Smashed, Squashed, Splattered, Chewed, Chunked and Spewed

by Lance Carbuncle

  The Giant’s Place was a little restaurant right close to the Vagabond Village trailer park we lived in. It was run by a giant we called Big Al. Al stood 8-foot-four and often wore a cowboy hat, which made him seem even taller. He was the nicest man you’d ever seen. Al was the fire chief of the city at one point, probably because he could get cats out of the trees without much effort. Most of the time, though, he ran the restaurant along with his wife, Jeanie the Half-girl. The Giant’s Place was a fun place to eat. You could always count on Three-Legged-Johnny being there, recounting tall tales of life on the road. On All You Can Eat nights it was fun to sit and watch Fat Cindy eat until somebody would tell her “that’s all you can eat,” and kick her out. The biscuits were warm and sublime and almost as big as your head. The crowd was a mixture of show folk and weary travelers. Waitresses would take your order for a well-done hamburger with fries and then shout at the cook something like Alright angel, gimme a hockey puck, paint it red and drag it through the garden, and put some frog sticks in the alley. Waitress talk is fun and we tried to become fluent in it that summer.

  • • •

  I continue north, take a left turn at a major road, head north again, take another left, and so on until I pass under I-75 and hit Route 41 again at a little town called Ruskin. Gibsonton is close, just up the road.

  The sun peeks up over the horizon and winks at me as I pull off of the road in front of The Giant’s Place. It looks just like I remember it. I am greeted at the door by the aroma of biscuits baking and a gum-snapping waitress named Brandy who calls me Darlin’ and tells me to seat myself if I’m “hankerin’ for some chow.”

  “Oh yeah,” Brandy says, without missing a beat, “and don’t bleed all over everything.” Bloodied up folk are common around here what with the high wires, knife throwers, elephants, stuntmen and whatnot. My condition doesn’t shock her.

  I sit down at the counter and tell the waitress “two please, wreck ’em, sweep up the kitchen, draw one in the dark, and give it shoes.” The breakfast crowd collectively turns its head toward me and gawks as I wait. I know that I probably look like road rash draped over a skeleton. I’m sure I still smell like vulture puke. But none of that explains the staring. It takes a lot in a community like this to draw the eyes that I’m getting. The bearded lady is looking my way and whispering to the Mexican dwarf beside her. A pinhead bobs his head up and down and points at me. Even the Siamese twin busboys eyeball me like some sort of hideous sideshow attraction.

  A mule-faced waitress brings out a bag of food for me and leans in close. Her waitress dress is unbuttoned several buttons down from the neck, revealing impressive cleavage. She has what I like to call butter face: her body is smoking, but’er face looks like a constipated donkey. “Listen up,” she tells me in a hushed voice. “I know who you are. And so does everybody else around here. You been all over the tee-vee. The police have been asking around about you. We don’t like the pigs nosing around our community, especially after how they treated us with the investigation of the Lobster Boy killing. Take your food . . . ” she hands me my scrambled eggs with hash and coffee “ . . . I ain’t gonna charge you. Just get out of here while the getting’s good. We don’t need no more trouble around here.” She was right, carnies and circus folk don’t like any kind of involvement with the police. Many of these people probably have some sort of past that they want to leave behind. The Fuzz coming around, asking questions, strong arming people, picking open old scabs, well, it just wasn’t good. I take the food and glance down once more at ugly-girl’s beautiful breasts. It’s like two perfect, ripe mangos hanging on a gnarled, blighted tree. What a waste. What a bra-full of trouble, enough to lead a man to do things he would later regret. I leave the Giant’s Place, hop on the ATC, and retrace a map of memories.

  Perpendicular to Route 41 is a road. On the road there is a trailer park. In the trailer park there is a doublewide. Behind the door is a man with bad teeth, whiskey breath, and a crumpled pack of Winstons in the pocket of his sweat-stained t-shirt. Inside, the man is angry at me for bringing him under the microscope of a law enforcement investigation. My hand reaches for the doorknob. The door flies open. A hand locks onto the loose skin of my neck and yanks. First my face flies forward. Second, my feet stay stuck to the ground, as if gravity is heavy today and doesn’t want to release them. Third, my feet detach from the wooden steps and trail behind me in the air as I am pulled into the mobile home. Fourth, forceful open-handed slaps land about my head and shoulders.

