Smashed, Squashed, Splattered, Chewed, Chunked and Spewed
Page 1
SMASHED, SQUASHED, SPLATTERED, CHEWED, CHUNKED AND SPEWED
* * *
Lance Carbuncle
Vicious Galoot Books, Co.
Tampa
SMASHED, SQUASHED, SPLATTERED, CHEWED, CHUNKED AND SPEWED
Copyright © 2007 by Lance Carbuncle
ISBN: 978-0-9822800-3-4 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-0-9822800-2-7 (eBook)
PUBLISHED BY:
Vicious Galoot Books, Co.
412 East Madison Street, Suite 1111
Tampa, Florida 33602
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address Vicious Galoot Books, Co., 412 East Madison Street, Suite 1111, Tampa, Florida 33602.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, dialog, and incidents are drawn from the author’s imagination (except where otherwise noted) and should never, under any circumstances whatsoever, be construed as real in this or any alternate universe. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.
Praise for
Smashed, Squashed, Splattered,
Chewed, Chunked and Spewed
“My favorite read in a long time. It’s real good that you done that, Son. It’s a real good thing that you wrote that book.”
Enid Carbuncle,
mother of the author
“Riveting . . . ”
National Sheet Metal Worker’s Newsletter
“Probing . . . ”
Journal of the South American Academy of Proctology
“Mr. Carbuncle must be a good writer. He manages to work words like defenestration and Pneumonoultramicroscopicovolcaniosis into the story without sounding awkward.”
Annabelle Sootikins,
Professor of Literature and
Editor of Most Important and Influential New Authors Quarterly
For Sister Mary Catherine of Superfecundation.
You make everything groovy.
Preface
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26
Epilogue
About the Author
Endnotes
Also by Lance Carbuncle
Hi. I’m Lance Carbuncle, sort of. If you’re reading this, you are probably a relative, one of my few friends, or (most likely) somebody who has humored me and accepted a free copy of my book. This piece of shit that you are holding actually required a great deal of effort on my part. I know that it is hard to read and poorly written. It is probably cliqued, derivative, and in poor taste. Some might say it’s offensive, juvenile, and unworthy of being used as ass-wipe (thanks, Uncle Hank). Fuck them and fuck you too.
If you haven’t already realized it, this book is self-published. I don’t have the drive, desire, or ability to try to sell somebody on publishing my little story. However, thanks to a slippery tile floor at a national restaurant chain (that shall remain unnamed) and a nasty head wound, I have recently found self-publishing to be within my means. So, in the grand tradition of such creative greats as Mrs. Miller[1] and Lord Timothy Dexter[2], I have decided to foot the costs of distributing my art to the public. If I have changed just one life with my efforts here, then it has been worth it.
You may notice as you read that I am somewhat fond of footnotes.[2.5] They are sprinkled throughout the book at the bottoms of some of the pages. I do not like footnotes that are placed at the back of books. I never look at them and neither will you. Also, they are usually boring, seldom used in fiction, and can break up the flow of the writing. Nevertheless, I have footnoted random passages in the book and referred to information that I find interesting, funny, stupid, or at least somehow relevant. If the footnotes detract from your attention to the tale, then just ignore them and stick with the story. On the other hand, if you have a third grade reading level or above, you may wish to check out the footnotes. They won’t take too much of your time and may give you something to use for small talk at a party or church function.
Anyway, this is the story of an individual who gets involved in some funny situations, experiences some dilemmas, has disturbing feelings for a basset hound, and then it is all resolved within the half-hour format allowed for a television sitcom. The story contains situations in which I have found myself involved. It contains situations in which I have never been involved. It contains situations which, even if I had been involved, I would never admit to in a book where tens of people would be reading it.
