Thursday, December 23, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate Chapters 30-41 Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

*Chapter 30*
You have no idea where you’re going, and you don’t really give a shit. You just need to get away, to distance yourself from what just happened, what you just heard. You’re afraid that if you allow it to sink all the way in it will take you to a dark place from which you could never return.
For some reason, you are not a bit surprised to see that Oscar is still sitting in his van in the same spot where you left him. You walk over to the car and climb in the passenger side. He’s about a quarter of the way through a joint, and as soon as he catches a glimpse of your face he hands it over wordlessly.
After lighting a fresh one for himself he starts the engine and drives away, still not talking. It’s as if he somehow knows exactly what you need, because instead of taking you back to the house he goes straight to your favorite strip club. The two of you go inside and a grab a table right in front of the main stage.
You light a cigarette and stare off into space while Oscar goes to the bar. He comes back leading a parade of waitresses bearing food and strong drink. There’s hot wings, potato skins, pizza, and plenty of ranch dressing, plus two pitchers of beer, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and a bottle of champagne in bucket of ice.
Oscar expertly pours beer into two enormous and frosty cold mugs and sets one in front of you. Another waitress arrives with a tray full of empty shot glasses. Cracking open the bottle of Jack, Oscar drinks deeply and then dumps the rest over the tray of shot glasses until the bottle is empty. Through all of this, neither one of you has spoken a single word to each and you feel like you should at least thank him for doing all this just to try to cheer you up.
Before you have a chance to speak though, the generous dwarf throws the empty whiskey bottle at the closest wall, and it shatters loudly against the bricks. The music cuts off abruptly. Uh-oh, now he’s done it. No way are the bouncers going to put up with that shit. You’re about to get tossed out and you haven’t even touched your beer.
But Oscar doesn’t look too worried. He gives you a sly, conspiratorial wink, and then loudly claps his hands over his head. The music starts back up again, much louder than before, classic rock this time instead of the House music they’d been playing. The lights dim, and then you find yourself sitting in the middle of an extremely bright spotlight.
From behind stage emerges yet another parade of women. This time it’s the strippers instead of the wait staff. The entire day shift, eight girls, all of them completely nude of course.
They each down a shot of whiskey before surrounding you. Because it’s the day shift, in the middle of the week, you see a lot of stretch marks, cellulite, C-section scars, even a few needle tracks. You don’t mind.
The girls are all over you, pushing and shoving to get near enough to rub themselves all over your groin area. Then you notice that Oscar is among them. He’s lost his clothing as well, and he’s weaving in and out of the women, ding some sort of mad shuck and jive number. He pops the champagne and sprays you and the strippers down real good. The girls lap up the bubbly where it pools in your lap.
The whole scene is surreal, and so completely over-the-top and absurd that in spite of everything, you finally break down and crack a smile, you just can’t help it. Soon you’re laughing uncontrollably, and it feels good.
*Chapter 31*
Five or six hours later, Oscar finally speaks to you.
“How you feeling kid?”
“Oscar my friend, I am feeling no pain.”
And it’s true. The pain is still there of course, but you’ve managed to numb yourself quite nicely. This is partly due to the recent arrival of the night shift, the A-list strippers, and the dealer they brought with them.
Four Ecstasy pills and a couple grams of some good coke went a long way towards equalizing all the booze and giving you your second wind. The new girls are hot, this one Asian chick in particular is especially yummy, but you’re not feeling very horny. The most full figured (fat) gal from the day shift sucked you off while you were getting a private dance a few hours back. Still, you don’t want to appear rude, so you get a few lap dances from the Asian girl.
Oscar, in between lines of blow, gets lap dances from all of them. You realize that since the moment you first walked in here, you and Oscar have been the only new customers. After you managed to scare off the handful of regulars with that first big scene, no one else has showed up. You’d been too distracted to notice.
“Where the fuck is everybody?” you ask Oscar.
“Private party” he says, “I bought the whole place out for the night. Told the owner I’d double whatever he usually made on a week night, and gave him my platinum card. Nice, huh? I mean really, could it possibly get any better than this?”
He laughs loudly as he lights up yet another joint. You let the question bounce around inside your alcohol soaked and chemically altered brain. Could it get any better? Probably, yes. In fact you know it could, just not right now, at this moment. About the only thing that could make this party any better was…
“Chickenwing!” you yell out suddenly.
“You want more food?” asks Oscar. “We didn’t even finish the last basket of wings we ordered. I ended up giving them to that big bitch you got the private dance from, she said she was gonna take them home to her kids but I bet they were gone before she made it outta the parking lot. Whatever though, I’ll have them bring some more. I can’t eat any or I’m gonna puke my guts out, waaaay too much Whiskey…” he trails off.
“No,” you say, “we have to go and get Chickenwing. The person, not the food.” Dereck would love all this shit, it’s his idea of what Heaven would be like if such a place really existed. You realize you really miss the fat bastard. Or maybe it’s just the Ecstasy. Still…
Oscar asks, “Your tweaker friend with the fucked up arm? Isn’t he in rehab?” You might think that being a midget would make Oscar a little more sensitive to those who are different, but you would be wrong.
“Yeah, we have to go bust him out man!”
Oscar sees that you’re serious, and warms to the idea. This sort of illegal adventure is right up his alley,
“Wait here a minute, I gotta go find us a driver.”
*Chapter 32*
The Right Path Recovery Center was a rundown old warehouse that been converted into a drug and alcohol treatment facility a few years back. You and Chickenwing had stumbled onto the website for the place while researching area rehabilitation centers. At the time, you were both nearing the end of and especially long and nasty meth binge.
You had made a pact to get clean together and had chosen The Right Path because it was among the most inexpensive and the website promised “comfortable beds” and “gourmet meals.”
Of course, after the crystal was all gone and you had both finally passed out and slept for a full day and night, you had a good laugh about how stupid you had been for entertaining such a foolish notion. Pshh, rehab was for quitters. It’s not like you were addicts, just a couple of dudes who liked getting high you told each other, knowing full well how completely full of shit you both were.
Oscar rode beside you in the backseat of an aging BMW that belonged to Ginger, a cocktail waitress from the club that Oscar seemed especially fond of. In the passenger seat next to Ginger was Mai Lyn, the hot Asian dancer, whom you had somehow convinced to come along for the ride.
Ginger was a skinny little bag of bones who couldn’t have been an inch over five feet tall, with kinky red hair cut short and a generous sprinkling of freckles across her pretty face. Perhaps her size was the reason that Oscar was so smitten with her, and she seemed rather taken by the charismatic midget as well.
Mai Lynn was nothing less that the combined masturbatory fantasies of every man with an Asian fetish, a club you’ve been a member of since the tender age of twelve. Mai Lynn does not appear to be attracted to you at all now that you are no longer in the confines of the club, which leads you to believe that you may have drunkenly promised her some exorbitant amount of money for the pleasure of her company on this little excursion. A promise you have neither the means not the desire to keep.
Right now you have more important matters to tend to. How to get inside the place, locate Chickenwing, and then escape undetected. And you must do it all while shitfaced drunk and high as a kite to boot. No easy feat, but you’re a ninja, and your kung fu is strong.
*Chapter 33*
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
You’ve just finished telling Oscar your plan and now the dwarf is looking at you like you’ve just sprouted an extra head.
“That’ll never work” he continues, “this place is fucking huge and you think your drunk ass is gonna be able to sneak in there, find your friend, and get him out here without being caught? Seriously dude?” He shakes his head. “Might as well just go turn yourself into the cops and save everyone a lot of hassle…”
“I can do it” you say, suddenly nowhere near as certain as you were a moment ago. “Anyway, do you have a better idea wiseass?”
“Yes I do as a matter of fact. The direct approach. Ginger honey, you stay here, keep the car running. Mai Lynn, you come with me, I may need to use you for bait. Nothing clouds a man’s mind quite like a sexy Asian bitch, no offense doll.”
Mai Lynn shrugs to show there’s no hard feelings.
“And no offense to you either kid, but I think you should probably sit this one out. Stay here and keep Ginger company alright?”
“What?” You can’t believe what you’re hearing. “This whole fucking thing was my idea in the first place Oscar!” Oscar says, “Be that as it may, you look pretty goddamn scary with all those stitches in your face and all bruised up like you are, and we can’t have spooking the staff. Not to mention the fact that you’ve ingested enough booze and drugs to kill a large Rhino and can’t walk a straight line.”
“No, but he sure can snort one!” Ginger chimes in, giggling.
“So if you really wanna spring your buddy’s fat ass outta this place, then shut your hole, do what I tell you, and let the midget handle this. This type of shit is what I do. Well, this and make really good porno flicks.”
“Alright, shit, do what you gotta do I’ll chill here” you say. When Oscar gets like this, arguing becomes next to impossible. Besides, he’s right, you are completely fucked up.
Somehow, he appears to be almost sober and you have no doubt that when enters the building he’ll have rallied completely. How the fuck does he do that? It’s like he has super partying powers or some shit.
“Okay Mai Lynn, let’s go” says Oscar. The get out of the car and you get in the front seat. You notice that Oscar seems to have no problem walking a straight line, his back is ramrod-straight in determination. He’ll get Chickenwing out of there or die trying.
“Isn’t he great?” asks Ginger, and you have to agree.
Nothing to do now but wait. Thinking about straight lines makes you remember the vial of coke in the pocket of your jeans. You cut out a couple of big lines and you and Ginger toot up.
“Am I really that scary looking?” you ask her self consciously.
“Nah baby, you look okay” she replies in a soothing voice. She leans over and kisses your cheek, then your lips, and then her hands are in your lap, fumbling with your zipper.
*Chapter 34*
Miguel Perez was dreading another boring and seemingly endless night of manning the security desk. Maybe a couple of the drunks and/or druggies would get into a fistfight after lights out, that would provide a little excitement, give him something to tell Rosa about when he got home.
He wasn’t allowed to watch television or even read a book, not that Miguel was much of a reader, so he spent most nights just staring at the desk until it was time to walk around the building for his hourly security sweep, and trying somewhat successfully to stay awake.
The night was shaping up just like any other, until the two visitors showed up. I could have been the beginning of some hilarious dirty joke; a midget and an Asian hooker walk into a rehab clinic…
Of course, Miguel didn’t know for sure that she was a hooker but she sure was dressed like one. What if the little guy was her pimp? How funny would that be? All of a sudden his night was turning out to pretty interesting.
The midget and the beautiful Asian who may or not have been a hooker and her pimp didn’t actually walk into the rehab clinic, because the doors were locked after dark. The walked to the glass double doors and, seeing Miguel sitting behind the security desk, the midget rapped sharply on the door with a tiny fist.
Miguel stood up and walked to the door, then used a key from the enormous key ring hanging by his side to open the door.
“Can I help you?” he asked politely. The Asian was even better looking up close, stunning really, and Miguel found himself wishing that she really was a prostitute. He’d never been with an Oriental before, only Hispanics and a couple white girls, and he had always wanted to try a piece of the Asian persuasion.
The midget hesitated before answering, he was looking at Miguel very closely, almost like he was sizing him up. Finally he said, “Yeah, let me ask you something. Do you like to party?” Reaching into a coat pocket he pulled out a vial of white powder and a Ziploc bag nearly full of what could only be some seriously high-grade marijuana. The girl pulled down her halter top, exposing the most perfect set of C-cups that Miguel had ever seen.
Miguel did like to party. No, scratch that, he fucking loved to party. The problem was he love it a little too much. He had been clean and sober for almost a year and a half now, ever since he completed the program right here at The Right Path. Well, mostly anyway.
Rosa allowed him a six pack of Tecate a week and he had secretly smoked weed with his cousin Jorge on two occasions.
But cocaine had always been his drug of choice, and until now Miguel had been lucky enough to avoid coming face to face with his old nemesis/lover. Just the mere sight of the white powder in the vial (about two grams, he knew immediately) made his heart race. Hardly aware of what he was doing, Miguel stepped back and let them inside the building, locking the door behind them.
