Smashed, Squashed, Splattered, Chewed, Chunked and Spewed

by Lance Carbuncle

  Buddy helps me to a chair and hands me two more ice cold beers, one for my eye and one for my gut. “Here, hold this on your eye. I’m so sorry. You used to be fast,” Buddy tells me. “I’ve got a fistful of reasons to keep you around here, though. Take a handful of these; they’ll take care of the pain.” He holds out his hand, palm up, and it is cupping a handful of white tablets. The pills have 222 etched across their face.

  “What the fuck are you doing, trying to make me O.D.? I don’t even know what this shit is?” I examine the pills with more than a bit of curiosity.

  “No, no way. Those are kind of like aspirin, or something. And they have codeine in them. But you have to take a bunch of them to feel anything good. Shit, I’ve been eating them like peanuts and I haven’t O.D.’d.” The whites of his eyes are bloodshot and yellow like a pepperoncini.

  “Where’d you get these?” I ask as I pop five of the pills in my mouth and wash them down with my beer.

  “One of our guests left a big bottle of them in their room. You’d be surprised what we find.” Buddy laughs and pops a handful of the 222’s, chewing them like they’re candy. “I never buy beer, shampoo, or milk. People just leave shit behind when they check out. Weed . . . pornography . . . dildos. Once I found a prosthetic arm in the trash can. Sometimes they’ll leave lingerie behind. I’ll just have the laundry room wash it for me and I bring it home for Gypsy. She thinks I bought it special for her. Now come on. Get yourself cleaned up, we’re going out.”

  • • •

  Buddy has an insulated backpack filled with various beers that were abandoned by guests of the Pleasure Dome. He hands me a Blatz and pulls out a Pabst Blue Ribbon for himself. We walk to the gas station and borrow a bag of ice from the icebox for the beer cooler/backpack. “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” Buddy says and he leaves me in front of the gas station while he goes inside to talk to the cashier. After a minute or two, Buddy comes back, saying “Thanks, Pedro,” as he exits.

  “Don’t you kind of worry that somebody might do something weird to the shit they leave behind in their rooms?” I ask. “I mean, I’m always afraid to use the coffee maker in my hotel room. I always start thinking ‘what if somebody pissed in here?’ You know, maybe just left a little piss in the bottom so that the next person who made coffee would drink it. Or maybe they could put some sort of poison or something down in the coffee maker and the next person who drinks it will die. I never use the fucking coffee makers in hotels.”

  “You’re messed up.” Buddy looks at his beer and scoffs. “Who would do shit like that? What kind of twisted bastard would do that?”

  “I have,” I answer, just to mess with Buddy. “And I always leave a couple of beers behind in my hotel rooms. But first I spread my butt cheeks and rub the drinking area all over my asshole. Sometimes I fart right on top of the can. So make sure you always wash the tops of these beers before you drink ’em.”

  “You have always been one of the weirdest mother-fuckers,” Buddy laughs and discretely rubs the top of his Blatz can with the bottom of his t-shirt, hoping that I don’t notice. “Come on, let’s go for a little ride in your big-rig. I have to do something.”

  “I don’t wanna drive. I’m feeling nice, let’s just chill,” I say. “Or maybe you can drive.”

  “Gypsy has my ride. Now come on, man. We’ve gotta pick somebody up and we’ll be right back.” Buddy hands me a name tag that says Pedro on it. “Here, this is for you. You are an honorary Pedro for the evening. Now put that on and be proud to be a Pedro.”

  “What’s up with this Pedro shit? You all call each other Pedro. How do you know if somebody’s addressing you when you’re in a big group of Pedros?”

  “We add describers on the front,” Buddy laughs. He looks at my Iron Maiden shirt. “Like maybe we’ll call you Retarded Heavy Metal Pedro.”

  “Retarded Heavy Metal Pedro . . . I like it. What do I call you?”

  “For the rest of your time here you can address me as Pussy-Whipped Beer-Belly Pedro.”

  Buddy’s conferring Pedro status on me made me feel wanted. A soothing warmth washes over my body. Happy, loving, artificial opiate-flavored warmth. I smile to myself and agree to drive Buddy out to pick up his friends.

