Dead Drunk
By Richard Johnson
Copyright © 2013 by Richard Johnson
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Imprint by Chicago Moonlight Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Illustration Copyright © 2013 by Richard Johnson
Cover design by Derek Murphy of Creativindie Covers
Copyediting by www.ManuscriptMagic.com
Ebook formatting by IndieMobi.wordpress.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: No Recess
Chapter 2: Boys’ Night Out
Chapter 3: A Pale Horse
Chapter 4: Love Letters
Chapter 5: Rock the Mic
Chapter 6: The Sugar Shack
Chapter 7: Two Ships Passing in the Night
Chapter 8: Hookers and Hangovers
Chapter 9: Shit Meets the Fan
Chapter 10: Par for the Course
Chapter 11: Shock and Awesome
Chapter 12: Revelations and Restraining Orders
Chapter 13: The Hard Times of Marquell Washington
Chapter 14: Clown-Car Cluster-Fuck
Chapter 15: The Scientific Method
Chapter 16: Rules, Regulations and Rejects
Chapter 17: The Eagle Flies at Midnight
Chapter 18: Operation Ben-Gay
Chapter 19: The Curious Case of Matt (Left-Nut) Tucker
Chapter 20: All Along the Watchtower
Chapter 21: Sausage-Fest
Chapter 22: Gone Fishin’
Chapter 23: Man Overboard
Chapter 24: Grocery List
Chapter 25: Pillow Talk
Chapter 26: White Lightning
Chapter 27: All Rockets, No Sockets
Chapter 28: Iron Man
Chapter 29: Elvis Has Left the Building
Chapter 30: Mama Said Knock You Out
Chapter 31: Booty Call
Chapter 32: You Mad Bro?
Chapter 33: Spring Flower
Chapter 34: The Windy City
Chapter 35: Deadeye
Chapter 36: The Blindside
Chapter 37: Steve Winwood
Chapter 38: Fancy Meeting You Here
Chapter 39: Road Trippin’
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
No Recess
“Hope you like sitting through first grade again, motherfucker.”
Charlie Campbell chugged a strong rum and coke as he changed several grades on the computer. Subbing over the summer was always a hassle, but today’s shenanigans took the cake. However, with a little creative record keeping, he evened the score with one tiny terror named Markus.
The balding thirty-year-old took another swig and let out a tiny belch as his class returned from lunch. Having already dealt with fistfights, crying episodes and missing lunch money, Charlie hoped the stiff cocktail would get him through the afternoon. Still, he knew days like this tended to pick up steam.
“Class, let’s get it together,” he said, flicking the lights on and off as paper wads and curses whizzed about the room. They didn’t even pretend to stop jacking around. In fact, they got worse, so Charlie changed tactics. “If you’re quiet we can have recess at the end of—”
An eraser flew past his head and bounced off the chalkboard, blanketing him with dust.
“Who threw that?”
No answer.
This group was a gnat’s hair away from setting him off, but he couldn’t complain. While it was an odd job for someone who hated kids, Charlie loved that he could skip work whenever he wanted. Depending on the hangover, whenever he wanted was about three times a week.
The sub fanned himself with a folder as he handed out worksheets and wondered why the air-conditioning wasn’t working. He then retreated to his desk to sip his drink and kick his feet up. Like most inner-city classrooms, this deathtrap was chockfull of black mold, lead paint and asbestos. Oddly enough, the parking lot was filled with brand-new cars.
A little boy with a stutter approached timidly and asked to sharpen his pencil. Charlie pointed to an old electric sharpener on his desk, and a girl shouted, “We don’t get to use that. Miss Marsh says we always breakin’ it.”
“I’ll do it.” Charlie sharpened the pencil, only to turn around and find several students lined up behind him. He did a few more but the line only grew longer. “This is getting ridiculous. Your pencils didn’t all break at once.” Charlie checked over the new arrivals. “These are fine, go sit down.” He turned to the last student in line. “Markus, I sharpened that two minutes ago.”
“It broke.” This statement was technically correct since Markus did break the pencil seconds after the teacher sharpened it the first time.
“We’re done here,” Charlie said, fighting the urge to hold his young nemesis upside down over the trash can. “Use crayons if you have to, but I'm unplugging this.”
“I don’t have crayons,” another student said.
“Borrow one then.”
“Hey, he stole my crayon.”
Charlie glanced at his watch and noted he only had two more hours left in that particular dump. He could handle it. Maybe.
“Teacher, I gotta make one,” a small boy wearing cornrows said.
“Make what, Dantel?”
The boy held his rear. “I gotta make a doodoo.”
“Me too,” added a pudgy kid with a squished face.
By this time, Markus simply had to get in on the action. “I think I'm gonna squirt my pants.”
A dreaded bathroom trip was going to happen whether they needed one or not because Charlie knew these kids weren’t above pissing their pants to make him look bad.
“I want two single file lines.” He prepared for the worst.
The students pushed their way to the door, knocking books off desks, kicking pencils across the floor and shoving each other for position.