*Chapter 35*
Ginger was very good with her hands. She would have made a great masseuse, or perhaps a magician, because there was definitely some magic happening below the belt. Normally the copious amounts of alcohol, cocaine, and ecstasy would have rendered your trouser mouse all but null and void, but tonight you were on a roll.
First the pleasantly plump stripper gives you a hummer that beats any machine made by General Motors, and now this little redheaded waitress is waxing your carrot better than even you yourself could do.
You grab her blouse and pull it down, exposing a tiny pair of breasts with perky, pierced nipples. Her chest is sporting the same adorable scattering of freckles that decorates her heart-shaped face. You play with her little fun bags a bit but her A-cups don’t even make half a mouthful and you soon lose interest.
You slip a hand under her denim mini skirt and are delighted to discover she’s not wearing any panties. She’s super moist and as you slip an exploratory couple of fingers inside her it feels like your dipping them into some hot bath water.
She moans softly as you delve a little deeper. At the same time, you reach around her with your free hand and lean the seat back as far as it will go. Knowing what’s next, Ginger raises her hips off the seat and stops beating your meat so she can use both hands to pull up her skirt. You mount her, and together the two of you begin to test the car’s suspension.
*Chapter 36*
When the little bearded man told Miguel that he was looking for “Chickenwing” he knew immediately which resident he was referring to.
“Yeah, he’s here” he said, “I’ll take you to his room.”
“You the only security guy?” Oscar asked.
“What about doctors, or counselors?”
“Don’t worry” said Miguel, “The only other staff on duty is the live-in counselor Mr. Cullen, whose in his room passed out. He goes to bed early and sleeps like the dead. Plus the night nurse in the medical ward on the second floor. She’s either watching an old movie while she stuffs her face or she’s asleep on her cot, either way she won’t bother us, she never leaves medical. Follow me.”
Miguel led the down a series of long, dimly lit hallways, before stopping in front of a door. “This is it.”
Miguel opens the door without bothering to knock first. Inside the room, a large man lie in bed. The way the blanket is moving below his waist, he’s either vigorously scratching his genitalia or masturbating. His obvious embarrassment suggests the latter.
“Miguel?” he asks. “Is that you? What the fuck, I was almost asleep. Whatta ya want? Who is that with you? What’s…” He notices Mail Lynn and falls silent. The bedside lamp casts enough light on his face for the others to see him blush a deep red.
The enter the room and Miguel closes the door. “You got some visitors Chickenwing” he says.
“My fucking name is Derreck asshole!” says Derreck. “And I don’t know these people.”
“You know my friend” says Oscar, “he’s your friend too. He claims that you are just about the best friend he’s ever had. He wanted to break you outta here. I made him wait in the car cause he got real fucked up at the titty bar. I think his girlfriend dumped him or something today…”
“Hey” interrupts Miguel with a hungry, slightly desperate look in his eye, “I thought you said we were gonna party?”
“Sure, sure…” says Oscar. He pulls out the coke and the weed. “Knock yourself out kid. Cut us all out a nice line while I twist one.”
Miguel is already rolling a five dollar bill he’s taken out of his wallet. He grabs the vial and pours it out on the bedside table, loving the way the sparkles under the lamp light. That means it’s the good stuff.
Oscar hops up on the foot of the bed and makes himself comfortable. He produces a pack of Zig Zag rolling papers and goes to work rolling a joint while he continues talking to Chickenwing, who looks stunned and seems unable to take his eyes off Mai Lynn. She’s taken a seat in a desk chair across the room and if she’s aware of his intense scrutiny she gives no indication.
“My name is Oscar, and this is the lovely and leggy Mai Lynn. Miguel you already know.”
“Hi” says Mai Lynn.
“Nice to meetcha” says Chickenwing.
Miguel says nothing, because he’s halfway through snorting a long line of cocaine. He nods a greeting as he switches his makeshift straw to the other nostril. The other half of the line is gone in a flash. So is his eighteen months of quasi-sobriety.
Oscar says, “I’ve heard quite a bit about you Derreck.” The joint is ready and he fires it up.
“Tell me something. Why are you friends with that asshole anyway?”
*Chapter 37*
“He’s not an asshole!” says Derreck sternly. “Well alright, maybe he is, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s actually a pretty decent guy when he’s not acting like a total douche nozzle. He has a soft spot for animals and he always gives money to homeless people if he’s got it and they ask. But this one time when he was broke I saw him take a forty of malt liquor away from this one bum and when the guy tried to stop him he punched him in the face. Still, I’d rather be friends with a guy like that than someone who thinks they always have to be nice to me just because of this.”
He holds up his deformed arm and hand, in which he’s holding the joint. He takes a puff, coughs, then says, “That’s good smoke. Here ya go dragon lady.” He passes the joint to Mai Lynn. Her slender, beautiful fingers linger on his as she takes it and they make eye contact, sharing a moment until Derreck looks away bashfully.
“Yeah, I know what you mean dude” says Oscar, “I liked the kid from the first moment I met him. The son of a bitch can consume more booze and drugs than anyone I’ve ever met, and I once partied with Dr. Thompson.”
“It’s almost like he’s not human or something!” exclaims Derreck. “I’ve seen him eat half an ounce of good mushrooms in one night. The next morning he went to church with his parents! He was still trippin, he said that was the scariest thing he’d ever had to endure, that morning worship service, but no one ever knew a thing.”
Hopping down from the bed, Oscar goes over to the table to do a line. Reluctantly, Miguel relinquishes the straw. Oscar takes a blast up each side, then offers the straw to Chickenwing. “Toot sweet?” he asks.
“No thanks, I better not. They probably won’t kick me outta here for pot, but anything harder and I’ll get the boot for sure. It’s not worth it. Unless… You don’t have any Ice do you?”
“No, sorry, I’m afraid not” says Oscar. The way he says it he could be the waiter a restaurant apologizing because they’d run out of the special. They continue to swap stories about the exploits of their mutual friend. Mai Lynn and Miguel go about vacuuming the rest of the coke up their noses, making small talk in between lines. Another joint is rolled and passed around and is nearly gone when Oscar remembers why they’re there. “Let’s get outta here” he says.
*Chapter 38*
It feels like forever since Oscar and Mai Lynn left. You and Ginger have bee fucking almost the entire time and you’re beginning to lose interest. For some inexplicable reason you just can’t seem to cum. Your little soldier is still standing tall, hard as a granite slab, but every time you start to feel like you’re close to ejaculating the sensation fades away.
You would just give up, but thanks to the Ecstasy you’ve never been more horny in your life. You’ve tried nearly every imaginable position but you just can’t get your rocks off. Ginger is loving every second of it, you’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve gotten her off, the driver’s seat is soggy from her juices.
Finally, in desperation, you turn her around and slowly slide your cock into her ass. You’re not normally a huge fan of the backdoor lovin but the Vag doesn’t seem to be working for you at the moment so any port in a storm right?
She’s got a tight little bum, you have trouble getting all the way in. She arches her back and rocks her hips, synchronizing with your rhythm, her eyes are closed and she’s silently mouthing the same words or phrase over and over again, like some sort of ass-fucking mantra.
You grab a handful of her hair and thrust harder as you feel the elusive orgasm building up inside you. Closing your eyes you concentrate on finally reaching sweet release. You’re almost there. Closer. Closer. This is it. Here it comes…
“Hey man, how’s it going?” Chickenwing’s voice, ruining this beautiful moment, killing it. Like a bucket of water thrown over a single lit match.
But you’re past the point of no return. Joylessly, you explode inside her ass, blowing an enormous load that would fetch a handsome price at any sperm bank, if only they paid by volume and didn’t test for drugs.
You pull out quickly, and Ginger pulls her skirt down but not before everyone standing outside the car gets a glimpse of the river of semen that’s running out of her anus. The parking lot is very well lit, there’s no way they could have missed it.
*Chapter 39*
The morning after. Well, technically the afternoon after, but what the fuck ever. The temporary emotional paralysis, that comfortably numb emptiness, brought about by several thousand dollars worth of overpriced alcohol, reasonably priced drugs, and lap dances full of the inappropriate touching of women with self-esteem issues has worn off. You hurt all over more than anyplace else.
You long for the temporary escape of a bottle or bag, or even a needle, but you have no money, and there’s no way you can Oscar to foot the bill, not again. Not after last night. Shit, Oscar. You knew he was into that cocktail waitress, Ginger, and yet you fucked her anyway. Barebacked rear entry, knowing it was wrong and that you could have been caught in the act at any moment. And then you were caught, of course you were, and all you could do was grin sheepishly.
Chickenwing had slipped you a sly wink, but thankfully refrained from comment. No one had mentioned it. You’d stood around in the parking lot, shooting the shit and passing a joint around, you afraid to look Oscar in the eye, afraid you’d see him hurt and feeling betrayed.
That Mexican security guard had asked if you had any blow and after you gave him the half a gram or so left in the vial he’d snorted it all off the trunk of the BMW, never offering any to you or anyone else and never so much as a “thank you.” Then after he made sure that no one else was holding, that there was no more coke, he’d gone inside saying he had to make a phone call and never returned.
Who would have guessed that Chickenwing was actually serious about cleaning up this time? He’d smoke a little weed with you, but had refused to leave even after Oscar offered to score him some crystal.
Even more amazing, Mai Lynn had stayed behind with him, and she was looking at him in a way that said he was in for the best night of his life. They had walked back inside hand-in-hand, and neither one of them had bothered to look back.
Feeling ashamed and dirty, you’d told Oscar you had had enough for one night, and he agreed to call it a night. Ginger had driven the two of you back to the house and without saying a word you had gone inside and, falling into bed fully clothed, had passed out immediately.
*Chapter 40*
You must have slept for a long time, but you feel far from rested, like you were hit by a truck that then proceeded to back over you again, and again. The light shining in your windows goes through your eyelids and straight into your brain, like a pair of expertly sharpened daggers.
You mouth tastes like you’ve recently feasted on a meal made up entirely of fresh shit sandwiches washed down with warm stale beer. You’re lying in a congealed puddle of what you can only hope is your own vomit and you seem to have pissed yourself at some point, but it’s your hazy recollection of last night’s events, and not any of these other things, that bring on a wave of nausea too powerful to be ignored. You’re gonna puke.
You manage to crawl into the bathroom and spend a few minutes with your head hovering over the toilet bowl, praying to the god of porcelain as they say, dry heaving mostly. Still crawling, you get into the shower and turn on the water. The warm spray feels so nice it lulls you to sleep. You wake up shivering when the hot water runs out. After shutting off the water you wrap a towel around yourself and start to walk back to your room.
Your intention is to plop down into your bed and die, vomit puddle of questionable origin be damned, but the smell of food cooking in the kitchen is too tempting to ignore. Oscar is standing on his stool in front of the stove turning what looks like an enormous omelet. He’s nude.
“Hey kid,” he says when he notices you, “you look about like I feel. Grab a seat and have some chow dude.”
You sit down at the table and the towel around your waist comes open but you don’t bother wrapping it around you again. Oscar sets a plate in front of you, a king sized omelet full of bacon, cheese, mushrooms, onions, and peppers, plus hash browns and wheat toast on the side.
You start to tear into it and then stop yourself. “Hey Oscar, I’m sorry about last night,” you say, “that was a real dick move hooking up with Ginger like that. I knew you were into her, I don’t know why I insist on being a total douchebag.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” asks Oscar. “You think I’m pissed cause you banged some chick I got the hots for? I’m a porn star for fuck’s sake! You think shit like that bothers me? Is that why you got all weird on me last night? What a dumbass…” He shakes his head unbelievingly as he uses a spatula to plate the latest omelet. “Ginger baby!” he hollers, “Get your ass in here, you gotta hear this shit!”
Ginger comes into the kitchen wrapped loosely in a sheet with nothing underneath it but freckled skin and sits at the table across from you. Oscar puts a plate in front of her, sets two more plates on the table, then pours coffee for the three of you.
“Tell her what you told me!” he cries gleefully. “Tell her what you told me!”
Embarrassed now, you say nothing and concentrate on your food, but isn’t going to just leave it alone.
“Come on” he insists, “I wanna hear it again!”
You’re spared answering because just then the doorbell rings. Oscar goes to answer it, and a moment later Detective Blake is seated at the table, shoveling food like an Ethiopian at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
*Chapter 41*

