Smashed, Squashed, Splattered, Chewed, Chunked and Spewed

by Lance Carbuncle

  “Hey, why don’t you guys take a picture with your camera phone? It’ll last longer.” Two teenage boys approach us. One is dressed in jeans and an AC/DC shirt. The other is similarly dressed in ripped up denim shorts and a Led Zeppelin shirt. The youngster in the AC/DC shirt introduces himself as Spencer and explains that he and his friend, Kyle, are driving the Bratmobile across the country as part of a college internship.

  “Yeah,” giggles Kyle as he tries to give his friend a high-five and misses. “We’re marketing majors and we contacted the company to see if we could interview somebody about the Bratmobile ads. Next thing we know, Spencer and I have a job driving the giant dong cross-country and feeding people bratwurst.” Kyle wipes his hands on the front of his t-shirt, tugs on his braided belt, and giggles again. “Here, have a couple of these. They’re like stress balls, except it’s like squeezing a schlong.” Kyle hands us foam rubber Albert Morgan bratwurst-shaped stress relievers.

  “Can we see the inside of it?” Buddy asks, like a little boy wanting to see the cockpit of a plane.

  “I don’t know,” Spencer winks at Kyle. “Do you think you could do us a favor in return?” Spencer and Kyle are underage college boys and they accidentally left their fake ID’s with frat brothers before embarking on their tour of the nation in a giant wiener. “Can you buy us some beer and some Goldschlagger? That douche-bag in the liquor store carded me.”

  Kyle gives us a fifty-dollar bill, puts in their order for alcohol, and tells us to keep any leftover change. Me and Buddy give the boys the beer pack to keep them busy while we do the shopping. We buy two cases of Old Dutch, a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and a bottle of Leadschlager and still have twenty bucks to pocket. When we get back to the Bratmobile Kyle is passed out in the passenger seat.

  “He beerbonged the rest of the slop you had in your back pack. I dared him to.” Spencer laughs as he draws “I love boys” and a crude hairy penis on Kyle’s forehead with a permanent marker. “Now it looks like I’m going to have to do all of the driving myself.”

  “Where are you going?” I smell an easy ride out of here.

  “We’re supposed to show up at some festival in Sarasota in a couple of days. I guess they’re going to have all kinds of crazy crap there: Blue Man, mimes, the Brady Bunch musical, water-skiing squirrels, Elvis impersonators, you name it. It’s gonna be glorious,” Spencer says in a dreamy gay tone. “We’re gonna cruise across the Tamiami trail and ease our way up there, as long as the hurricane doesn’t stop us.”

  “We can help you with the driving since your buddy there seems to be out of commission,” I offer.

  “You’re on, Bro! Hop on in and do a little artwork.” Spencer hands me the magic marker as I enter. Buddy follows, wide-eyed and giddy like a little girl.

  “Oh, man. I don’t know. I don’t feel right about drawing on some kid I don’t even know just because he’s passed out drunk. He seems like an alright kid. I mean, he’s wearing a Zeppelin shirt. At the very least the guy has good taste in music, right?”

  “Nawww, he couldn’t even name one of their songs for you. He’s really quite a fucking dork. He just bought that shirt in Dillard’s because he heard some of our brothers saying it was retro-cool. He bought a Doors shirt there too and when I mentioned how cool Jim Morrison was, do you know what he said?”

  “What?” Buddy and I ask at the same time.

  “He said ‘Yeah, dude, Brown Eyed Girl is the shit.’ Can you fucking believe that? He gets Van Morrison and Jim Morrison confused.”

  “No.” I want to kick him in the nuts.

  “Yeah. And don’t even get me started on his Iron Maiden shirt. I challenged him on that. Asked him to name me one song that he knew. He just looked away and told me he doesn’t look at the song names, he just likes their music.”

  “He’s a Maiden poser?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  “Give me that marker.” Spencer is actually pretty cool for a kid. He puts on the Screaming for Vengeance CD that I bought for $3.00 in the liquor store, cranks the stereo, and spins the tires of the Bratmobile in the parking lot as we’re heading out to the highway. Buddy pops the seal on the Leadschlager and passes it around. I draw a swastika on one of Kyle’s cheeks and a dangly venous nutsack on the other.