“Sit back down, that’s not how you do it.” Three tries later, the class was ready. “I want complete silence. That means no talking, no touching.”
They entered the hallway with a flood of general horseplay and grab-assery that let Charlie know just how badly this was about to go. He glared at Markus, who was now gyrating as if he were having a seizure. “Why are you dancing? I mean seriously?”
“I wasn’t. If I was dancing, I’d be doing this.”
The class roared with approval as the seven-year-old popped dance moves that would make a bar slut blush.
“Check out these moves, Mr. Campbell.”
“Just knock it off and get in line.” They arrived at the restrooms moments later, having broken every rule in the book. Luckily, the administrators were out golfing that day and Charlie’s lack of classroom management would fly under the radar once again.
“Two in at a time. You have a minute.”
The first boys went in and immediately turned the hand dryer into a beat-box. Charlie ran in to find the sinks were already clogged with paper towels and the floor soaked.
“Get out now,” he said through clenched teeth.
All hell broke loose in the hallway as Charlie unclogged the sink.
Blood pressure rising, he came out to find a girl pinning Markus by his throat against the wall while the other students shouted things ranging between, “Hit that punk,” to “Get that bitch, Markus.”
He somehow managed to separate the feral children while dodging their flailing appendages. “What happened?”
The girl’s lips began to quiver. “He said my momma’s head look like a vegetable.”
Markus grinned. “No, I didn’t. You need to stop trippin’, girl.” His case was hurt by the fact that he’d been caught lying approximately twelve times that day.
Charlie sighed. It was no wonder his hair had started falling out in clumps.
Another teacher burst into the hallway and gave him the stink eye. “What’s going on out here? We’re trying to take a test.” She stared down the little girl. “Don’t make me get your momma from the lunchroom.”
Charlie hoped the tirade was over, but she turned her figurative guns on him next. “You need to get these kids under control. Runnin’ around all crazy. That’s probably why you’re still a substitute.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Charlie said.
Actually, it’s what he wanted to say instead of standing there like a whipped dog, which is what he did. Back in his days of fast living and no consequences, the words would have rolled off his tongue without a second thought. Those days were long gone.
The harpy’s door slammed shut. “Damn, Mr. Campbell got told,” Markus said, and the students lost it once again.
Charlie clenched his fists tightly and narrowly avoided dropping the mother lode of f-bombs. “Oh, you think it’s funny Markus? Go to the office, now! The rest of you line up. Any talking, touching, dancing or singing and you’re joining him.”
He read them the riot act back in the classroom. “Put your heads down and keep your mouths shut. I’m not playing. No story time, no snacks and definitely no recess. You blew it.”
Returning to his desk, he got his phone out and found a text message waiting from his stoner landlord.
“R u rdy to get fkd up tnite?”
Charlie Campbell’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile as he pictured the upcoming bachelor party. He’d never been more ready for anything in his life.
Chapter 2
Boys’ Night Out
Charlie jumped into his rusty Ford Bronco and reached under the front seat to grab a worn-out metal flask. “Hello, old friend,” he said and took a healthy pull. The whiskey burned going down and he started to choke on the ninety-degree rotgut. It was this poor attention to detail that had led to Charlie’s station in life.
After struggling to get the truck started, he finally sped away to the soothing rap-reggae sounds of 311 blaring out the windows. His shitty workweek had finally drawn to a close, and it was time to make his daily escape from the shadier part of town.
The truck soon approached the yard of the newly built, state of the art mega-prison. It was here that Charlie carried out a daily ritual of flipping off the inmates while honking the horn. One prisoner in particular, a stocky, dreadlocked beast of a man, always seemed to take it personally. This made Charlie smile because even though his own life sucked, at least he wasn’t that guy. He hit the gas and left the stress of the day and the ominous prison behind him.
Turning his thoughts to the weekend’s festivities, he realized his old fraternity buddies would already be at the apartment. Joining them would be several co-workers of Blake, the groom to be.
Blake was a consistent one-upper and bullshitter, but the fast-talking stockbroker knew how to throw a party. Unfortunately, his two sets of friends clashed, and the volatile mix of high-class and white trash was a powder keg ready for a spark.
Charlie jammed his truck into the narrow parking space behind his apartment and jogged up to the old stone three-flat. He lived on the second floor with his roommate Trent, while Smokey, their friend and owner of the building, lived up top in an art studio.
Years earlier, Smokey had water-bonged his way out of college and ended up in his parents’ basement. With nothing but time on his hands and a healthy imagination, he somehow developed a knack for making art out of junk. One morning after a mean acid trip, Smokey discovered he’d welded a masterpiece out of a muffler, the neighbor’s mailbox and an old Schwinn bicycle. The sculpture tastefully depicted a naked George Bush riding backwards on a striped Zebra-corn. Art critics compared it to a Don Quixote-like vision where the ex-president tilted at non-existent weapons of mass destruction. It was his big break.