The protagonist in this book has made reference to real people, places, and occurrences. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction and none of the information is submitted as actual fact. For example, there really is a place called South of the Border, in Dillon, South Carolina. All of the occurrences in this tale relating to South of the Border are purely the product of the author’s sick mind and probably bear no resemblance to anything that has ever occurred there. Likewise, references to an event with an unlucky pachyderm has been somewhat embellished for the purposes of the story. And some of the story relating to the scatological fascination of one of the characters in relation to certain celebrities is certainly only something that occurred in the author’s tiny brain. Take it all for what it is. Mostly it’s just good twisted fun. Don’t take it too seriously. Read it and laugh, or scoff, or grimace, or write your congressman, or whatever it is you might do.
Finally, it is always difficult for me to share my creative output with others. There is the fear that the reader will not understand or simply not enjoy the writing. It feels like I have taken a big dump on a platter and set it out at a party for people to view. I hope you like the way it looks and smells. If you like it, please contact me at my website[3] and let me know. If you don’t enjoy my writing, it’s probably because you are jealous of me and have self-esteem issues due to your pendulous man-boobs. Learn to deal with it. Buy a bra. Loosen up. Go pour yourself a nice glass of wine and sit down beside the fire. Relax, read, and enjoy.
LANCE CARBUNCLE
Renowned historian, philosopher, and musician, Bruce Dickinson once wrote a song about a guy who pushed his luck too far. Daedalus built a pair of wings by stitching feathers together with string and sealing the wings with wax. When the wings were finished, Daedalus warned his son, Icarus, not to fly too near the water or the sun. Like a dipshit-moron, Icarus didn’t listen to his father. He wanted to see how high he could fly. He flew higher and higher, nearer and nearer to the sun. As he approached too close to the sun, the wings made of wax melted and Icarus plummeted to his death in the ocean. I too have flown too close to the sun and been burned.
The metaphoric sun that burned my allegorical wings was a chemical called MDMA. I took it on a whim in San Francisco. When I graduated from high school Mom sent me to visit my brother Frank in California. Frank lived in a cramped apartment above a head shop in the Haight-Ashbury district. A cloud of stench hovered several feet off of the dirty floor, reeking of stale bong water, dirty feet, and patchouli. When I arrived Frank handed me a 40-ounce bottle of Olde English 800, five ten-dollar bills and a matchbook with his phone number scribbled on the inside cover.
“Go out and have some fun tonight,” Frank told me. “I’ve gotta work. But, if you have any problems, get into any trouble, you know . . . call me.” Frank was always watching out for me like that. He gave me my first dirty magazine, my first cigarette, my first hit off a joint. I was six years old when Frank handed me a badly abused issue of Playboy. He made me promise not to say
where it came from if I got caught. Even at the age of six I was fascinated by female flesh. Some people might say it’s not possible, but I remember getting throbbing boners over the soft-core porn in those tattered pages. It didn’t take long for Mom to find the nudie magazine stashed under my bed. I would like to say that I was brave in the face of the third-degree Mom gave me over the incident. I would like to say that I held out and fell on the sword, saving Frank from punishment for corrupting me. I wish I could say I stood tight-lipped and gave no information. The truth of the matter is that I sold Frank out faster than I could unfold a centerfold. “Frank gave it to me!” I blurted out. The look on Mom’s face was a disturbing mixture of emotions, loving, surprised and even a maybe a little bit of disappointment that I flipped on my own brother so quickly.
Frank took the heat for the magazine and never gave me a bit of grief about it. That’s the kind of guy he was. That’s the kind of guy he is. I knew that if I had trouble in San Francisco, Frank would bail me out.
Me and Frank left his apartment at the same time. Frank wore a work shirt that said Earl on the nametag. He said that Earl used to have his job but he died or something tragic like that. The boss was going to make Frank pay for his own work shirt if he wanted one with his name on it. Frank opted instead to use the dirty shirt Earl left behind in his locker.