  “What the fuck you doin’ around here, ya good-fer-nuttin’?” Uncle Doug slaps me a couple more times, a big smile on his face. “Man, you look like shit.”

  “Here, let me give him some too.” And before I know it, Denny jumps out from the kitchen area and punches me in the nose.

  “Ah, Jesus Christ! Enough!” I shout as Uncle Doug pulls his son back before he can flatten my nose any more. “What the fuck?”

  “I’ll tell you what the fuck,” says Cousin Denny. “You fucking sold me out to that Pickles fucker. You told him I killed your Daddy and butt-fucked his corpse. You know what those people do to corpse fuckers?” Denny shivers involuntarily. “Fuck, man!”

  As Denny spews expletives I see him deflating, calming; the rage recedes. Uncle Doug blocks him until it’s safe for me. The blow to my nose has popped an artery or something and loosed a flow of thick brown blood, which mostly oozes down my face and onto my World’s Best Dad shirt. It seems like it should flow more, be thinner in consistency, less like used motor oil.

  “Hey, I got out of there and called Mom,” I tell Denny. A bloody bubble forms around the rim of my nostril and pops out into a spray as I explain myself. “She obviously called Uncle Doug and did something to help you out.”

  “Yeah. She got a hold of Dad and he called that lawyer you were talking about.”

  “Rhoton?”

  “Yeah.” Cousin Denny smiles. “He’s good. Real good. But, uh . . . ” Denny looks down at his feet. “I am gonna have to testify against you at trial. I told Pickles that you were into necrophilia and that you left a trail of dead molested bodies all along I-75. I hope you understand.”

  “Yeah, it’s alright. I did the same thing to you. But I told him you had a refrigerator full of severed heads that you like to pleasure yourself with.”

  “Boy howdy, you two are sick. Listen up, my dear nephew. I’ll do what I can to help you, but you’re gonna have to beat it. It’s too hot around here. The cops know that Denny came back here, and they have been keeping an eye out for you. The people around here aren’t very happy with me and Denny. Your being here ain’t helping. I’m gonna help you get out of here. You know, I’ll do what I can, but you gotta go.”

  “Why do the cops have such a hard-on for me?” I ask.

  “Well, I’ve been recording the news shows on you. Maybe you should watch this.” Uncle Doug powers up the television and flips through the various menus as the digital video recorder makes sounds like electric bubbles popping. “Here we go. Check this out.” He selects a program and then begins fast forwarding. “Ah, here we are. This is from this morning . . . ”

  • • •

  “ . . . Top o’ the morning to you,” says the news anchor. “Suchi Punani, filling in for Rusty Trombone. Coming up next: our top stories.” Suchi’s smile is unwavering as she reports on a grisly scene in Chicago involving ritual torture and dismemberment of residents in a retirement home. The smile stays set on 10 as Ms. Punani gives a lead-in to a story about the unprecedented strength of Hurricane Angus and the massive amounts of damage inflicted on South Florida. And then the smile disappears. “And now more disturbing news on the Sombrero Tower terrorists. Unconfirmed reports have filtered in that the terrorists have hijacked an American icon. It has been reported that the group has car-jacked the Albert Morgan Bratmobile in Sweetwater, Florida, and taken hostage the crew of the vehicle. It seems there is nothing these men will not do. We are working on confirming the reports. In the meantime,
the FBI and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement have initiated a full scale man hunt for this man.” My high school senior photo flashes onto the screen and Suchi Punnani mispronounces my name. Both Uncle Doug and Denny laugh at the indignity. “If you see this man, do not approach him. He is extremely dangerous. Head for a safe place and call 911. Please allow the professionals to bring this man in. In other news . . . ” Suchi’s smile returns as she segues into a story about a penis pump being found in the garbage of United States Ambassador to Italy, Melvin Sembler, and an attempt by the finder to auction the pump on Ebay.com.[22]

  • • •

  Uncle Doug shuts off the TV and laughs again. “Nice hair, douche-bag. Anyway, that should kind of give you an idea of what’s going on and why you need to get out of here. I’m gonna see what I can do to arrange for some sort of transportation for you. You can’t take that three-wheeler on the road. It ain’t street legal and you’re just asking to be pulled over. Let me see what I can do.”