  Like an inquisitive three-year-old discovering his surroundings, Buddy queries Spencer about every aspect of the Bratmobile. Spencer is the obliging tour guide answering all, satisfying Buddy’s curiosity. The Bratmobile was originally powered by two motorcycles welded together by steel bars and covered with a painted wooden simulated bratwurst. Albert Morgan, Sr. originally used the Bratmobile to run bootleg liquor during Prohibition. Everyone (including cops) was so fascinated by the large penis on wheels that they completely missed the fact that Albert and his bother, Richard, were hauling bathtub gin to speakeasies. If asked what they were up to, Albert would hand out “samples” of his world famous sausages on hard German rolls and talk about his meat products. He really did make a tasty sausage. All the while, Richard would be standing just behind the side gull wing door with a .45 caliber Tommy gun, ready to blast away if the true use of the Bratmobile was discovered by a nosy copper. After Prohibition ended and bootleg liquor was no longer profitable, the Morgan boys went legit and actually started marketing Albert’s sausages. Richard built a fleet of Bratmobiles to drive around the country. The drivers would hand out sausages and meatwhistles to gape-jawed gawkers. Soon everybody knew Albert Morgan Brats. Everybody loved the Bratmobile.

  Fueled on Leadschlager and childlike joy, Buddy relentlessly questions Spencer about his job and what it’s like to drive the Bratmobile.

  “Why don’t you see for yourself?” Spencer pulls over outside of an air boat tour business and lets Buddy take the wheel. “Just be careful. Kyle had to put a deposit down on this thing with his mom’s credit card.”

  Salty, alcohol-tinged, liquid happiness leaks from Buddy’s eyes as he hauls ass down the Tamiami trail. “This is the best thing since I discovered how to spank the monkey,” I hear him mutter to himself under his breath. Rob Halford screams for vengeance, Buddy gently weeps with joy and watches the road through his blurry tears, Spencer reclines in a bucket seat in the back, Kyle lays motionless and clueless, a human canvas ready for more permanent marker artwork, and I pine for Idjit Galoot, unable to enjoy my ride in this incredible meatstick on wheels.

  • • •

  The sky weeps for my lost dog. I find only a dollop of joy in treating Kyle’s face like the wall of a gas station bathroom. My thoughts are of my lost best friend. I can see him hungry on the street. Or maybe locked up in the pound, howling all night at the lonely moon. I’m afraid they’re gonna give him the gas if I don’t get there soon.

  I slip away from our motorized bratwurst-shaped fiberglass shell to visit Idjit in my dreams. We are sitting around a chipped and water stained oak table. Cigar smoke rises and forms a blue cloud above the room. I sip at my scotch and water. It burns my throat, warms my belly. I think to myself that I would like a PBR instead.

  The red glass of the hanging ceiling light throws soft crimson rays on my cards. What am I doing? I think to myself. I don’t know how to play poker. The Airedale to my right has called out a game of high/low roller coaster with a red-eyed devil. I don’t know what any of this shit means. The bulldog with a cigar laughs at me. The collie is so drunk, he drops his cards, laughs, takes another sip of his scotch, and picks up his cards and drops them again[17]. In the middle of the table is a glass jar filled with balled-up pieces of paper.

  Behind me a grandfather clock chimes. To my left a familiar voice tells me that it’s “two minutes to midnight.” I turn and see Idjit sitting beside me, his rubbery dog lips turned up in a smile. He winks at me and kicks me in the leg.

  Coolidge, the sad-eyed St. Bernard shifts his eyes back and forth. He chews on a giant burning spliff and asks me: “Well, what’s it goin’ta be? You in or out?” Over Coolidge’s shoulder I admire a beautiful painting of sai
lboats cutting through choppy waters, storm clouds looming above. I look at my cards and only see shifting colors and faces. I don’t understand the game.

  Again I feel Idjit’s foot kicking me in the leg. I look down and see an ace of clubs wedged in between his dog toes. The untended curlicue of a dewclaw wraps down and over the top of the card. Idjit raises his eyebrows at me as much as a basset hound can and kicks me again. Beneath the table I take his offering. I slip it into my hand and slam my cards on the table. “What’ve ya got?” I challenge Coolidge, still not knowing what in the hell I’m doing.

  Whines and whimpers rise from the players and mingle above us with the smoke. My poker buddies all cower as if I’m going to hit them with a newspaper or rub their noses in feces. Coolidge grunts and growls to himself. And then he addresses me: “I think it’s time you took your winnings and left. And you should probably take your friend with you.”