If Detective Randy Blake thinks it unusual to find himself sharing a mid-afternoon breakfast with three degenerate drug dumpsters in various stages of undress, he keeps it to himself. His sole focus is the food, and his plate is empty in record time, even before yours and you’re barely chewing.
He looks haggard, worn out and worn down. Like a man carrying a very heavy burden. As he puts his plate and fork in the sink and helps himself to more coffee his movements are slow and sluggish, as if his limbs weighed a metric ton apiece.
Plopping heavily back down into his chair he lets out a half-hearted belch and then finally speaks. “Who do ya have to fuck to get some grass around here anyway? Don’t make me arrest you Oscar, not after you were kind enough to invite to breakfast.” The barest hint of a smile touches his lips, letting you all know he’s just bullshitting.
“You’ll never take me alive copper!” says Oscar in an old-timey gangster voice. Opening a drawer under the kitchen’s granite countertop he produces a large joint. “Puff on this while I go into my office and weigh you up a bag. Will half an ounce be enough to last you Officer Smokey?”
“That will do just fine” says the cop, lighting the joint with a gold Zippo. “How ya been?” he asks you.
“Kind of shitty” you answer honestly, “and you?”
“The same” he answers.
“What’s up?” you ask him. He looks like he really needs to talk to somebody.
“Another dead kid and still no leads…” he passes you the joint, “I’ve got city hall and the parents of all four victims all over my ass and I’ve got nothing. No witnesses. No suspects. Just four dead little kids, all of them poisoned, their corpses raped, mutilated, and left in dirty vacant lots around the city.”
“Eww, that’s gross!” cries Ginger, then flees from the room. Neither one of you pay her any mind.
“I’m sorry man” you say, and mean it. In spite of the fact that the two of you got off to a rough start, you now consider this man your friend. “I got a dead kid problem myself.” You can hardly believe those words just came out of your mouth, you weren’t planning on sharing that information. Maybe Blake wasn’t the only one who needed to talk. You find yourself telling the whole story as Oscar comes back into the room. This is the first he’s heard about the abortion and they both listen intently.
“Aw, that’s seriously fucked up!” says Oscar when you’ve finished. “I figured it was something like that…”
“Jesus, I’m sorry kid.” says Blake.
The conversation moves on to less serious things, the weather, real tits vs. implants, how bad the Raiders suck this year, etc. You’re feeling better thanks to the food, the smoke, and the company. You break out the bong and you and Oscar try to see who can take the biggest hit. You lose. Detective Blake declines to participate.
“I’m on duty and I’m already baked. I better go.” He stands up. “See ya. Oh yeah, I meant to tell you earlier kid, watch your back, a couple of the bikers made bail yesterday. They’re not the ones that wanted you dead, just some underlings whose charges weren’t serious, so you’ll probably be okay. I just thought you should know so you’ll keep an eye out for scumbags. Call me if ya need to.”

