,000. The crime becomes a felony punishable by up to three yeas in prison if the animal “suffers extreme pain or death.”
The House voted 85-0 Wednesday to accept minor changes made to the legislation by the Senate. It’s now up to Gov. Mitch Daniels to sign or veto the bill.
NIRPC bill advances
The Northwestern Indiana Regional Planning Commission is just a step away from ensuring it gets paid on time. The House voted 87-0 Thursday to agree with slight revisions the Senate made to House Bill 1595. The legislation, which still must be signed by the governor, would encourage Lake, LaPorte and Porter counties to pay their annual NIRPC dues from income taxes or riverboat casino cash — anything other than property taxes, which have been slow to arrive in recent years. “Anything that takes away real estate tax as a method of paying for things has got to be good to me,” state Rep. Ed Soliday, R-Valparaiso, said in encouraging colleagues to support the measure. If a county wants to stick with property taxes, it would have to document NIRPC’s levy on property tax bills, and NIRPC would be allowed to borrow to cover cash flow.
The legislation also would expand NIRPC’s executive board from eight to 11 members, giving each county an additional seat.
So there we were again… One morning in early March, my brother and I showed up in the alley behind the Tavern America. It was one hell of a chilly fucking morning. Both of us looked and smelled like we just killed an animal. We reeked of sudden death and the explosive discharge of fifty filthy assholes. We had been out all night long on some sort of a clandistine mission, scouring dimly lit farms far from the beaten path of the well postured, coherent citizens. Our mission was to find a farm with a well hung donkey residing within its confines. We were to steal the beast and then sell it to some wet-back at wholesale.
Drunk and covered in donkey shit, the two of us took turns beating on Gary’s back door. We really wanted to get in off the streets and wash up, have a few more beers and do our best to con Ol’ Gary into fixing us something to eat. But no matter how much we knocked, he wouldn’t answer. We were just about to give up when my brother spotted an old golf club in between a few pieces of rotted plywood and some concrete blocks. “Callaway,” he said swinging it like a lanatic at chunks of alley gravel. “I’ve heard of these. Pretty good clubs.”
My brother has never even played golf. I think the closest he ever got to the game was renting a cart after coming down from a four night tweaker binge and course cruising for doctors that he might be able to use as a narcotics connection.
“Let me see that goddamned thing,” I said, reaching out for opportunity to turn a silver moment into gold. I lifted the Callaway above my head and began to chop away at the back door like a volunteer fireman with a dull ax. The sound of the club ricocheting off the door was violent, and could probably be heard throughout every goddamned house in town. The brutality of it all got my brother wound up. He was jumping around, hissing and spitting, howling like an alley cat, throwing gravel, and even occasionally groping his crotch as he kicked the dumpster. It wasn’t long before we heard the torrential roars of Gary.
“Goddamn a crippled Christ to Hell!” He howled, declaring his insatiable need to stomp a hole in “queer-fudge” and “mutt-humpers”. That motherfucker was trampling full blast toward the door like a fully erect bull. When I heard Gary blazing full throttle down the stairs I began to question my judgment. Gary was shouting, “Who is it? Who’s there? What do you want?” All of this was followed by some babbling about not being open until nine o’ clock.
A good friend will do one of two things in a situation like this. They will either make an attempt to calm the nervous fat man by revealing themselves, and apologizing for fucking with him so early in the morning…or they will pause for a moment, get into character and push that bucket of lard right over the edge.
“This is the FBI” I shouted, in my deepest authoritative asshole cop voice. “We need to speak to Mr. Gary Fullerton.” My brother just stood there, staring at me in complete silence, but with a snydley shit eating grin. We stood as tight as they come. I knew that he knew what was next…
“Ahhh… Who’s asking?” Gary replied, his voice shaking, quivering like a timid little girl. Had I actually been a cop I would have immediately believed him to be guilty of whatever it was he was being accused of.
“Sir this is Special Agent Michaels with the Federal Bureau of Investigations”, forcing my tone into that of a pissed off Federal Agent who had been up for too many days tracking drug dealers and pornographers, in absolutely no mood to fuck around with some sleazy bar owner. “We need to question Mr. Fullerton about the exploitation and prostitution of mentally disabled, underage children.”
“Prostitution,” he screamed. “I ain’t been doin’ no prostitutin’. You got the wrong fuckin’ guy sir.”
“Listen motherfucker,” I shouted, “I’ll decide who’s been pimpin’ out ‘tards and teenagers. Not you! Now let us before we break down this motherfucking door!”
Gary started stuttering around, saying something about how he needed to comb his hair and put on some pants. I beat on the door with that old Calaway even harder, screaming, “Mr. Fullerton! Do not walk away from this door sir. By failing to cooperate with our investigation you are clearly incriminating yourself.”
“You got a search warrant?” Gary asked, his voice still shaking like a dog shitting peach seeds.
“I don’t need a fucking search warrant to ask questions Mr. Fullerton! But if you really want to play with our balls, we’ll get you a fucking warrant within the hour, and then come back here and wipe our asses with it before pulling this piece of shit bar apart. Hell, we’ll even put the word out through the local news that the FBI is now closely monitoring this goddamned shit eating dive and its patrons as suspected pedophiles. Do you want to fuck with us like that you miserable, cocksucking, baby raping, son of a bitch!??!”
“I ain’t got no children in here mister,” Gary cried out like a stuttering faggot who had just swallowed his tongue. “I aint got no whores, grown or otherwise man. I just need to get my pants.”