  Under one arm I scoop up the giant jar from the middle of the table. Under the other I pick up the Galoot as if he was a sack of potatoes. We exit the side door of the room and I realize there is no floor underneath me. Idjit embraces me as we fall.

  • • •

  Forceful tropical gales buffet the giant wiener. Raindrops the size of water balloons splatter on the windshield, making it impossible for us to see. Buddy slams on the brakes, swerving and launching me from my seat. Mid-nap I regain consciousness halfway between a seat shaped like a German hard-roll and the sloped windshield of the vehicle. The phrase land in the lap of God occurs to me as everything happens in slow motion. The side of my face slams into the back of the driver’s seat and my legs hit the console between the front seats. The Bratmobile settles into a ditch on the side of the road.

  “Gawwdammit! Did you see that fucking thing in the middle of the road?” Buddy screams. “It looked like a seven-foot tall monkey with a boner.”

  Kyle is crumpled on top of me, still unconscious. Spencer pulls him off of me. “Is everybody alright?” Spencer asks around.

  “My face feels like it’s broken. So does my wrist, and my ribs, and my knee.” I evaluate myself for more damage. It’s getting hard to keep track of the injuries.

  “How about you?” Spencer asks Buddy.

  “I’m fine, but this Bratmobile won’t start. And, uh . . . ” Buddy hesitates and shakes his head, “I don’t know what that was on the road, but it was huge. I may be kind of fucked up, but I know I ain’t seeing shit.”

  “What about Kyle?” I ask about the unconscious boy in the fetal position beside me. “He’s not moving. That can’t be good.”

  “Nah, he’s fine,” replies Spencer without even looking at his friend. “I’ve seen him sleep through worse. My question is what do we do now? There’s a hurricane headed our way and we don’t have the wheels to outrun it.”

  Through the windshield we see the lights of a pickup truck in front of us. The driver keeps honking.

  “Well, maybe he can get us to shelter,” Buddy says as he nods toward the truck.

  Spencer runs out in the blowing rain to talk to the driver. After a minute or so they start honking the horn, calling us. Me and Buddy shrug our shoulders, what the fuck? Buddy throws Kyle over his shoulder and hands me the beerpack. “Let’s see where this takes us, eh?” We run out in the rain. The wind tries to push us back and the fist-sized water drops sting our faces. Within seconds we are soaked through.

  Me, Buddy, Spencer and the driver all fit snugly into the cab of the old beat-up Willys Jeep. We throw Kyle on his side in the bed of the pick-up and push him up against the flat spare-tire. Spencer gets out and wedges a rolled up rug behind Kyle’s back so that he will stay on his side instead of going face-down and drowning.

  “What in tarnation are you boys doing out in this weather? There’s a hurricane warning. Everybody’s evacuated. Only a durn fool would be out in this mess.” The driver reprimands us, apparently forgetting that he too is driving around in the same weather. “My name is Arnette. You boys can come back and ride the storm out with me and my brother Pervis. You’ll be safer in our building than in that monstrosity you crashed into the ditch back there.” Arnette steers us down a gravel path to a cinder block building. We jump out of the truck and sprint for the building, leaving Kyle in the bed of the truck.

  “Come on in, boys.” Arnette invites us into the cement building. The pounding rain outside almost drowns out his voice. “Make yourselves at home. We have a storm to ride out.” Hundreds of eyes stare at us as we enter. It seems that the building has been overrun by bizarre fairy tale creatures. Squirrels with horns. Winged fish. Dogs with alligator heads. Three-headed pigs. Monkeys with two butts.

  “What the fuck?” Spencer blurts, freaked out by the animals.

  “Aww, don’t worry about that.” Arnette laughs. “Those is stuffed. They ain’t real. My brother Pervis is a taxidermy artist. He’s not satisfied with just killin’ and stuffin’ ’em. He makes his own critters.”

  “Kind of like the jackalope[18], huh?” I remember seeing a jackalope, a stuffed jackrabbit with antlers, in a restaurant once when Mom took us on vacation in the Black Hills. Our waitress told us that it was a hoax, a creature created by some jokester. “Those are pretty funny.”