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 29, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

Walking up the stairs to Wal-Mart girl’s apartment you’re both nervous and excited. You realize you should have called first, you haven’t spoken to her since before all the crazy shit with the bikers went down. The day Chickenwing flew the coop to rehab. The day she told you she was pregnant and your life changed forever.
You suddenly realize that she may not even be home. After all, it’s the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday, most “normal” people are working at jobs they hate. Of course, this woman is anything but “normal.”
Your first knock is so light she would need dog ears or highly sophisticated spy equipment to hear it. Cursing yourself for a fool, a scared little boy trying desperately to grow up and be a man, you knock again. This time you overcompensate and it sounds like the Gestapo are at the door, intent on a brutal interrogation followed by a one-way train ride to the camps. You have the absurd urge to yell out, “Open the door, we have you surrounded! Resistance is futile!”
Thankfully, before you succumb to this childish whim, the door opens. Wal-Mart girl is standing there, looking fantastic in a dark blue sundress that falls to mid thigh. You catch a whiff of some floral scent, subtle and understated.
“Oh, it’s you…” she says, sounding surprised and a bit taken aback by your sudden appearance on her doorstep. “Who is it?” asks a voice from inside. In the living room behind her you notice there’s a man sitting on the couch, holding a Playstation controller in his hand. He’s young, early to mid twenties, scraggly brown hair in desperate need of washing falls down to his shoulders. Wearing an old Megadeth t-shirt, ripped and faded jeans, and combat boots. Your standard issue slacker/stoner dude.
“A friend” says Wal-Mart girl and leaves it at that. “Tony I think you should probably take off now, we need to talk.” “Ah, come on babe, I just leveled up…” Tony’s eyes never move away from the television and he makes no move to leave. “Get the fuck out!” she orders him, loud and forceful enough for Tony-boy to get the message. “Whatever. Call me later?” he throws the controller onto the couch, pouting, then slinks out the door, avoiding eye contact with you.
The familiar way he called her “babe” puts you off, and you can’t help wondering just what the hell is going on with them. You feel hurt and jealous. There’s an awkward silence that lingers long after Tony is down the stairs and gone.
All of a sudden it’s like you’re back in middle school, at the spring dance with your first real girlfriend, Veronica. You’re completely petrified, unable to even form a coherent thought, much less turn that thought into words. You seem to have temporarily lost the capacity for speech.
Wal-Mart girl breaks the silence at last. She does not invite you in for video games.
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what happened to you? You look like you got hit by a Mack truck.” After much throat clearing and a couple false starts you manage to say, “I was kidnapped and tortured by that crazy biker and his buddies, but I’m fine now.” She looks concerned and starts to reach out to you, then stops herself. You press on.
“Look, my life is a wreck. A totally fucked up mess, and it’s been like that for a long time now. I think I just stopped caring, and could never find a reason to start again. What I’m trying to say is, oh shit, what I’m trying to say is… this thing… this baby thing…” “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that” she says quickly, cutting you off mid-sentence, “I took care of it. I’m not pregnant anymore.”
You were about to tell her how you felt about her, that you had finally found a reason to care again and it was her and the child the two of you had made together, but her words stop you dead in your tracks. You feel like you’ve just been stabbed in the chest with an icicle. You can’t seem to catch your breath, and standing there at the top of those gray concrete steps, you feel some part of you, something deep inside, die a horrible death. “I gotta go” you gasp, then flee down the stairs as fast as you can.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Such a Lovely Place Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

Darkness comes quickly to the desert. On moment it’s day, the next it’s night, almost as if the sun is in a hurry to get to bed, exhausted after yet another long day of burning brightly and relentlessly scorching the landscape. The air had cooled rapidly, and the wind felt good in my hair as I drove down the lonely highway in my rented convertible. The car was filled with the comforting scent of cannabis, both the lingering aroma of the joint I’d just finished and the stronger smell of the still smoldering roach in the ashtray.
It had been nearly an hour since I’d passed another vehicle or seen any signs of civilization apart from the paved road I traveled on. I was beginning to believe I had inadvertently driven into a parallel world where I was the only living thing when I saw a shimmering light far up ahead, in the distance. I had been driving all day and the fatigue, coupled with the high-potency Mary Jane, made my head feel like it weighed a ton, and I seemed to be having trouble with my vision. I was grateful for a place to pull over at last. When I was close enough to see the sign that claimed the place was a hotel, I knew I had better stop for the night.
It may have called itself a hotel, but it looked like an old, Spanish style mission, a really big one. Adobe walls, tiled roof, even a bell tower. I parked near the front doors, noticing as I did so that there were no other cars in the unpaved lot. They must have a parking area around back somewhere, I thought.