  B-r-r-ringg. The phone rings. An honest-to-goodness ringing bell. Not a cell phone with some goofy ring-tone or the latest hip-hop song. Uncle Doug picks up the handset. It’s actually attached to the base by a coiled phone cord. “Yeah . . . You don’t say . . . You don’t say . . . You don’t say . . . Alright, thanks.” Uncle Doug lets the handset hang in front of him by its cord. The handset spins and the kinks in the phone cord undo themselves. He sets the phone back down and looks at us.

  “What did they want, Daddy?”

  “They didn’t say.” Uncle Doug pulls a half-smoked cigarette out of the ashtray and lights it up. “You guys sit tight and don’t open the door for anyone. I’ll be back soon. And then it’s time for you to hit the road, my nephew.”

  Uncle Doug heads out the door. I sit down in his ragged recliner and start in on my eggs and hash. Cousin Denny rewinds the news report and pauses on my picture. He laughs at my haircut and calls me a douche. I’m with family for the moment. I relax. Before I even finish my eggs, my eyelids droop and I drift off into a deep sleep.

  • • •

  I dream that I’m with Daddy on the back porch of the Giant’s Place. This is where the real showmen used to hang out and hold all night bullshit sessions. Idjit is curled up at his feet. “Shhh,” Daddy hushes me as I open my mouth to speak, “the dog is sleeping. He really needs his rest.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” I ask.

  “He’s old, he has halitosis, and he likes to hump people’s legs. That’s what’s wrong with him,” interjects a bearded lady on the porch.

  “Hush, Fur-face,” Daddy tells the hirsute hag and smacks her in the chest with his cane. She holds a hand to her (probably furry) teat and quiets down. “Now listen Boy, Idjit’s been telling you what to do. He wanted me to remind you because sometimes your brain is like a sieve. You’re smart but still a bit tetched. You remember what he told you to do?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Get back to Tennessee and get my soul back from Ramona. What a crock. I need to get back to the Galoot. He needs me.”

  “You’ll do what we tell you. You better get back to Tennessee, Jed. Hear?” Daddy raises his cane at me, ready to strike.

  “Yes sir.” I look at Idjit and pat him on the head. He doesn’t stir, he barely inhales and his breath hitches slightly when he does. He looks peaceful though, in the way that Daddy does sometimes. “What’s wrong with my dog, Daddy? He looks like he’s in a coma.”

  “Well he kind of is, boy. You’re slowly sucking up his ch’i like a dome light can drain a car battery.”

  “His chee?” I ask. “What do you mean?”

  “His ch’i boy! His soul energy, life force, aura. You’re bleeding him dry.”

  “I don’t get it. How can I be draining him?”

  “You don’t have a soul. You squandered it. Traded it away for beer and pussy like it was some kind of joke. You should’ve passed on to the other side shortly after you did that darn fool swap. But your dog, your best friend, has been giving you his ch’i, his energy, so that you can make things right. And you’ve just been a parasitoid, living in the belly of his soul like a tape worm, slowly killing his spirit. Now get cracking and do as I have told you. Get your own spirit back so that you don’t kill this sweet hound.”

  “I will Daddy. I will. How long do I have?”

  “Just go. Go now.” He raises his cane at me again. “And you tell your Mama that I approve.”

  “Approve of what?”

  “She’ll know.”

  “Wake up, Sweety.” I feel a hand applying light circular pressure on my crotch. Shaky fingers try to unbutton my jeans.

  “Come on, Baby,” the smoky voice urges as the button on my pants pops and the zipper opens willingly. There is a warm fleshy weight on my body and in my half-dazed waking condition my hips push forward, feeling a soft, receptive something through the fabric of my dirty underwear. Fumes of Scrapple and Canadian Club envelop me. I am roused and aroused.

  “God!” It’s Bernice. Her face is spackled with cheap makeup—rouge and aquamarine eye shadow. The fire engine red lipstick is worn away at the edges of her lips, revealing cracks and a crusted, healing cold sore. Her bare floppy titties swing pendulously, inches from my face, threatening contact between my forehead and her finger-like brown nipples. I hate my boner for what it is suggesting to me. Evil treacherous wiener. “Uggh. Get off!”