We split up on a street corner where a crowd had gathered. “Stay out of the Castro District,” Frank warned me, “unless you’re craving some hot man-love.” And he was off. I stayed on the corner to see what was going on. A scurvy looking band of musicians were playing a kick-ass version of Crosstown Traffic. The guitar player looked kind of like Jimi Hendrix. Well, he was black, he wore a lot of silk scarves, and he had a dazed look on his face. If you used your imagination, squinted and looked at him from the side, he maybe kind of resembled Jimi. The man played a faded and chipped Stratocaster through a tinny, battery powered practice amp. The drummer was pounding out rhythm on a set of various sized pickle buckets, really tearing it up. The other member of the band, a disheveled homeless man with untreated psychological maladies, lurched in front of the crowd holding out a hat for donations. Each time there was a pause in the music his face would break out in a rapid twitching fit and he would yell out “EGGTIMERRR,” much to the consternation of some of the audience. After a couple of surprisingly rocking versions of Hendrix tunes a black dude approached me, his eyes darting side to side.
“Hey man,” said the shifty-eyed black man. “You wanna buy some reefer? Want some rolls? Doses? What you want, Shorty can get it for you?” I’m leery about spur of the moment street deals ever since Frank and I bought some parsley in Ontario from a hustler who could have been Shorty’s twin brother. I think one of Shorty’s cousins ripped us off for acid in a similar transaction while on a family vacation in Kentucky.
“How much for the X?” I asked.
“Ten dollars for two rolls. It’s good shit man. Shorty only sell the best. This shit is made in a U.S. government lab. Top of the line.”
Despite Shorty’s dubious claims about the product, I slipped him a ten spot and he pressed a rolled up cellophane wrapper into my palm. As I walked away from the crowd I snuck a quick look to make sure I wasn’t getting ripped off. Shorty appeared to be an ethical businessman as there were two small pink pills with the inscription U.S. on the faces. I inconspicuously extracted one pill, popped it in my mouth and kept walking.
The city was completely unfamiliar to me. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t really care. A street car stopped. I hopped on and hung from the side, feeling a harsh breeze on my face. When I hopped off the cable car I was in an area that appeared to be an entertainment district of the city. Scanning the skyline, my eyes were drawn to an immense skyscraper designed to look like a pyramid. The street had bars, restaurants, shops and, like everywhere else in the city, homeless people. I ducked into a bar called Vesuvius because I liked the name.
Making myself comfortable at the bar, I caught the barmaid’s good eye. The other had a mind of its own and seemed to favor snuggling up right next to her nose, giving her a dopey, half-cross-eyed look. “Hi,” she said as she approached. “We have a two-for-one special on Heineken bottles. You wanna do that?”
“Heineken?” I growled. “Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!”
The barmaid’s name was Kristi. Her good eye gave me a stern look while the other flitted about, seemingly checking out the room. She brought me a bottle of Pabst without comment and quickly tended to other customers. No sense of humor. Shit, I was just goofing. “Look at me,” I told her and she looked my way. “Don’t fucking look at me,” I growled. She looked away without so much as a smile. Some people just don’t get my humor.
It had been at least an hour since I took the X and nothing was happening. Damn, I thought, ripped off again. Or maybe the shit Shorty sold me just wasn’t very strong. I figured I might as well take the other pill just in case. Chugging what was left of my beer, I stood up and headed down the stairs for the bathroom. The bathroom was empty, but I wanted to make sure no one saw me putting a pill in my mouth. I ducked into one of the shitters and listened. Nobody. The stall had an advertising board on the wall that promoted tanning beds, a dating service, and liposuction. God damn it, you can’t even drop mud without being bombarded with commercials. I pulled out the cellophane and studied the remaining pill. Why not take it? I had nothing to lose. Maybe I needed two of them to really get off. I gently set the pill on my tongue and swallowed. Down the rabbit hole, I thought.