As I got out of the car, stretching my legs, a beautiful woman opened the front door and stood in the doorway. Long dark hair, with a body that was so shapely I was instantly aroused. She was like some kind of desert angel, and all of a sudden I thought I might just have died and gone to Heaven.
Then the mission bell began to ring, and something in it’s tone was so undeniably sinister that I began to wonder if maybe I had it backwards and this wasn’t Heaven after all, but that other place people go to. But that’s just stupid, I told myself. I wasn’t in Heaven or Hell, I was just at some weird hotel in the middle of the Mojave desert.
The angel’s name was Maria. She rented me a room for the night for $60.00. With tax, my total came to $66.60, which had I been superstitious and Maria not been so normal and so lovely, might have alarmed me.
The hotel actually was an old Spanish mission, Maria told me as she led me down a series of long, meandering hallways to my room. It had been renovated to become what it was today, but except for running water and a phone system that only worked inside the building it was much the same as it had been when it was first built well over a hundred years ago. There was no central heating and air, and no electricity. The building was lit entirely with candles that sat in holders built into the walls.
Stopping in front of a pastel green door, Maria removed a candle from the pocket of the black apron she wore and lit it from the candle on the wall closest to her. “This will be your room” she said, “you will know it because of the color of the door, the rooms don’t have numbers.” Opening the door, she led the way inside. The room was small, just a twin-sized bed covered with an obviously handmade quilt, next to an antique looking roll top desk and straight-backed chair. An old rotary phone was on the desk. Another door on the opposite side of the small room presumably led to the bathroom.
“I will leave you now” said Maria. “If you wish to dine with us it is included in the price of the room but we do not serve the feast until very late. I can call you on the phone when it is time.”
“Sure, that would be great” I said, thinking, The Feast? Sounds good… “Is it possible to get something to snack on until then, perhaps something to drink?" “Yes” she replied, “Just dial a six and ask for whatever you like.” Maria handed me the candle and then left. I watched her go, thinking that what I’d really like would be for her to stay, and get naked instead. As she was closing the door I seemed to hear the sound of voices coming from further down the corridor, a sort of mad, giddy laughter, and words too faint to discern. Then the door closed and there was only silence.
It was surprisingly cool inside my room, probably due to the thickness of the adobe walls, and having started to come down off the reefer I was no longer feeling quite so tired. I decided I needed a drink more than a snack, so after setting my small suitcase on the floor and kicking off my shoes I lay back on the bed and reached for the old fashioned rotary phone. When I picked it up I heard a dial tone, but nothing happened when I dialed a six so I tried it again, and then again, and finally on the third try there was a ringing sound and a voice answered.
“Hello?” said the voice, a male with a strong Hispanic accent, “How can I help you Senor?” “Um, is Maria there?” I was hoping I could coax her back to my room on some pretense, the memory of her tight little body had steadfastly refused to go away, that perfect ass and that beautiful face. Such a lovely face… “No Senor, Maria is no here, this is El Capitan. How can I help you?” Damn. “I’d like a bottle of wine please Captain.” “No wine Senor, not since 1969 or so. You would like a bottle of our special Tequila yes? It will make you feel soooo niiiice.” “Sure” I said, “even better. And some salt and limes too please.” “No limes Senor. They no grow in the desert.” The line went dead, so I hung up the phone.
Almost immediately there was a knock at the door. I opened it, anxious to get a look at El Capitan, but there was no one there. On a tray in front of the door was some sort of clay jug and a single shot glass. As I picked up the tray I could hear that strange laughter coming from down the hall again.
I set the tray on the desk next to the phone and poured a shot. The Tequila was darkly colored and one whiff was enough to let me know it was the real deal. I tossed back the shot and was pleasantly surprised. It was the smoothest Tequila I had ever tasted, and left a warm, comforting glow in my stomach. I immediately felt more relaxed, so I poured another shot and drank it down too.
When it was gone I noticed there was something left at the bottom of the glass. When I looked closer I knew what it was but I couldn’t believe it. It was a piece of a Peyote button. Now, I have always liked to party just as much, and probably more, than the next guy. I was all for better living through chemistry.
But I didn’t appreciate being dosed without my knowledge or permission. I didn’t know how much Peyote was in the two shots of Tequila I had just consumed, but judging by how strange I was already feeling it was a whole hell of a lot.
I snatched up the phone to give The Captain a piece of my mind while I still had one to give, but the line was dead. Even though the door was closed, I heard that insane laughter again, sounding much closer this time. Then there was another knock at the door.
“What the fuck is going on around here?” I demanded, jerking open the door. I was expecting El Capitan but it was Maria standing there instead. She had taken off her apron and let down her hair, and she was holding a bucket of ice, the neck of a bottle sticking up over the top, and two crystal glasses.
“I was told you wanted some wine. I thought I would bring you this before El Capitan tried to give you some of his Tequila. That shit is full of Peyote, only a madman would drink it.” “It’s too late, I already drank some!” I said, pointing at the bottle accusingly, “What’s going to happen to me?” “Nothing you don’t want to happen” was her reply as she closed the door.
The stuff inside the bottle Maria had brought was not wine, or at least not exactly, but it was gloriously Peyote free. It was pink champagne. We each had a glass, and the next thing I knew we were pulling off each others clothes and Maria was pushing me down on the bed and climbing on top of me. For the very first time, I noticed the full length mirror on the ceiling above the bed and I gazed at our reflection while the lovely Maria rode me like I was Seabiscuit and she was trying to win the Kentucky Derby. Afterwards we lay together, sharing a cigarette in the slowly dying light of the candle.
“That was pretty incredible” I told her. “Not that I want you to leave, but I understand if you have to get back to work. Anyways I’m really starting to feel that stuff I drank. Soon I’ll be tripping balls and I doubt if I’ll be good company after that.”
For reasons I would find out later, she found this last remark hilarious. She laughed loudly, and I couldn’t help noticing that that there was a touch of hysterical madness in her laughter, not unlike the manic Hyenas down the hall. It might have just been the Peyote, but I don’t think so.
“I do have to go, but not because I have to work. There are no employees at the hotel, we are all just prisoners here, of our own device. Some of us choose to help out a little.” “No employees?” I asked, “What about The Captain?” “El Capitan? Sadly, he passed away several years ago. Too much Tequila.” She laughed again and this time there was no mistaking the lunacy in it. I laughed with her this time, knowing she had to be kidding me, I’d just talked to The Captain on the phone. She dressed quickly and blew me a kiss as she went out the door.
After she was gone I realized that I’d forgotten to ask her for another candle, and the one in the room was dangerously close to burning out. I picked up the phone to call and ask for more candles but instead of a dial tone all I heard was static that sounded disturbingly like millions of whispering voices, none of which had anything nice to say.
I hung up and decided to check the small dresser, maybe there would be a candle in one of the drawers. If not I could always steal one from the hallway, but for some reason the idea of leaving the room was a little frightening. The first two drawers were empty but in the third was a large black candle, a book of matches from the International House of Pancakes, and a Gideon’s bible.
Placing the candle on top of the dresser, I lit it with one of the matches and because I had nothing better to do I picked up the bible and opened it at random. I was expecting the usual thees and thou shalt nots, the words of Christ in red… but the pages were blank. All of the pages were blank I quickly realized as I flipped through the book.
As I neared the front I started to come upon words at last. But not printed scripture, hastily scrawled pen and pencil, random stuff not unlike what you’ll find on the restroom walls of every highway rest stop in America. “Jimmy wuz here!” “So was Richard!” “For a good time, call The Captain!” “Free rolling papers!” Those last two made me laugh a little. Inside the front cover, in purple ink, some anonymous poet had written four lines of verse:
“Anytime of year,
you can find it here.
What a nice surprise,
bring your alibis!”
I dug around in my suitcase until I found a pen then a lit a cigarette and smoked while I tried to think of what to write, finally settling on, “Four out of five voices in my head recommend this hotel!” Not very original but the best I could do under the circumstances. I was high as a kite and it was getting hard to concentrate on anything. I put the unusual bible back in the drawer, put my cigarette out in a half empty glass of champagne, and laid back on the bed.
Sometime later the phone woke me up. I felt like been asleep for hours but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. The black candle didn’t appear to have burned down at all. I was still undoubtedly out of my gourd but I felt a little more in control.
I answered the phone, hoping it would be Maria, or even El Capitan. I wasn’t pissed off at him for dosing me now that I was starting to really enjoy my buzz. Instead, a male voice I’d never heard before exclaimed brightly, “Wake up Sleepyhead, it’s time for the feast! You don’t want to be late do you? You’re the guest of honor!” “You said I was the guest of honor!” whined a shrill voice in the background. “We’re ALL the guests of honors!” screamed the first voice, without bothering to move the phone away from his mouth. “It’s really you!” he whispered into my still ringing ear. “I heard that!” screeched the second voice. “SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I’LL PUT THE GODDAMN LEECHES ON YOU!!”
I managed to avoid permanent hearing loss by holding the phone out at arms length. There was the sound of shattering glass in the background, the a muffled sobbing that quickly became uncontrollable giggling. “Anyway,” said the mystery caller in a normal conversational tone, “get dressed. Or undressed if you prefer, and get over to the dining hall pronto! The Master hates to be kept waiting!” There was a click and the line went dead. I still hadn’t said a word.
I didn’t know who had called me, or who “The Master” was, and I didn’t have a clue how to get to the dining hall. But I did know one thing, I was crazy high and tired of being fucked with. Obviously these freaks were indulging in a bit of fun at my expense. Well what the hell I thought, I can dig it. There were certainly worse things that could happen to me than having my chemically soaked brains fucked out by a beautiful Hispanic girl. Clearly, these people knew hot to have a feloniously good time, what was the harm in playing along?
Opening my suitcase, I took out my bathrobe and put it on over my boxer shorts. I grabbed the Tequila, my cigarettes and bag of weed, then tore out a couple of bible pages to roll with. I slipped on my shoes, then grabbed the black candle and left the room, no longer fearful. In fact I was feeling great. “I’m the guest of honor!” I yelled out loud to the empty hallway.
Finding the dining hall was as easy as following the smell of food down to the end of the long corridor. A pair of enormous double doors stood at eh entrance and swung inward as I approached. “Let the feast begin!” announced a commanding voice.
The dining hall was a large room, at the center of which was a long wooden table. The table was covered with gold and silver place settings and matching candelabras. Seated around this table were people dressed in medieval masquerade costumes. To the left of the table, a group of musicians, also in costume, sat motionless in straight-backed chairs.
All eyes were on me as I approached the only unoccupied seat. In the seat of the chair was a mask of the same animalistic style that everyone else was wearing. Mine was some sort of a bird, it looked like an eagle to me.
My chair was at the far end of the table. Straight across from me at the other end was a goat. To the goats right sat a dog, bear, fish, and cat. Along the other side was a deer, horse, frog, and fox. The musicians were all rabbits.
I put the mask on, tying it behind my head, and sat down. Apparently this was the signal for the band to begin playing because at that exact moment they came to life and struck up a lively tune. Instead of “Greensleaves” or something equally appropriate given the renaissance-like setting, I realized they were playing an instrumental version of “War Pigs” by Black Sabbath.
My memory of the next couple hours isn’t very good because this is when the Peyote kicked into overdrive and shit got real weird, real fast. All around the table crazy conversation raged while tuxedoed waiters wearing plain white masks brought food that for the most part went uneaten and drinks that were greedily consumed by all.
For awhile I discussed the merits of various sexual positions with the cat, doggystyle vs. missionary, etc. I recall she seemed quite fond of the 69 and wasn’t opposed to anal sex, she just didn’t particularly enjoy it, which didn’t stop her from offering. I politely declined, saying I was hallucinating just a little too much.
It was true too, some of the hor d'oeuvres seemed to be crawling around on their platters and out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw one of the musicians bash another’s brains in with a violin but when I turned my head they were playing normally and never missed a note of Inna Godda Davida.
The fish must have overheard my conversation with the cat because right as he was in the middle of telling the fox and the bear a long story about harvesting black market organs from undocumented day laborers, illegal aliens picked up from in front of various home improvement stores, he turned to her and asked if she would blow him under the table. Without a word, she disappeared beneath the tablecloth.
The fish tried to continue telling his story but was quickly distracted. He gasped and moaned, and I saw his eyes roll back in his head until only the whites were visible beneath his mask. The frog was busily cutting lines of coke on an empty serving platter so I moved over to the cats vacant seat and asked if I could join him. I thought maybe a little Bolivian marching powder would balance me out.
“But of course my good man!” said the frog. I recognized his voice as the one that had called to tell me it was time for the feast. “Enjoying the party?” he asked in between blasts. “We can’t have out guest of honor falling asleep from boredom now can we?”
“Not at all old man!” I said, mimicking his speech patterns, “I’m having a marvelous time, simply marvelous… Although I must confess I’m a bit overwhelmed by all this.”
“I have a confession to make as well” said the frog. “I’ve recently started luring homeless drifters into my home with the promise of a bath and a hot meal. After drugging them into unconsciousness I lock them in my soundproofed basement. On Saturday nights, for kicks, I hold them at gunpoint and force them to act out scenes from my favorite sitcoms of yesteryear! If you thought Full House was mildly amusing back in the nineties, just imagine if it had starred a bunch of half-starved winos begging you to spare their lives!”
He laughed wildly, banging his fist on the table and spilling several hundred dollars worth of cocaine onto the floor. I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to say to that but luckily I was spared trying to come up with a response, because at that moment the goat, who had up until now been as still and silent as a statue stood up and clapped his hands twice. The band stopped playing and everyone at the table was instantly silent. The cat emerged from beneath the table and wiped her lips and chin with a napkin. “It is time for the main course!” boomed the goat.
I remember thinking that he must have been wearing contact lenses, because his eyes glowed a bright, fiery red.
Upon hearing his words everyone began yelling and screaming and laughing and working themselves up into such a frenzy of excitement that it pulled me in and I added my own voice to the deafening roar and began to get excited myself. I don’t know why, main course or not I was nowhere near hungry but their insanity was contagious.
Two waiters appeared, carrying between them an enormous covered serving platter that I thought probably contained a turkey, or maybe a duck. The waiters set the covered dish down on the center of the table, and after receiving a nod from the goat removed the lid.
The “main course” was not a chicken or turkey or duck, or even a turducken. It wasn’t a honey-glazed ham and it was not a pot roast with carrots and potatoes. I don’t really know what the fuck it was but it looked like some sort of demon baby and it was still very much alive.
It had hoofs instead of feet, sharp pointed teeth, and horns. It was much bigger than any human baby I have ever seen. It was looking right at me with black eyes that were filled with such knowing malice I started to scream again but this time out of pure terror.
All around the table the other dinner guests were grabbing weapons. Some drew daggers from scabbards they wore on their belts, others wielded knives from the table. They jumped up onto the tabletop and attacked the beast, plunging their blades into it from every angle.
It should have been killed almost instantly but instead this only seemed to enrage the thing. It shrieked and lashed out with tiny claws that nevertheless tore off half the face of the woman wearing the deer mask who had been trying to lap up the thick red blood flowing from the things stab wounds. Her mask came off, and I recognized Maria.
I began to scream louder and the next thing I remember I was running towards the door. Then I was in the hallway, frantically trying to find my room, where I had stupidly left my car keys. But everything looked different that it had before, the passages seemed longer, and the colors of the doors different.
Even though I was pretty sure I had come straight down the hall from my room to the dining hall, in desperation I started turning corners at random and somehow I ended up at the front desk. A young man sat behind it, reading an old copy of Rolling Stone magazine. He looked surprisingly, thankfully, normal. Just a guy passing the time at his boring job.