Sean Penn purchased the “art” for several hundred grand and Smokey took the cash and never looked back. He used the windfall to buy the old building and set up a studio for himself. However, the easy living stifled his art, and he couldn’t even get off the couch, much less fire up the welder. Cartoons, a never-ending supply of cereal and a massive stash of pot didn’t help.
Still, he did manage to make the apartment eco-friendly with some renovations and was now bringing in steady rent checks.
At the moment, the long-haired burnout focused on finishing off an expertly-rolled joint on his front porch. He didn’t even notice the police cruiser roll up. A portly officer came towards him and pointed angrily.
“Is that a joint I see, scumbag?”
“Sherlock Holmes, I presume?” Smokey blew a stream of smoke into the officer’s face and then winked at Charlie as he came up the stairs.
“Well?” The cop took off his dark aviator glasses with a flourish, and it was obvious he had practiced the maneuver quite often.
Smokey took another drag. “You tell me.”
“It is a joint, and it’s my last one, asshole,” the cop said.
Smokey made a half-baked apology to the man, who happened to be Charlie’s roommate, Trent. “My bad. I thought there was some left in the medicine cabinet.”
Trent glared at his friend. “There was. That’s the one you’re smoking right now, douche.”
“Oh yeah.”
“And this is why you’re the worst fucking landlord in the city,” Trent said.
“And you’re the worst cop in the city.”
“Point taken. But you can get back in my good graces by scoring some blow. These strippers aren’t gonna bang us for our good looks.” He pointed to Charlie. “This guy knows what I’m talking about.”
“Fine. I'll call Julio. Man you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Remember, no laced shit or I’ll nab your buddy for walking while Puerto Rican. Last time I thought clowns were chasing me, and you know I hate clowns.” Trent jumped back in the cruiser. “Anyways, text and let me know where to go. I've got two dancers on call, so make sure people save some cash.”
The police radio crackled.
“I gotta jet. Don't forget to buy that shit.” He flipped on his lights and pulled away, wondering why his friend was such a mooch.
“Fuckin' pig,” Smokey said while turning to Charlie. “Like I didn’t know it was his last joint.”
Charlie laughed. “I figured. Who’s here?”
“Blake and some of his friends. Plus Jim.”
“His wife let him come after all?”
“Yep. Other than that, Gay Mike and Left-Nut made it. Oh, and Big Rob's here. He took a massive dump and clogged your toilet, by the way.”
Charlie groaned. “God damn it. This isn’t the first time he’s done that.”
“And it reeks like a dead skunk.” Smokey flicked his roach into the garden below, forgetting he would have to pick it up later.
Big Rob greeted them at the door and then turned back inside. “Charlie's here, so stop wiping your asses on his pillow.” The bearded, six foot six mixed-martial artist donned a beer helmet packing Jack Daniels on one side and Coke on the other. He pulled a straw from his mouth with a hand the size of a catcher's mitt before asking, “Want a pull, muchacho?”
“I'm gonna get changed first,” Charlie said.
He got several high-fives on his way past the living room bar and noted that drinking games were a
lready in full swing. The host got dressed and finally joined the party.
A skinny white-haired rogue approached and handed Charlie a can of ice-cold beer. “Long time no see.”
“Hey, Left-Nut, how's it hangin'?”
“Like usual, massive and right down the middle.”
His name was Matt Tucker but nobody had called him that in years. The story was that Matt had been riding a bike during a thunderstorm when a lightning strike made him crap his pants, turned his hair white and caused one of his testicles to burst. And so Left-Nut was born.
As Charlie cracked open his beer, another friend known affectionately as Gay Mike walked over from the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear. “Hey, sexy, it's about time you showed up. I've been waiting to do some body shots.”
Gay Mike set down a blue bottle of Reposada and two shot glasses on the table. The veterinarian wasn’t gay by any means, but did have an odd habit of making comments with homosexual undertones. Like Left-Nut, the nickname had stuck.
“It’s a little early for tequila… ah, what the hell. I think I’ll have mine in the glass, though. How are the animals treating you?” Charlie asked.
“I can't complain. I’m making good money and my hours are cake.” Gay Mike leaned in. “How are the animals treating you?”
Charlie chuckled. “Not good. I think my blood pressure’s skyrocketing. It’s like they always know exactly how to piss me off and then do it.”
“You should seriously find something else to do. I could hire you as a vet tech.”
“Yeah, sure,” Charlie said as his eyes glazed over.
“Anyways, back to me. We got a new assistant last week who is a total smoke-show. She knows it, too,” Mike said. “I think she's caught me staring at her tits like five times already.”
“Shit, maybe I should work for you.”
“She reminds me of that chick you nailed in college. I can't remember the name, you know the softball player with the—”
“Carrie Evans,” Charlie said wistfully, remembering better days.
“That chick was hot. She was in my psych class, and I couldn't concentrate because I had a boner the whole time. Those were the days, man. You could fall out of a boat and land in pussy back then.”
Dead Drunk: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse... One Beer at a Time Page 1