“Mr. Fullerton,” I shouted at him aggressively, almost maniacally. “Listen fuck face, my second in command and I now have a couple of 10mm Glock 20’s aimed directly at this door. You’re acting like a maniac sir and if you do not open this goddamned door, that is enough probable fucking cause for us to kick down this piece of shit with brute fucking force.”
“Jesus Mary cunt!” Gary shouted, paranoid to the point of lunacy. His apprehension toward my demands told me that he was likely holding a little weed. In Gary’s mind a drug charge, even a misdemeanor, was suicide. “I’ll open it. Give me a minute. I’ll open the goddamned door. Jesus sons of shit!”
“Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa,” I said as he fumbled around with a series of latches and locks, working to get the door open before it was sprayed by bullets. “I’m going to need you to unlock that door and open it very fucking sloooowly.”
“I told you I’m opening it!” He shouted back with fear clenched in between his teeth.
“Listen to me Mr. Fullerton. List-en…to…me. I’ve got an extremely anxious partner here who is ready to fire an entire round of bullets straight up your ass if need be. “I’ll rape you with this motherfucker, dead or alive!” my brother shouted. “So after you unlock the door, I’m going to need you to open it just far enough for you to slide those greasy paws of yours outside the door so we can see your fucking hands, and do it all very fucking slowly – Do you understand?”
“Sweet Mary hell,” Gary snapped back. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just calm down…please.”
After he unlocked and unbolted the door, Gary said “Ok, I’m gonna open it now.” He sounded like a hostage victim seconds from release, but almost certain he would be shot in the back once he made a run for it. As the door began to creep open, I reared back on the old Callaway. Gary’s fat hands slowly emerged from behind the door. “Is this ok?” Neither my brother or I said a word. I fired off a swing from the old Callaway, smashing the driver as hard as I could against the door, the part I estimated closest to his fat head. SSSSPRAAAAAANNNNNK!
What followed was the harsh shrieking of something not quite human and the rumble of a three hundred plus pound man being brought down by sheer terror. He sounded like a spooked nine-year-old girl at the end of a scary story being told during a slumber party. “Jeeezus shit!” He squealed like his vocal chords had been lubricated with Hot Damn and burnt fry oil. “You shot me. I think you shot me. You said you wouldn’t shoot… slooowly, I did slowly. Goddamn… Goddamn!” When I opened the door Gary was lying face down on the floor with his hands locked behind his head. He was wearing one flip-flop and a large pair of white boxer briefs with a six inch skid mark down the crack of his ass. “Gary you fucking choad,” my brother shouted. “It’s just us, fat boy. Get your ass up. Goddamn man. Are you fucking stoned or what?”
The look in Gary’s eyes strayed from terror to something that should have warned us to leave, but instead we decided to hang around. “Come on man. Get up,” I said. “We need a fucking beer and some pancakes.” Gary not only struggled to get himself off the floor, but also looked just about as pissed as I had ever seen him. “You fuckin’ snide, shit eating pukes.” He screamed at the top of his lungs, lunging at us with his fists in the air, ready to fight. I not only didn’t want to fight Gary, but I had no desire to go to the floor with a fat man in his underpants.
“You want to fight us with shit stained looms?” my brother shouted, throwing his fists up ready to return fire once Gary made a move. “You cracker jack shit eating fuck,” Gary screamed, jumping around like some hairy ass ape trained to guard the back door for three bananas day. “If the fuckin’ cops get called, I’ll do life.”
It was typical for Gary to yell random obscenities at me, threatening my life the next time I beat down his door. I did it often, but I could usually shut him up by making a comment about the jack off stains on the front of his underwear. “Do you wear the same drawers everyday, or are you really pettin’ the ol’ walrus for Jesus that damn much?” I would say to him. Guys like Gary Fullerton will go to their graves without ever admitting to something as ordinary as jacking off. He would say, “Hell no, I don’t need to do that. I’ve got women who do it for me.” It didn’t matter what you said, if you boldly confessed to spanking your meat three to four times a day, Gary would always deny, deny, deny. I would call him out by saying “Goddamnit Gary, you’re a fucking liar… every man whacks his sack.”
“Uhhnt-uh boy,” he’d reply, blathering and stuttering like a sixth grader being teased in the lunch line. “I ain’t no faggot son.”
“A faggot?” I’d say, “Listen dick ass, punchin the munchkin doesn’t make you a faggot. Maybe thumb fuckin your own asshole, but definitely not jerkin. And you know what jackass? Sometimes it’s just necessary, and you can eat my balls because your crusty ass looms are the same color as mine… yellow.” That was generally Gary’s cue to throw a cold beer on the bar, and head upstairs to put on some pants.
My brother didn’t hang around Gary’s as much and truth be told, the two of them didn’t really like each other. “You don’t want none of this shit stain,” my brother yelled watching him closely while Gary ravaged on, bouncing around the back room, swinging haymakers at absolutely nothing at all. The chaos was edging my brother closer to going in for the kill. I made every attempt to calm them down, but then I got thrown off for a minute because I spotted a collection of retard crayon art hanging on the wall. “What the fuck?” I thought to myself before reading a portion of text written inside a picture of a baseball playing cowboy riding a unicycle. It said, “the unhinged memoirs of a sick dog, sponsored by the Special Olympics.” I thought that sounded about right.
Copyright 2010 Mike Adams, MA Publishing. All Rights Reserved.