“Please man, tell me what room I’m in so I can get my car keys and get the hell out of here! I have to get out of here!” I shouted. “Relax” said the night man, “we are programmed to receive. You can check out anytime you like, but you can NEVER leave.”

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate Chapter 28, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

You spend the next two days in a Vicodin-induced haze, lying on the couch in the living room, watching old movies, smoking grass, and greedily consuming the meals Oscar cooks for you. Little by little, you start to feel like yourself again. On the third day, you decide you’re ready to face Wal-Mart girl and tell her how you feel, that you want to be a family. You, her, and baby makes three.
The shitheap you’d driven to go and try to pay off the bikers went missing in action the same time you did, so Oscar agrees to drive you over to Karen’s apartment. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining brightly and there’s just the right amount of a breeze blowing to make the weather perfect.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the van you roll down your window and ask Oscar about something that’s been bugging you. “Hey man, how come you’re doing all this anyway? You really went out of your way to help me. Letting me stay at your place, getting me a job and then loaning me the two grand, and now taking time off of work to take care of my broke up ass. What gives Oscar?”
Oscar seems uncomfortable with your words, and he’s quiet for a good long while, seemingly trying to find the right words. You notice his usually rock steady hands tremble the tiniest bit as he lights a cigarette. “Look kid” he finally says, “I have almost a million and a half in the bank. I own my house outright, and six more nicer ones that I rent out. Money isn’t a problem for me, in other words. Money I got. What I don’t have is many real friends. Most people look at me like I’m some kind of freak who belongs in a sideshow somewhere. Hell, maybe I am, I dunno…
I started doing porn because I was a twenty-three year old virgin and I wasn’t sure I would ever get laid. Even the people who don’t look down on me, no pun intended, still treat me differently. But not you. And as long as that never changes we are friends you and I, and anything I have is yours. Now shut the fuck up a minute, and start thinking about what you’re going to say to the coke-snorting, shoplifting, gun-toting, Nymphomaniac who is currently carrying your demon spawn, cause we’re here. You want me to wait?” Oscar asks, as he pulls into a vacant parking spot. “No it’s cool” you say, “I’ll see you at the house later. Thanks man. For everything.”

Monday, November 29, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 27, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

“So can somebody tell me what the fuck happened? I mean, I know my side of the story, but how did we all end up here?” The three of you are sitting around Oscar’s kitchen table, cold bottles of Heineken in front of you, and the awkward and emotional moment from before safely behind you.

Oscar tells you about how he became suspicious when you never returned to the house and how, in desperation, he finally approached Detective Blake for help. “I guess I felt bad about hitting you, and about what happened to car, even though like I told ya before it wasn’t me that did it. Oscar here told me that you were a decent guy, deep down, and that you were in the process of getting your shit together.” The detective smiled. “Eventually he made me believe him. Anyway, how could I pass up the chance to finally nail those fucking scumbags?”
“Did you nail them?” asks Oscar. Leaning back in his chair he lights a join he’s pulled from his cigarette pack. He inhales deeply, then to your surprise he offers the joint to the cop. What’s even more surprising is that Blake takes an even bigger hit than Oscar had and then passes the joint to you before saying, “You bet your sawed-off ass I did. Nailed ‘em to the fucking wall, every last one of ‘em. Kidnapping, attempted murder, plus drug trafficking and a shitload of gun charges. It turns out that the safe in the bike shop was chock full of crystal meth and stolen firearms. Of course, I’m going to need you to testify amigo… Can I count on you?”
Normally, what the cop is asking you would go against all that you hold dear, but those biker thugs took great pleasure in torturing you and would surely have killed you over what amounted to nothing more than a stupid accident. “Yes sir,” you say, looking him dead in the eye, “completely.”
Oscar fills you in on the rest of the story while you smoke the rest of the joint. He tells you about how Detective Blake was able to lead most of the gang away, disguised as an Aztec Warrior, and how he was then able to take out Roach and Crowbar, using a flash bang grenade Blake had “borrowed” from the local SWAT team, and his own taser.
“I been dying to try that thing out on some poor bastard ever since I bought it” he said, pulling out and brandishing it at an invisible foe, “strongest one on the market, guaranteed to knock a Rhino flat on it’s ass!”
“What was up with the dude with the video camera in the car out front?” you ask. “Oh, he was just one of the cameramen from work, I paid him to stake out the place. Figured they might hold off on killing you if they thought there was an investigator or reporter snooping around. Cameras have a tendency to make people nervous.”
“Probably kept me from taking a bullet or two” said Detective Blake, “good call on having him follow me. You should have seen the way those bastards scattered when I pulled into the lot at the station. Between me and your camera guy, we were able to tell enough lies to finally get a warrant. I rounded up a few of the men from SWAT and we went back to the clubhouse and took ’em down. It was fucking beautiful I’m telling ya!”
“So what happens now?” you ask. “Now you heal up as best ya can and when it comes time for those jokers to go to trial I’ll let you know. If you have any problems before then, anyone tries to persuade you not to testify, you let me know. In the meantime, I have got to find the sick son of a bitch that’s running around killing kids. Business as usual.”
He finishes his beer in one long swallow. He’s clearly stoned, looking less like a hard ass now and more like a bear that’s recently awakened from hibernation. “Damn, that is some Primo shit Oscar. I’ll be calling you for a bag of that real soon. On the house of course. “Of course officer” says Oscar. He flips the cop a bird, grinning widely.
“Be seeing ya” says Detective Randy Blake, saver of your ass and your new buddy. He shakes hands with you both and then he’s out the door.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 26, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

Once again, Oscar’s connections in the adult film industry have proven useful to you. Besides the director who had given your first real job in nearly a year, and the costume designer who made Detective Blake’s Aztec Warrior colors, he also knew a doctor who was willing to make discreet house calls.
The old sawbones was in his mid seventies, and had the shaky hands and permanently bloodshot eyes of the alcoholic who long ago passed the point of no return. Aside from regularly testing Oscar and his co-workers for sexually transmitted diseases, he would occasionally be called on by certain less than reputable characters to discretely remove a bullet or stitch up a particularly nasty knife wound.
In spite of his shaky hands he does an excellent job of patching you up and cleaning your many cuts and abrasions. You’d suffered a severe concussion, a pair of cracked ribs; and a cut over your right eye required eleven stitches, ensuring that you would soon have a gnarly looking new scar to add to your collection. As if you weren’t already ugly enough. Four stitches took care of your split lip, and the rest of the damage was just scrapes and bruises. From head to toe, but you still feel extremely lucky to be alive.
Randy Blake shows up right as the old doctor was finishing up.“Thanks Doc” you say, meaning both thanks for fixing you up and for the bottle of Vicodin he’s just handed you. “Be careful with those” says the doctor. “In the shape you’re in if you take too many and pass out you might never wake up” he says, his tone of voice indicating he could really care less either way. Oscar hands him an envelope, presumably with cash inside, and without another word the drunken doc is gone, nodding curtly to the portly detective on his way out.
There is a long moment of awkward silence, no one knowing quite what to say, so you do what you always do in these types of situations, you make a bad joke. “If you’re here to break my nose again Detective, do me a huge favor and come back tomorrow okay?”
No one laughs, and realizing that you sound like an ungrateful asshole and acting on instinct, you cross the room and wrap your arms around the big cop, pulling him into a hug that makes your broken ribs scream. Caught off guard, Detective Blake returns the embrace very briefly and then steps back. To your complete and utter astonishment, he looks a little misty-eyed.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 25, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