  • • •

  We are all packed in the front of the truck—me, Beer-Belly Pedro, Little Gay Pedro and Buck-Toothed Negro Pedro. These guys do not mess around with sensitivity or political correctness when assigning Pedro names. One must have elephant-thick skin to be a member of the Pedro family. Pulling back into the South of the Border grounds, Buddy suggests that we park the truck and hit ladies’ night at Club Cancun.

  We grab a seat at the back of the room in Club Cancun and Buddy stashes the ice-filled backpack under his seat. When the bartender isn’t looking Buddy passes us beers under the table so that we don’t get kicked out for not buying the house drinks. I notice that Buddy is now drinking the beer from his cans with a straw[14]. Buddy holds court at his table as various off-duty Pedros approach and pay their respects. Buddy introduces me to Big-Butt Pedro, Stinky Pedro, Peg-Leg Pedro, and a short little guy the call Beer-Bitch Pedro.

  “Beer-Bitch Pedro always has to haul our beer around for us.” Buddy pats Beer-Bitch Pedro on the head. “I have another backpack full of beer out in Heavy Metal Pedro’s truck, behind the passenger seat. Go get it, Beer-Bitch Pedro, and meet us at the top of the tower.”

  • • •

  The Sombrero Tower is a 200-foot high structure capped with a giant sombrero. Buddy tells Elevator Operator Pedro to shut down for the night so that we can hang out in the sombrero. Elevator Operator Pedro smiles at us with half of her teeth, the other half have presumably made the tooth fairy a very happy little sprite. The Pedros gate-off the elevator door and put up an Out of Order sign to keep tourists from bothering us. A glass elevator rides us to the top of the tower. We exit the elevator and I see that we are standing on the brim of the giant sombrero.

  “This is the Mexican Eiffel Tower of South Carolina,” Buddy says as he hands me a Schlitz and pulls out a Milwaukee’s Best for himself. His back-pocket is full of paper-wrapped straws that he pilfered from Club Cancun. He uses a clean one for each new beer he opens. “Look around, ain’t it a beautiful sight out there?”

  Past the rim of the sombrero I see neon lights and highway. Two hundred feet below us the parking lot is teeming with fiberglass animals, lawn ornaments, tourists, tourists and more tourists. Children scream with glee as they enjoy rides with names like Quadzilla and The Wild Sombrero. The smell of hamburgers and fried food wafts up to the top of the sombrero. I reach deep within and dredge up a mucilaginous lung cookie. Hanging my head over the side, I let the loogey drop and watch it ride the air current all of the way down, one solid green gelatinous glob until it splatters on the top of somebody’s car. “Beautiful!” I am amazed by the cohesion of my goober. “Hey, Buddy, give me some more of those 222’s.” It looks like my one or two drinks with Buddy is going to turn into an all night binge.

  Pedros pour out of the elevator and Buddy introduces them one by one. “Here we have Big Titty Pedro and Hatchet Wound Pedro,” Buddy announces as two female Pedros join us on top of the sombrero. They are not unattractive in the sense that I am drunk and they likely have female genitalia. “Ah, and this is Hairlip Pedro and his best friend Obsessive Compulsive Pedro.” Hairlip Pedro shakes my hand, his friend just nods, and nods, and nods. “This is Fat Albert Pedro.”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Fat Albert Pedro greets me.

  “And,” continues Buddy, “of course you have already met Beer-Bitch Pedro.” Beer-Bitch Pedro has two similar looking backpacks that he has brought with him. “What’s up with this, Beer-Bitch Pedro? I only had one backpack of beer in the truck?”

  “I don’t know, I saw two in there so I brought them both up,” says Beer-Bitch Pedro handing one backpack to Buddy and one to me.

  Buddy’s backpack is loaded with cheap beer and ice. I study the backpack in my hands. It’s not
mine, it’s not Buddy’s, and it’s not Denny’s. The heavy knapsack is filled with gamy, gritty clothes and a battery powered radio boombox. It’s Rudy Erikson’s pack. It dawns on me that when I ditched him I forgot to throw his belongings out of the car.

  A short funny looking Mexican teenager exits the elevator and Buddy starts to say something about him.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I tell Buddy. “You guys are all so funny with your nicknames. Let me guess.” I study the teen’s sharp, squarish, facial features and dark brown skin. Giving it a great deal of thought, I proudly theorize: “Hmm . . . I’m gonna say they probably call you Totem-Pole-Face Pedro or Stankfist Beaner Pedro.”

