Fubar

by Ron Carpol

  Rawlings had a mean look on his face while taking practice swings with the baseball bat like he was looking forward to playing T-ball with somebody’s head.

  I felt like I was an Army parachutist being dropped behind enemy lines using a parachute packed by a kid with Down syndrome.

  I made a desperate, last-minute attempt to stop this nightmare. “How do you know they own the house?” I asked Parker.

  He looked at me like I was nuts. “Who the fuck cares?”

  “Some Jew will probably get the insurance money and secretly thank you for blowing up the place.”

  It was obvious that my logic didn’t register. “You with us or not?” he asked sternly.

  “With you, of course.”

  “Then let’s get on with it.”

  Parker went to the side of the house nearest the front. I was at the corner of the place where I could see both the front and the side door. Rawlings stood next to me.

  “When I brain them, I’ll yell,” Rawlings said to me. “Then you run in, get the shit and get the fuck out.”

  I was so goddamn nervous, I couldn’t answer so I nodded.

  Rawlings walked away, toward the back. Cautiously, Parker crept around to the front of the house, stopping right under the large living room window. Anybody walking or driving down the street or looking out their windows in our direction could see us easily.

  Parker took off his CAS windbreaker, then his black T-shirt. He put the jacket back on. Then he tore off a hunk of the T-shirt and threw the rest of it on the brown weeds that strangled the grass on the trampled lawn. A second later he jammed the ripped-off part of the T-shirt in the neck of the bottle for a wick.

  Then he lit it. There was no turning back now. When the wick was burning brightly, he violently hurled the lethal bomb completely through the window, making an explosive crash of splattering glass. Seconds later, a dynamite-like, fiery explosion roared out of the front of the house followed by a screaming, hissing, high-pitched screech!

  Parker just stood there, looking at the fire like a hypnotized pyro. About thirty seconds of terror passed. I still couldn’t believe I was stupid enough to be doing this.

  “Now!” I heard Rawlings scream. “Get in there now, Stafford!”

  I ran to the side door and looked through the glass, hoping the room would be on fire so I wouldn’t have to go in. But the goddamn fire hadn’t spread here yet. The brightness from the fire made it possible to see pretty clearly inside. I spotted the green wastebasket sitting on top of a table next to the bed.

  Just like in the stupid movies, I kicked the door as hard as I could. Not only did it not open but my right arch hurt like hell. Then I twisted the doorknob and the fucking door opened.

  Rawlings, carrying the baseball bat, rushed toward me, gasping. “I got them both,” he yelled excitedly. “Now get in there!”

  I raced inside. The flames were fanning down the hallway towards me, with the loud crackling, hissing sound mixing with the noxious smoke and fumes.

  I grabbed the wastebasket and for some reason, stood there for a few seconds, looking around the room. I spotted the gun partly sticking out from under the pillow and stuck it in my right front patch pocket and closed the Velcro-secured flap.

  “Hurry!” came Rawlings’ anxious voice from the open doorway. “Place is going to explode any second!”

  I sprinted outside holding the wastebasket and followed Rawlings around to the front of the house where Parker was on the lawn, still admiring his work.

  We rushed past him and scrambled back in the truck where Adams quickly slammed the door shut. Then he rushed around to the driver’s side and got in. The truck’s horn suddenly sounded its high-pitched whine in short, unequal spurts like Morse Code.

  It seemed like a couple of more minutes passed before Parker finally opened the passenger door and climbed inside before the truck screeched off.

  “Jesus Christ!” Bones exclaimed, pointing out the front window. “There’s the NEWSTIP van heading towards us! They missed filming us by seconds!”

  _____

  After driving through pretty heavy traffic for nearly an hour, Parker stopped the truck at a familiar, little strip mall at the corner of Lincoln and Pico in Santa Monica. The second Stovepipe opened the back doors, the overpowering chili smell from Tommy’s enveloped us.

  “Chow time,” Stovepipe announced.