  “Hey there, Guy.” Bernice climbs off of me, not sad, not surprised at the rejection. “How’r’ya doin’? I haven’t seen you since you were just getting ready to sprout your short ’n curlies. You’re lookin’ good.” Bernice sits on the floor beside my chair. She roots in the ashtray on a coffee table that used to be a telephone cable spool. “Damn, yer lookin’ good.” Her tongue pokes at the chancre on the side of her mouth as she rubs her temples. She finds a promising butt in the ashtray and lights it up.

  “Bernice, you and Uncle Doug are still together?” I try to button up my pants and tuck my erection away before she takes it as an invitation to jump on me again.

  “Aw, hell no, Honey. We split up three dogs ago. Speaking of which, that man has all of the characteristics of a dog, except for loyalty. But I still live just two units down. Shit, most of this row is made up of your uncle’s exes. Ain’t none of us got a place to go after he’s done with us. You know, a turd can only sink to the bottom of the outhouse.” Her tongue flickers at the edge of the sore again, loosening some of the crust. “I seen you on the news. I seen Dougie runnin’ outta here. I figured somethin’ was up. I knew you must be around. I said to myself, ‘girl, you ain’t fucked a celebrity since Molly Hatchet last came through town.’ I reckon I’ll have to wait until the next state fair comes through before I get some more famous dick.”

  “Well, uh, Aunt Bernice, it’s good to see you.” I don’t know what to say. I talk to stall her. She buttons up her Waffle Castle waitress shirt. The throbbing in my naughty bits recedes.

  “You don’t want my loving,” she laughs, “then how about my cooking? I brought over some Scrapple cooked up in my famous mushroom gravy, just like old times.”

  “Well, I certainly can’t pass on mashed up hog entrails cooked up on the griddle. Sure. Why not?”

  Bernice hands me a plate of Scrapple and scrambled eggs, all swimming in gravy. As I eat, she fills me in on her life since the last time I saw her. A self-described star-fucker.[23] According to Bernice, she’s been with somebody from every b-list rock band from 1980 on. “I’m kind of like the Plaster Casters in the 60’s, but older and bolder,” she explains. She likes to take trophies from each one of her conquests. “Shit in a ziplock. That’s what I have ’em do. Most of those guys do a lot of smack and are so bound up. Some of ’em ain’t shit in months. If I can urge a little bit of poo out of ’em, well, I’m doing them a service and they give me a little token of their appreciation in return. Hell, anybody can catch the clap from Lover Boy’s bassist or crabs from a Flock of Seagulls (and so what if I did),” she gives me a sly wink, “but how m
any people do you know that have a love-nugget from Huey Lewis? I even have a perfectly round poo ball from Meatloaf. No kiddin’, big as a baby’s head and a perfect sphere. I call it my meatball.”

  “Ohh, God! Come on. I’m trying to eat Scrapple here. You’re making my pork offal taste awful. Why couldn’t you just get drumsticks or guitar picks? Hell, I’d want to see that.”

  “Oh listen to you, baby-boy. Don’t go judging. It’s just another way to collect celebrity memorabilia. I’ll tell you what, if eBay would quit shutting my auctions down I could make a fortune.” Bernice clears her throat; the bubbling phlegm does little to add to my dining experience. “Hey, name your favorite band. I bet I’ve got a trophy. I’ll let you hold it.”

  “Oh come on now. You can’t be serious.”

  “Name it . . . ”

  “Alright, do you have any Iron Maiden dooty?”

  “Come on over to my unit. You’re gonna view my Bruce Dickinson poo.” She laughs a gurgling, mucous coated, laugh. “He even autographed the ziplock. A real class act, that man.”

  Stranded, eating Scrapple, waiting for a ride from who knows who. A chance to get close to my idol. What do I have to lose? “What the fuck. I don’t believe you, but I want to see if you really keep poop in ziplocks.”

  Bernice gives me a swig of Canadian whiskey off of her pocket flask. She always liked to carry what she called an ass-pocket of whiskey. We check out the front door, the coast is clear. I put on one of Uncle Doug’s baseball caps and a pair of Denny’s aviator sunglasses and follow Bernice to her unit. The trailer is humid and warm, a swarm of little black bugs hovers above the kitchen sink. Air fresheners are plugged in all over the unit, mostly pumping out some sort of fruity smell. The air deodorizer barely masks something bad just underneath.