  And then I am on my back, fending off wild swings from the boy as he perches on my chest and screams at me: “You fucking racist motherfucker. I’m gonna beat your ass. Who the fuck do you think you are calling me shit like that?” His arms are like little brown buzz saws, inching toward my face.

  “Whoaaaa, take it easy there pal . . . ” Buddy is pulling the raving Mexican off of me. “He doesn’t work here. He’s not a Pedro, I don’t know how this kid got up here.” Buddy wraps his arms around the teen and pulls him away from me, allowing the boy to swing himself out on the empty space in front of him. “Take it easy, guy. Now, what’s your name?”

  “I’m Chad,” gasps the Mexican boy who is not named Totem-Pole-Face Pedro. We give Chad a beer and explain my mistake away. In light of the new information, Chad decides he wants to be an honorary Pedro for the night and gladly accepts the new moniker I bestowed upon him. “Totem-Pole-Face-Pedro. Hey, you know what? I guess I kind of like it. It’s a proud name,” Totem-Pole-Face Pedro declares after washing down a handful of 222’s with a Rolling Rock.

  “Okay, Pedros,” Buddy shouts, “we’re going golfing. Everybody grab a beer and let’s go to the Golf of Mexico.”

  • • •

  The Golf of Mexico is the one of the schmaltziest putt-putt golf courses I have ever seen, and it’s indoors. The Pedro with the most strokes at the end of each hole has to chug a beer from Buddy’s backpack. Totem-Pole-Face Pedro is the worst miniature golfer amongst us and has already had to suck down an Old Dutch, two Little Kings, a Mickey’s Big Mouth, a Genesee Cream Ale, and another Rolling Rock.

  At the 14th hole Totem Pole Face Pedro is staggering and Goofy Golf Manager Pedro is giving us funny looks. We leave for the giant sombrero before we have to be escorted out. Pedro’s Rocket City is right next door. Ass-Crack Baggy Pants Pedro waives us in and discretely slips Buddy a brick of bottle rockets that are the size of soup cans on a stick. We all crunch on the rest of the 222’s and start lighting up the rockets.

  “Tres. Dos. Uno. Encender!” Totem-Pole-Face Pedro chants as we light each rocket. The rockets are some of the most beautiful amateur fireworks that I have seen. I am not sure that they are actually something that is legal and for sale to the general public.

  “Watch this, Pedros!” Buddy hoots and hollers as he twists long fuses together and simultaneously ignites half a brick of giant bottle rockets. We watch in awe as the missiles launch from an unused drain pipe sticking out of the ground and trace sparkling arcs of blue across the sky. Some of the rockets blow off prematurely, halfway toward their intended destination and fill the sky with expanding flowering bursts of blue, red and green. Visitors OOOO and AAAAAH at the pyrotechnics. They think that dangerously out-of-control fireworks are a nightly ritual at the park. Three rockets cross paths just above the top of the giant sombrero and explode, throwing off brilliant multicolored crackling gunpowdered displays. As if part of the show, the sombrero explodes into a fiery ball, scattering flaming chunks of shrapnel and burning the faces of the weary travelers.

  Oooos and Aaaaahs turn to screams of terror and pain.

  Panic reigns and tourists scatter. The flaming sombrero melts the girders that support it. Deep green flames lick the iron beams. Everyone backs up, watching in horror as the conflagration causes the two-hundred-foot high steel structure to groan, sway, and collapse in on itself.

  “This is bad,” I say to the Pedros.

  “Yeah. We have to get out of here,” says Buddy.

  “SÌ,” agrees Totem-Pole-Face Pedro.

  They say that there’s no time like the present. I say that there’s no better time to hit the road than when you’re blitzed on cheap beer and narcotics and just blew up a giant sombrero on a two-hundred-foot high iron tower and possibly caused numerous casualties. Me and Buddy run for the moving truck with Totem-Pole-Face Pedro right on our heels. I see people pointing at us as we all jump in the cab and take off. I’m on the road again.

  Buddy throws the beer backpack behind the front seat and scratches his head. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m going to Florida to spring my dog from jail,” I answer. “You guys can do what you want but I’m not sticking around here.” The truck barrels down I-95. In my side mirror I see a beautiful ball of fire lighting up the night and fire truck lights flashing back at South of the Border.