  In the light from the parking lot I handed everybody their property back. A fast look at Parker’s scratched, silver watch with its twisted, silver stretch-band made me shiver, thinking that maybe two people got killed over this watch that could be replaced for a little more than the price of a one of Tommy’s chiliburgers.

  Then I felt the gun in my pocket and pulled it out.

  Rainey looked shocked. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Under the robber’s pillow.”

  “You know how to use it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, be careful.”

  I looked over at Rawlings. “You really brain those fuckers?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Not really. Only got the whore in the shoulder but I zonked the guy over his right ear.”

  “I doubt they’ll call the cops on us,” I said smiling.

  I walked away from everybody and yanked out of my pocket the NEWSTIP guy’s card with my anonymous code number on the back. Hurriedly I called Dr. Baylitt’s wife at her cell phone number. She answered, coughing, on the second ring.

  “This is Kurt Stafford,” I whispered as loudly as I dared. “Write this NEWSTIP ID number down. I called in a firebombing near LAX in Torrance a little while ago.”

  “How’d you know about it?” her gravelly voice asked suspiciously.

  “Heard two guys in a bar talking about doing it for the insurance money. I called NEWSTIP immediately. Told them I was calling for my mother. Now write down your anonymous number and get the reward.”

  “Certainly.”

  I rattled off the number. “Got it?”

  “Naturally.”

  “And don’t forget my A or B in Economics.”

  “Obviously.”

  “It’s a good news tip.”

  “Exclusively?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doubtfully.”

  The line went dead.

  The steady stream of smoke from the grill was fanned by the wind making the area seem fogged-in.

  Parker grabbed my shoulder as I walked back toward the mesmerizing smell. He looked concerned about something.

  “Come here,” he said awkwardly, leading me back toward the parking lot, away from the other guys. “I made a mistake tonight,” he said softly. “And I don’t know if it’s too late or not to do anything about it.”

  I doubted that he mistook me for a priest behind the confessional grill. “What do you mean?”

  “The vote tonight.”

  My spine suddenly tingled with an electric jolt like the beginning of paralysis. And the sharp stomach pains that never left me exploded again like a nuclear bomb.

  “What do you mean,” I mumbled weakly, knowing though, what was coming.

  “Stovepipe was right this afternoon. We already took a vote for tonight.”

  I stood there terrified. The thump of my heart must’ve somehow dissolved my saliva. My throat was so dry that I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. I braced myself for what I knew was finally coming.

  “You got voted out. Stovepipe blackballed you. But you need two. My vote was the one that did it.”

  I gasped. Even at night I’m sure the color of my face was the color of snow.

  “But after what you did for me, I’m going to try to undo my vote as soon as we get back.”

  I was too choked up to speak. I nodded before turning away so he wouldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.

  “Only thing is though,” he said, talking to my back, “we got a rule that nobody can change their vote after it’s final.”

  Seconds after I heard his footsteps wa
lk away, Batman and Vysell walked over to me. I unsuccessfully tried to twist away from them as the tears kept dripping down my cheeks.

  “Parker told me I got voted out this afternoon. Him and Stovepipe both blackballed me.”

  “Oh my God,” Batman mumbled.

  “What can we do about it?” Vysell gasped.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing you guys can do. Nothing anybody can do.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. His voice sounded like an exhaled whisper.

  “Yeah I’m sure. Parker said all votes are final. But since I helped him out this afternoon, he said knew he made a mistake and would try to correct it as soon as he got back to the house. But he didn’t think he could.”

  26

  THE POON TANG PALACE

  AS STOVEPIPE FLUNG OPEN THE DOORS OF THE TRUCK, I blindly looked straight through him and climbed down mechanically, not really caring if I fell down and hit my head on the street and died. I was nothing but a zombie anyway. A living dead man. The fraternity house suddenly felt as foreign to me as if I never was there before.

  Adams was on the front stairs holding both arms up, palms facing us. “No pledges inside. We got serious active business to do. And we don’t want any of you guys around.”