  “Ain’t nothing funny about it.” At the back of the room, sitting near the fireplace, sits a man who looks just like Arnette. His thick beard covers most of his face. The sad moustache hangs down over his mouth, obscuring it, the opening only apparent because the whiskers blow out slightly with his breath as he talks. “Those jackalopes is some fucked up, mean little critters. You get gored by one and you’ll be lucky to tell the tale. They don’t just hurt you with their antlers. A wound from a jackalope don’t heal. It gets all infected-like and just festers until you cut the whole rotted area out. That is if you’re lucky enough to cut it out in time.”

  “Boys, this is my twin brother, Pervis.” Arnette interrupts his brother to introduce us. “He’s goin’ta be in charge of entertainment and tale spinning while you’re here.”

  “Now that jackalope,” Pervis continues, ignoring his brother, “he’s tough, but he ain’t nothin’ compared to a Wolpertinger or the Feejee Mermaid. And don’t even get me started on the Skunk Ape . . . ”

  “We ain’t goin’ta get you started, Pervis,” Arnette interrupts his brother once again. “We need to get these fellas into dry clothes and then hunker down for this little South-Florida rainstorm we’re expecting.”

  Buddy’s eyes pop and his jaw drops. “We left college boy out there in the bed of the truck. He could drown or get blown away.” Buddy runs out the front door into the stinging rain and Spencer follows. They fish Kyle out of the back of the Willys and drag his waterlogged body back to the building. He’s still unconscious but breathing.

  We set Kyle by the fire. Arnette gets everybody towels and dry clothes. We don the camouflage hunting jumpsuits and dry out by the fire. Pervis asks us if we want to get high. “I got some Florida Swamp Bhang Bhang shit that will blow your top. You wanna get Chinese eyes?”

  “I don’t exactly know what you just said but it sounds pretty good to me,” I tell Pervis as he pulls a three-foot long, ceramic, skull-bong out from behind his seat, and places his bearded orifice on the end. Pervis fires up the organic material in the bowl with his confederate flag Zippo. The loud bubbling of the bong water sounds like a public toilet flushing. After a long pull on the water pipe, Pervis sits back and convulses, trying to hold the smoke in. Unable to hold it any longer, Pervis deflates and the smoke is diffused by his beard. His entire face fumes. In the light of the fireplace we watch the lunatic with bloodshot eyes and smoldering facial hair.

  We pass the Florida-Cracker peace pipe around, watching in turn as each of our bodies is racked with coughing fits from the harsh fog. The smoke leaves us drooling and hacking. I smile to myself as I consider that we are all willing to place our mouths on the same thing, which we have all drooled in, without any misgivings so that we can get high. I inspect Pervis’
s beard and note food particles and small amounts of something crusted about the face pelt. If he wiped his beard clean with a napkin and tried to hand it to me I wouldn’t touch the filthy thing. But offer me some weed and I’m the first one to put my mouth right where Pervis’s crusty beard just was.

  With all of the coughing, the room sounds like a tuberculosis ward. Pervis gives himself a blast with an asthma inhaler and passes it around. “Get those air passages opened up wide for more, fellas,” he says. We all zip ourselves with the inhaler and the hacking and drooling subsides. I inhale deeply and then let it go. In my head I hear the wha-whas. My ears echo with a muted fuzz-tone of wha-wha wha-wha wha-wha. Somebody giggles. The Florida Swamp Bhang Bhang shit whacked me in the fucking head like a sledgehammer. Buddy passes around cans of Old Dutch to everybody.

  “Heyyyyy,” Buddy says, long and drawn out, as if he has something to share, and then pauses. “I like the sound of that. Heyyyy. Heyyyyyyy.”

  “Yeah!” I laugh, also liking the sound. “Heyyyyyy. Yeah, that’s nice. Heyyyyyyy.”

  “Heyyyyyy,” Spencer joins in and we all break into uncontrollable laughter. Each time the laughter starts to subside, we make eye contact and it starts up again.

  “What the devil are you people doin’ in here?” Arnette comes back into the room and shakes his head. “Oh, I see. Pervis’s been passing the skull bong around. Alright, well you guys are goin’ta be hungry, why don’t you give some of this a try?” Arnette sets down a tray with some sort of barbequed meat and eggs the size of ping-pong balls.

  We dig into the food. The meat’s from something Pervis calls a Hoover Hog. I like pork. I like it a lot. The sweet smoky meat is drowned in a spicy BBQ sauce. The eggs are pickled. Arnette’s meal is incredible. We polish off the first platter and Pervis is surprised. “I ain’t never seen people scarf down armadillo meat and gopher tortoise eggs so damn fast. You boys want more?”