  “Well, shit.” Buddy thoughtfully scratches at the beard that has already taken over his face. “I’ve had more fun tonight than I have in a long, long time. But, I’m sure I’ve lost my job. That would mean Gypsy is going to leave me and take everything we own, which ain’t much. That means I’m going to be homeless or more likely in jail for what we just done. That means I’m going to have a sore cornhole. That means I won’t be happy . . . Hmmm . . . ” Buddy chuckles to himself “ . . . what the fuck, it was time for a change anyway. Let’s go to Florida. What about you Chad?”

  “Hey, doan’ call me Chad,” Totem-Pole-Face Pedro slurs at Buddy. “I like my new name.”

  “But it’s a little bit wordy,” Buddy suggests. “How about we just call you Totem.”

  “Yes. Yes. I like it.” Totem closes his eyes and smiles.

  “Well, how about it, Totem? You coming with us?” I ask. Totem doesn’t answer. It seems that the cheap beer and painkillers have put him in an alcohol-induced slumber, from which we hope he will eventually awake. “Silence is consent. Right?” I ask Buddy. Buddy winks at me and smiles. I have new travel companions.

  • • •

  The moving truck carries us on through the night, almost of its own volition. I do very little to contribute to the effort. After the initial adrenaline rush from exploding Sombrero Tower fades, I hit the cruise control and my mind goes on autopilot. I just steer the truck down I-95, keeping it in the same lane and not allowing us to drift into a ditch or plow somebody from behind. We stop at a rest area just past the Florida border and sleep off the events of the night before. I leave Totem and Buddy in the cab of the truck and stretch out on a picnic table for some sleep.

  • • •

  “Now you’ve really made a mess of things,” Idjit tells me. He sits on my chest and licks the cheese from my sleep-crusted eyes. “You’ve managed to get arrested, flee the law, and now you blow up a major interstate landmark. Can’t you just drive from point A to point B without wreaking havoc all along the way?”

  “Hello,” I respond in my sarcastic, sing-song, tone. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Idjit asks.

  “I don’t know. On the road to rock-n-roll there’s a lot of wreckage in the ravine.”

  “Huh?” Idjit eyes me with a befuddled basset hound type of look.

  “Some people say that cucumbers taste better pickled.”

  “Wha . . . ”

  “This is a dream, right? They never make sense. Just roll with me here,” I answer trying to make my confused friend feel better. “Hey, I really miss you pal. I want to see you for real and share a big plate of deviled eggs. Maybe we could watch some Ultimate Fighting Championships or something. We could even get a pay-per-view title fight instead of just watching rebroadcasts of old fights. Maybe we can catch the Chuck ‘The Iceman’ Lidell title match that’s coming up.”

  “Awesome. You know, I miss yo
u, too, big guy.” Idjit’s big cataract-clouded eyes tear up. As they run down his droopy face each tear rips out a small piece of my heart. “I can’t wait. But, for now you need to focus on your journey. You messed up. Your daddy warned you not to leave anything but Denny behind in Tennessee. You didn’t listen. You’re going to need to go back.”

  “For what?”

  “What you left behind. Now kiss me you fool.” Idjit’s dog lips morph into luscious, succulent, ruby red, female lips. Real sweet looking DSL’s.

  “No, I don’t think I will kiss you,” I tell my dog. “Although, you need kissing badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often. And by somebody who knows how. Now what do you say to that?”

  “You had me at Hello,” Idjit gives me a coy, sideways look. “By the way, you’re covered with mosquitoes and fire ants.”

  • • •

  In fourth grade I cut in front of Shelby Rubituson in the cafeteria lunch-line. Shelby was a slight red-headed mulatto kid in my class. He was also the regional golden gloves champion in the light flyweight category. My affront to Shelby sent him into a wild fourth-grader rage. He was worried that I would order the last serving of Salisbury steak. In a split second his fists were everywhere on my head and torso at the same time. All I could see was a blur of his mocha hands. The punches didn’t hurt, it was like being struck with a lightning fast balsa wood paddle, but they were disorienting. I didn’t know how to defend against the rapid and unrelenting pummeling. I stepped back to let Shelby return to his rightful place in line and he immediately let up. And don’t you know it, that little piece of shit got the last serving of Salisbury steak. I was stuck having to eat pasty macaroni and cheese and breaded white fish covered in tartar sauce.