  “What time is it?” I asked Holmes who was standing next to me.

  “Little after eleven.”

  Most of the guys were gathered around Grossberg on the lawn. “Let’s go to the Poon Tang Palace,” he suggested, laughing. “Sounds like fun.”

  Except for me, everybody seemed enthusiastic.

  “Stafford. What’s the matter with you?” Watson asked, probably happy to see my misery.

  “Indigestion,” I mumbled.

  “You coming with us?” Grossberg asked.

  I nodded. I had nowhere else to go. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  _____

  No signs told any prospective guests that this gray, cinderblock building on a side street in a commercial neighborhood off Abbot Kinney in Venice was an adult motel. It was built in a straight line like a railroad car, perpendicular to the street and looked like a drab warehouse. Had Hector not given us the address, nobody could’ve guessed what it was.

  “How’s all my witnesses tonight?” Hector asked, still wearing the phony neck collar as we squeezed into the motel office.

  “Great,” Rickshaw Boy answered with enthusiasm, getting right to the point. “When do we see pussy?”

  “Look at that,” Lyman said to nobody in particular, pointing to a small, olive sign with black lettering hanging on the back wall that said THEME ROOMS.

  Hector smiled broadly. “We got every kind of room here.”

  “What do you mean?” Castle asked.

  “The owners, three brothers, used to work at Paramount Studios. One was in set design, one was in wardrobe, and the other guy was a cameraman. Fixed this place up and got so rich they quit the studio last month. They’re here full time now.”

  “What’d they do here?”

  “Julian, the set design guy, designed each of the rooms with a special theme.”

  “Like what?” Grossberg asked.

  “We got a dungeon for S&M, a French whore’s bedroom, an office room, a room with fake grass—”

  “Fake grass, what’s that for?” Dung interrupted.

  “Girls wear cheerleader’s uniforms in there with no panties and jump up and down leading cheers for the people in there with them.”

  “Cool,” Rainey said licking his lips.

  “A hospital room,” Hector continued, “where nurses in white uniforms give patients blowjobs, a honeymoon suite for orgies, and a drive-in movie room with a ‘57 Caddy parked in the middle of the room.” He smiled. “A lot of people like to fuck in the car.”

  In spite of everything, I was starting to get in the mood a little. “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Gays like the firehouse room”

  “What’s that?”

  “Like inside a firehouse, with a long pole where one gay guy ties up the other before beatings or ass-fucking.”

  “What does this place need a wardrobe guy for?” Castle asked.

  “Clothes are hung on a rack in each room that goes with the room’s theme. For the customers to wear if they want to really get into the role.”

  “I don’t understand something,” Dung asked. “How does the cameraman film the people without them knowing it?”

  “Like I said, there’s a two-way mirror over the chest of drawers in each room. The back side of the mirror is completely painted black except for a small round spot in the right bottom corner that the lens of the video camera faces. A guy hides in the hidden corridor behind the room and looks in the lens in the video camera and videotapes the people having sex.”

  “What do you do with the videotape?” Batman asked.

  “They sell it on the Internet and from ads in sex magazines.”

  Hector handed Vysell a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of what theme is in what room number. The number that’s painted on the corridor wall under where the cameras are located tell you what room number you’re looking into.”

  “Any recommendations?” Rickshaw Boy asked.

  “Yeah, Room 7,” he said quickly. “The room with fake grass. Three girls wearing cheerleader outfits with no panties were jumping up and down cheering on two lesbians going down on each other. I was filming them about fifteen minutes ago. Pretty hot girls, those cheerleaders. And so are the lesbians.”

  “No shit?” Rainey said, almost salivating.

  “Yeah. And in Room 4, the honeymoon suite, two couples are in there having an orgy. At least the last time I checked, they were, about an hour ago.”

  “Right on.”

  “Why would anybody want an office room?” Rawlings asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hector answered, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess office-type guys like to get it on with sluts pretending they’re having sex in their own offices. But who the hell knows?” He paused. “You guys ready to go in?”