It takes a moment for you to realize that the gunshots you just heard are most likely a good thing and not the sound of your impending doom. Understandable considering the fucked up condition you’re in.
“Sonuvabitch!” you hear someone yell, “It’s one of the fuckin Aztecs! Goddamn Spic shot out the front windows of the shop!”
“Let’s get the greasy fucker!” shouted someone else, “Keep your weapons put away until we’re out of sight of that dickhead with the camera outside! Roach, Crowbar, you guys keep an eye on our little friend in the chair, the rest of you mount up and let’s ride. Move it!”
You hear the sound of a bunch of Harleys firing up and taking off. Shit. Looks like the Calvary isn’t here to rescue you after all. What the fuck? Well, maybe someone else heard the shots and the cops are on their way.
Then again, in this neighborhood it’s more likely they would mind their own business, such business consisting of pimping or selling narcotics. You’re starting to slowly realize that you are going to die without ever seeing your firstborn child. What a shitty way to go.
Just then there’s a loud bang that makes your ears ring painfully and a flash of light so bright it penetrates the pitch black behind the tape over your eyes. Very slowly, the ringing in your ears subsides and then someone is unwrapping the layers of duct tape that bind you to the chair. Your eyes are uncovered, but they are so full of dried and crusted blood that you can’t see a damn thing.
“Who’s there?” you ask, your voice a dry croak that you barely recognize as your own. There’s no reply, but a few seconds later a splash of icy cold water hits you in the face, then another. Your vision clears, and standing in front of is Oscar, the midget porn star who may or may not have plowed your virgin ass while you were whacked out of your gourd on magic mushrooms. He’s smiling a little, holding a paper cone from a water cooler in each hand. You have never been happier to see someone in your entire life. Behind him, two men are laid out on the concrete floor of the garage, Roach and Crowbar presumably.
“Hiya kid!” says Oscar, “man, you look like some dead dogshit! Excuse me for a moment…” One of the guys on the floor has gotten up onto his hands and knees, groaning with the effort. Oscar drops the paper cups, and pulls a stun gun from a pocket then gives the guy an unhealthy blast to the back of the neck, then a zap to the genitals, for good measure.
“I’d much rather put a bullet in the back of their skulls, but I promised Blake there wouldn’t be any killing, and I’m a man of my word.”
Blake? As in Detective Blake, the man who’d broken your nose and then shit all over your car after tearing it apart? What the hell did he have to do with any of this, and how the fuck does Oscar know about him?
It’s all too much to try and wrap your bruised and battered head around at the moment, so you let it go for the moment, and Oscar continues.
“We gotta get the fuck outta Dodge my friend. I got the van outside, can you walk?”
“Hell yes” you say, and to your surprise it turns out to be true.

Friday, November 19, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 24, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

At first, while sitting behind his desk and listening to the bearded midget explain his plan to free his friend from the bloodthirsty outlaw biker gang, Detective Blake was skeptical, to say the least. But the more the little man talked the more he began to believe it was just crazy enough to work. The charismatic dwarf was nothing if not persuasive.
Essentially, the plan was for Blake, disguised as a member of a rival gang, to pull up in front of the clubhouse on a motorcycle borrowed from the police impound lot and shoot out a window or two before taking off, leading the bikers away from the clubhouse and giving the midget a chance to slip inside and free his pal in the process.
“You really think all of ‘em are gonna chase after me, just one guy?” Blake had asked incredulously. “Besides, I don’t look anything like a badass biker type.”
“Not yet you don’t,” said Oscar with an evil grin. “But I happen to know an excellent costume designer with a lot of free time on her hands. And no, I don’t think they’re going to leave my boy all by his lonesome, they’ll almost certainly post a guard or two to keep an eye on him. You just let me worry about that, I can handle whoever is inside the building.”
Something about the way he said this, an undercurrent of ice cold confidence in his tone, left the detective with the certainty that the dwarf was speaking the truth. He could, indeed, handle anyone left behind, but Blake hadn’t like the idea of a shitload of pissed off criminals using his ass for target practice, and said as much.
“Not to worry, I got a man posted outside with a camcorder, they won’t risk taking shots at you with my guy filming them, and they won’t shoot him because they think he’s a cop. Pretty funny considering that you really are a cop. Anyway, they’re crazy, not stupid. Just to be on the safe side though you’ll be wearing a Kevlar vest under your fake biker colors, and you’ll ride straight back here to the police station. My guy will follow you in his car, rolling tape all the way. By the time they figure out that they’ve been tricked, I’ll already have been in and out. We’ll meet up at my place later for a beer and you can take my friend’s statement, provided he’s in good enough shape to talk. You and your cop buddies can go back to the clubhouse with a warrant and bust the whole gang.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Blake had nodded. “Alright, let’s do it. But what if your boy ain’t there?” “Trust me, he’s there. I’m sure of it.”

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-three, copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-three, Thank You For Not Smoking
You're still alive, and you're still in the garage, but that's about all you know. Well that, and you're experiencing more pain than you'd previously believed was possible. Your eyes are covered by what feels like duct tape and your sense of time is all fucked up from being beaten unconscious so many times. You sitting in a chair of some kind, held to it with what is almost surely more of the same duct tape that's covering your eyes and your mouth. From time to time, someone would pull the tape off your mouth, more often than not taking a little skin in the process, and ask you questions; most of which you didn't know the answer to.
At first you tried to be brave, so when you were asked a question you couldn't answer like, "Why the fuck is that midget still hanging around outside our shop?" You just said whatever came into your head, such as, "Hell if I know, maybe he's got a thing for bikers. You know, a lot of people have wondered what it's like to get fucked by a dwarf. That doesn't make you gay. Just like accidentally taking another guy's load in your face doesn't make you gay. Or does it?"
But hearing the sound of your ribs cracking and the ringing in your ears from constant blows to the head with what could only be a crowbar or the business end of a tire iron can really dampen a man's spirits. So can pissing all over yourself when holding it in is no longer a viable option. The last time you'd blacked out, they woke you up by pouring gasoline all over you. Then someone walked around you, flicking a lighter but thankfully never actually lighting you up. Every time you heard the scrape of the flint you were sure that you were about to die a horrible death. Eventually you couldn't help it, you cried. They laughed.
At least they hadn't taped your ears closed as well. In between marathon beating sessions, you could hear the bikers talking to each other. Apparently, the guy who'd clubbed you over the head was the brother of the guy you'd given the unwanted facial to. The only reason you're still alive is because Oscar showed up asking questions before they had a chance to kill you . Unlike you, Oscar hadn't been stupid enough to come alone, and whoever was with him stayed in the car with a video camera. This was at least two days ago, maybe more, but from what you could gather, someone has been watching the place ever since. The two brothers still wanted you dead but the rest of the club didn't seem to be willing to risk it without knowing more, so they had to settle for taking turns beating you into oblivion. As long as they didn't beat him to death, the club didn't seem to have any problems with this, in fact a few of them took a few shots themselves, just for fun.
Now two of them are talking, and you hear one of them mention the police coming to the door earlier. He's not happy about this. "I say we sneak this fucker outta here after dark somehow and leave his body in a fuckin ditch somewhere." "Sure Fuckhead, and just how are we gonna do that when there's only one way out and it's being watched day and night, huh?" asks the other one. "Hell, I dunno... but we gotta do somethin, and we gotta do it now. That cop comes back with a warrant and we are totally fucked man. Holy shit, what was that?!" Gunshots. Coming from outside.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Part Twenty-two, copyright 2010 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-two, An Unholy Alliance
Detective Randy Blake, at just over three hundred pounds, was undeniably a large man. What most people wouldn't have guessed about him was that his heart was just as large as the rest of his parts. By all outward appearances he was a tough as nails cop with zero tolerance for bullshit and a short fuse. But appearances can be deceiving. Detective Blake was a man who cared.
So when the midget with the gray beard marched into his office demanding to know the whereabouts of his friend who'd been missing for two days, standing on a chair and shaking a finger in his face for emphasis, Randy couldn't help but feel a small twinge of guilt for whatever small part his actions may have played in the event's that had undoubtedly transpired. And he was sure that whatever else those events might have been, they were in no way pleasant for the missing man in question.
Sure, he'd told the guy that he hoped him and the biker killed each other, but that was just part of his badass cop routine, nothing more. In truth he'd wanted to help the man because he felt bad about hitting him, and about what happened to his car. Not that he had anything to do with that, at least not directly. Some fellow detectives, thinking they were doing him a favor, had trashed the man's car (and shit in the backseat apparently) to get back at him for making Detective Blake, and thus the entire department, look like regular practitioners of police brutality. Which of course most of them were.
"YOU told him where the clubhouse was!" Oscar exclaimed wildly. "Not only that, you gave him a fucking car to get there in! And now, thanks to you, he hasn't been home in two days and the clubhouse is locked up tighter than the knees of fifteen year old Amish girl! If anything happens to my friend I'll hold you personally responsible. And trust me, you don't want that."
In spite of the man's diminuitive stature, Randy was inclined to believe him. There was something about the dwarf that commanded respect, fear even. And he did feel responsible. "Alright, calm down, I'll do what I can to help ya." said Detective Blake. "But without enough evidence to take to a judge and get a warrant, I don't know how to get inside the clubhouse to take a look around. Anything we do has to be in a strictly unoffical capacity. If shit gets really bad I can call for backup but otherwise we're on our own here. You get me?"
"Fine, good." said Oscar. "We don't need the cops for this shit anyway. I got a plan, I just need another guy to pull it off. Someone who won't lose their head if all Hell breaks loose, which it probably will. Here's what we do..."
He began to talk. Randy listened.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010