Back at the bar I caught Kristi’s good eye and ordered another Pabst Blue Ribbon. A Tom Petty song was playing. I never really liked his stuff, but DAMN, this song sounded really good. I’d heard it loads of times before and never realized how great it was. It was as if I was becoming a part of the song. I decided that I needed to buy some Tom Petty albums when I got a chance. Refugee wound down and The Safety Dance followed. WOW, I never realized before how FUCKING COOL The Safety Dance is. “Your friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance, well they’re no friends of mine.” Men Without Hats also went on my new list of records to purchase.
And then . . . it hit me. I was starting to roll. Shorty done me right. Hmmm, maybe that second pill wasn’t really necessary. I downed the rest of my beer, slapped a ten-dollar bill on the counter and yelled at Kristi: “I can’t stand warm fucking beer. It makes me want to fucking puke.” She half stared at me, perplexed. I winked at her good eye and made for the door.
Stepping back onto the street, I noticed that everybody was better dressed than me. I felt out of place. People were watching me, evaluating, judging me. I just knew it. It seemed prudent to move along. Not knowing where I was or where I was going, I just started walking. I was driven. My feet needed to move. My legs were twitchy. Teeth: grinding. My legs were my guides and the rest of me was along for the ride. The pyramid stayed in my line of vision while my legs worked the spasms out.
The cheesy notes from a Casiotone keyboard caught my attention. On the corner, a street busker was churning out serious emotions on a little electronic organ. The sign hanging on the front of his instrument read: The Outrageous Neal Stevens. Eight or nine people were digging on his stuff. Somehow the rhythm track on the keyboard didn’t sound cheesy. The lush tones penetrated me. I felt the song, sensed where it was going, it penetrated me. An older homeless lady (it came to me that her name was probably Crazy Mary) was standing beside me, swaying, not quite in time, to the music. She was dirty, toothless, deranged. We made eye contact. I knew we felt the same about The Outrageous Neal’s music. I swayed next to my new friend and shared her emotions. “Trails,” I said to her as I saw a greenish-yellow streak weave through the air.
Crazy Mary smiled a horrible, toothless grin and nodded. “Trails,” she agreed.
I noticed a cop on the sidewalk studying me and decided it was time to beat it. “So long, Crazy Mary,” I said as I ducked around the corner and up the street. “Happy trails.”
/> “Trails,” said Mary, “trails.”
Halfway up the street, the urge to vomit overwhelmed me. It wasn’t a sickening sensation. It wasn’t unpleasant. I just knew it was going to happen and rode the wave. “Hrr-phlaggghhhh . . . ” A warm flow of bile, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and clam chowder (when the hell did I eat that?) spewed from my face. I projectile-vomited a comforting stream of my stomach contents onto the side of a building. Then it was done. Not a drop on me. I continued my journey.
Now that my stomach was empty it seemed that maybe food would be a good idea. I found myself in front of a restaurant. The glaring red, yellow and pink neon sign beckoned. “The Stinking Rose, a garlic restaurant” it screamed at me. The maitre d’ seated me at a small table near the front door. Everything on the menu had garlic in it. I ordered marinated garlic olives and the Gilroy Famous Garlic Ice Cream with caramel molé sauce. I had to ask my waiter, Angel, what the hell molé was (as if anybody ordering garlic ice cream has any room to be picky about the sauce). Angel explained, “Oh, it’s a spicy Mexican sauce made with chilies, chocolate, tomatoes and other spices. It’s yum.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “And I’ll have a garlic martini while I’m waiting.”
Angel eyed me as if trying to decide whether or not to card me. I was ready with an expired moped license of Frank’s just in case I needed I.D. I looked enough like the picture to pass. “Okay. Super,” answered Angel, apparently deciding that I appeared to be legal.
The other customers kept shooting me irritated glances while I waited for my food. I had so much nervous energy. The only way I could vent it was to tap my feet and drum on the table with my fingertips. It seems that the manic tapping made some people uncomfortable. I felt like I needed to explode from my seat. Control yourself, I admonished. Take a sip of your garlic martini, take a deep breath and stop that ridiculous tapping of your left foot.