  “Fucking-A,” Grossberg answered for everybody, including me.

  _____

  “Got to be absolutely quiet in here,” Hector whispered to all of us entering the nearly dark hallway behind the rooms. The only light that came in was around the edges of where the video camera faced the mirror. “The walls between the rooms are like cement and none of the people in the rooms could hear each other. But the wall facing the camera with the mirror is normal drywall. People in the rooms can hear corridor noises.” He looked around. “You guys got that?”

  “Yeah,” came our mumbling answer from bobbing heads.

  I think all these horny guys would risk being eaten by Jaws in order to see hot sex right now.

  “When you leave,” Hector whispered, “have somebody come tell me so I can lock this door again from the outside.” He smiled. “Have fun watching but don’t anybody jack off on my floor.”

  Dung closed the door gently and me and all my soon-to-be ex-pledge brothers quietly started walking slowly down the dark hallway. The scene looked something like when I was in the Monterey Aquarium a while ago, walking in the dark and looking into the lighted fish tanks.

  Everybody spread out, peering into each of the rooms through the small eyepiece of a video camera resting on a tripod, aimed exactly at the circular portion of the two-way mirror.

  I pointed to Room 12 that was closest on the right side. “What’s in here?” I asked Vysell.

  He checked the chart. “S&M,” he whispered.

  I looked inside. Some fat, naked guy with a shaved head was lying face-down on a bed with his wrists and ankles tied to the bed frame with rope. A sandy-haired, teen-age boy barely older than the ones in Chesterfield’s kiddy-porn photos was wearing a baby bonnet, baby bib, and a diaper, and kept fiercely smacking the fat guy’s ass with a brown leather whip. The whip had to be a movie prop since the heavy blows left no welts. I turned away with disgust.

  Vysell was checking Room 11 thro
ugh the camera lens.

  “What’s in there?” I asked.

  He stepped away. “The drive-in room. Gnarly. Take a look.”

  I closed my left eye and peered through the camera lens with my right eye. Both doors were removed from the car that had gigantic fins like the Batmobile. A young, naked, coco-skinned guy was fucking this blue-black, Aborigine-looking girl who was dressed only in a tan and white flowery bra. Her head was on the seat under the steering wheel which she gripped with both hands using it for leverage while rhythmically pumping up and down under the Hershey bar’s wild gyrations.

  “Moving right along,” Vysell said, heading toward Room 9 straight ahead.

  “What’s in here?”

  He checked the chart. “The Office.”

  I peeped inside. A stylish, gray-haired woman about fifty in a charcoal suit wearing tons of jewelry and too much makeup, was sitting behind a desk on a high-backed chair. Beneath her legs that were spread wide apart was a naked, muscular guy like from Chippendales, going down on this bitch. Seconds later they traded places and the old dame was slurping the young guy’s long, slimy cock.

  They looked revolting so I crept down the hallway hoping to spot something sexy. But it was really hard to get in the mood. All the time I kept wondering why the actives were having a special meeting unless it was to reinstate me as a pledge. But probably it was just wishful thinking.

  “Where’s Room 7 with the cheerleaders and the lesbians?” I asked Batman.

  He checked the chart. “Over there,” he pointed.

  We walked a few feet away and checked the room out. It must’ve been frozen in time since the cheerleaders were still prancing around, bouncing up and down while flashing their pussies at the lesbians who were ignoring them while devouring each other in the sexiest sixty-nine scene I ever saw.

  “That’s dope,” I said to Batman, stepping away. “Check it out. Best scene yet.”

  A minute later he backed away, looking as horny as me.

  Farther down the hall, Batman was standing in front of Room 4, waiting for Dung to step away from the camera lens.

  “What’s in there?” I asked.

  “The orgy in the Honeymoon Room.” Dung purred, almost in a trance. “Two naked girls wearing strap-on dildos are fucking two guys in the ass who’re dressed in lingerie! Hottest thing I ever saw!”