Why I Oppose the “Tax & Regulate” Marijuana Initiative By: Dennis Peron
Three Fatal Flaws
1. One ounce limit? 25 sq. foot per building garden size limit? Imagine a law to “tax and regulate” alcohol
that only allows for possession of up to one bottle of wine imprisoning those who exceed that amount,
be it two bottles or a small collection of choice vintages. These limits guarantee confusion, harassment
and black marketeering forevermore. We don’t control alcohol by imposing a 25 sq. foot limit on grape
vines. But one extra gram or sq. foot of pot means jail and even worse; this initiative specifies that if
accused of having too much cannabis the burden of proof is on you, not the state.
2. Singling out those who want to use marijuana for a huge excise tax is just plain unfair. It maintains
cannabis as the most expensive, blatantly overpriced product on the market thus forcing most people
to choose cheaper, more dangerous drugs with huge externalized costs to society as a whole.
3. Sending teenagers to state prison for three years for pot is evil. This initiative mandates that 18, 19,
and twenty year old minors serve three to seven year terms in California state prison for the crime of
passing each other a joint or selling one another a small amount. Under this law if a 21 year old person
passes a joint to a 20 year old he or she goes to county jail for six months. Likewise this measure has no
exceptions for parents in their own homes from the “smoking cannabis in any space while minors are
present” prohibition. We don’t lock up parents for having a glass of wine with dinner and we certainly
don’t tell the kids to leave the house for the purpose of consuming any other substance so why start
with cannabis?
This initiative is bad for parents, students and ultimately the effort to get the state to stop ruining lives
enforcing these draconian pot laws. Initiatives create permanent statutes. This one with its petty restrictions
for personal users, prohibitive unfair taxes, and mandatory state prison sentences for teen agers need be
nipped in the bud. We will campaign and vote against it should its proponents succeed in purchasing the
necessary number of signatures to put it on the 2010 ballot. The tax revenue it will supposedly generate is a
mere smokescreen for the kids it will regulate into three, five and seven year state prison sentences.
Perpetuating and increasing the hundred million plus tax dollars per year the state already spends
policing this harmless plant is wrong yet that is exactly what this proposition does. Surely we can do better
than this. How about just legalizing it, getting the state off pot to save lives and real money across the
board? Please consider how you can help expose and defeat this misleading “tax and regulate” initiative.

Dennis Peron, Author of Proposition 215, the Compassionate Use Act of 1996.
3745 17th street, SFCA 94114 (415) 864 – 1961
Read the “tax and regulate marijuana” initiative at:
September 22, 2009

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-one, copyright 2010 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-one, Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
Before you confront the homicidal biker gang, you figure you'd better confront the homicidal soon-to-be mother of your child. Let her know that you're okay with the whole being a daddy thing. That you want to be with her, spend your lives together, hell maybe even have another rugrat or two someday. If only you knew how to tell her this. You've never been in love before, never even wanted to be. You'd almost rather square off with the biker dudes, at least fighting isn't complicated. Probably hurts less than this love stuff too. Yeah, that's the way to go, take care of the bikers first, then deal with being a responsible dad. Tomorrow.
The clubhouse for what the "Whiskey Marauders" motorcycle club is a large building, a former warehouse with blacked out windows in the seedy part of town. Half of the building acts as a motorcycle repair shop and is open to the public so this is where you decide to go to have your little chat. You park your new shitheap along the street outside, and put the .45 that Oscar gave you in the back of the waistband of your jeans. Just in case. In your front pocket is two thousand dollars that Oscar loaned you after you'd refused to allow him to come along. More like he forced it on you. "Just pay me back when you can." he'd said, "Walk right up to the guy, look him in the eye, slap the cash in his hand, and tell him you don't want anymore trouble outta him or his boys." You hate the thought of having to pay this asshole when the money would be better spent on the baby that's on the way, but it's better than getting dead.
There's about a dozen bikes parked outside the shop, so it's a good bet that you'll find your guy here. Now that you're actually here, standing outside the door, you hesitate. You smoke a cigarette while you give yourself a little pep talk. Come on man, you got this. He can't still be wanting to kill you can he? Sure, you blew your load on his face but he's a biker for fuck's sake, I'm sure he's done much nastier things involving someone else's bodily fluid. Sure, he'll be pissed at first but two grand gratis would calm anybody down. Just apologize profusely, be honest about what happened. Keep it real man. Then pay him off and exit gracefully. No fuss, no muss.
Resolve stiffened, you walk through the door. The shop is surprisingly clean and professional looking, but the gentleman behind the counter is anything but. He warily watches your approach with bloodshot eyes full of an almost animal-like cruelty. But you're on a mission, and not even this scary looking gorilla is going to stop you from completing it. You march right up to the counter and say, "I'm looking for one of your buddies, we have unfinished business."
The gorilla just stares menacingly at you, so you continue, "I don't know his name but maybe you could ask the guys in the clubhouse. Just say it's the guy from Ronnie's Roadhouse." He appears to be giving serious thought and consideration to your request, then without warning he reaches across the counter and shoves you, hard. It catches you off balance, and you fly backwards and land on your ass. You quickly jump to your feet and as you're doing so the gun falls out of your pants and hits the floor with a thump. Gorilla's eyes widen, displaying even more of his enlarged and irritated blood vessels. "Hold on, I can explain" you say, "I'm just here to talk and pay the guy some mon-" *WHAM* someone hits you in the back in the back of the head with something heavy, and the lights go out.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty, copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty, "A Man's Gotta Do..."
"You trashed my car pig. I want you to replace it." Detective Blake does not appear happy to see you again. "Fuck off! I don't know what the fuck you're talkin about but if you don't get your ugly ass outta here right fuckin now, I'm gonna bust ya for obstruction of justice, interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty, and anything else I can think of!" You have no intention of letting him scare you off that easily. "You smashed up my car, filled it full of garbage, and took a shit in the backseat. That last part was a nice touch, but not necessary for me to get the message. But now I got some psycho bikers I gotta deal with, and I need a ride around Detective Blake." "Are you high? You are, I can tell, your eyes are as red as a fuckin stop sign! I don't know who did that to your car but it wasn't me. You have my condolences on the loss of that fine automobile, but that's not my problem punk. What is my problem is trying to catch this child killer that's on the loose before anymore kids end up in small body bags. I don't have time to fuck with ya. Wait, is this about the guy that got a face full of your cum down at Ronnie's Roadhouse?" "How do you know about that?" you ask, pissed off a little that he's smiling now. "What, you think your little girlfriend can discharge a firearm in a public place and no one from the department is going to hear about it? Nobody wanted to press charges or else we woulda already hauled your asses in. I guess the bikers want to deal with you themselves huh?"
"From what I hear they want me dead." you say. He smiles again. "Well no big loss there. But I've been trying to get something on those guys for a long time, so I tell ya what I'll do, you go down to impound, and I'll have them give ya a loaner. That way when those bikers kill your pansy ass I can bust em for murder." "You're too kind." you say sarcastically. "I hope you kill each other, save me a lot of paperwork." He grabs a cigar from the dashboard and lights up, blowing the smoke through the open window and into your face. "Now get outta here or I really will bust you. I'm workin here and you could blow my cover. We really need to catch this sick bastard... FYI, the bikers got a little clubhouse down on Second street, it's a red brick building, lotsa bikes out front."
You walk back across the lot, to where Oscar is waiting in the van, smoking another joint. "What was that all about?" he asks in between drags. "That was the cop who fucked up my car." you answer. "Holy shit!" he throws the joint out the window and begins frantically trying to fan the smoke out. "Don't worry about him, he's got much bigger fish to fry." you tell him, "No pun intended." "Fuck you!" says Oscar good-naturedly. "Anyway," you say, "how about taking me over to the police impound lot? I just won a brand new car!"
Your brand new car turns out to be an even bigger piece of shit than your old one, which shouldn't even be possible. It seems that when your good friend Detective Blake called the lot he told them to give you the worst car there that still ran. It's a Buick Skylark so rusted out you can hardly tell what color it's supposed to be, there's no key, just a screwdriver jammed into the ignition, and the seats have all been slashed, probably from where the cops were looking for dope. But at least it does run. At least for now. You follow Oscar home, letting out immense clouds of black smoke from your tailpipe the entire way, and the two of you sit on the porch drinking beer while you try to come up with a plan.
You decide to just go down to their clubhouse and see where it goes from there. They want to kick your ass or make you pay them some money, or both, but surely they won't risk killing you over a little semen, certainly not on their home turf. "I don't know why you're so dead set on doing this alone." says Oscar. "You sure as hell ain't no superhero and those dudes ain't nothin nice." "It's not your problem Oscar, it's mine and I'll deal with it. No reason for you to get involved. Besides, I'm just going to talk to them and get them off my case, I'm not going there to kick any ass." "Good thing. You'd better stick to taking it in the ass, I think you do that so much sweeter." Horrified, you look at him, and he gives you that sly little wink that may or may not mean he's just fucking with you. You're still too afraid of what the answer might be to just ask him outright, so you quickly change the subject. "If they want to bloody me up a little, I can deal with that. But just in case shit does go bad man, you wouldn't happen to have an unregistered gun lying around would you?"