Mer Rouge (part 4)

Oren hopped back into the pick up and immediately cut on the engine. He watched the rear view mirror as Hutch sauntered over to Kal’s Kountry Katina with hands in his pockets and one shoe untied. After he disappeared into the thicket of bikers and roughnecks, Oren slumped in the driver’s seat with his hood up. As he approached the bar, the locals looked Hutch up and down. He simply flashed his aw-shucks smile and trudged past them. When he swung open the door, clouds of cigarette smoke bellowed out and the sounds of roaring Harleys outside were replaced with riotous laughter and clanking beer bottles. Above all the noise was the cracking of billiard balls bouncing into one another. Hutch simply shrugged and approached the bar. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” he repeated as he snaked past the towering leatherbound patrons. When he reached the bar, he slammed his hand onto the sticky wood and called for the bartender.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” the faded blond barmaid asked him. She had a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“A beer,” Hutch said. “AND some information.” Then he held up two $1 bills and he slid the money across the bar. The barmaid didn’t react. “Four assholes stole some vacuum cleaners out of the back of a red 81’ Honcho,” he continued. “I wanna know who did it.”

“Honey, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Gonna play hardball eh?” Hutch dug into his pocket and rolled out a few more dimes. “Now tell me what you do know.”

“Sam!” the barmaid yelled. A stout fella with a leather vest and beer belly waddled towards the bar and hovered behind Hutch and crossed his arms. “What seems to be the problem?” Sam asked the barmaid.

“This fella here is acting like a dumbass,” she explained.

“Excuse me,” Hutch protested. “But a crime has been committed here and I’m trying to get to the bottom of it!”

“That’s what the police are for,” the barmaid said.

“The sheriff is right over there,” offered Sam.

Hutch looked across the bar towards the sheriff. He didn’t like what he saw. It was a tall, clean cut fella, also shirtless and donning only a leather vest. Curiously, the man sported numerous tattoos. Two of them stood out: an iron cross over his chest and a Nazi SS emblem on his forearm. Hutch nodded. “I think I’m good,” he said. “I think I’ll leave and drop this matter altogether.”

“You sure?” asked Sam. “He’s a nice guy and he’ll be happy to help.”

“I’m quite sure. Thanks.”

“Just a second, I’ll call him over. Hey Dirk!” Sam yelled out.

Dirk turned around. His eyes narrowed and he glared in Sam’s direction. When he saw this, Hutch swallowed hard. He knew that if he hadn’t clogged the toilet earlier in the night that he would have shat his pants right then and there. His mind raced. He contemplated making a beeline towards the exit. Then the barmaid returned. “Here’s your beer!” she said to Hutch.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 3)

Oren threw open the passenger’s side door and his brother nearly fell out. “What the hell?!” Hutch cried out.

“You had ONE job, Hutch! ONE job!,” Oren yelled. “You couldn’t stay awake for three minutes?!”

“I was tired!”

“And now all of the vacuums are gone!”

Hutch raised an eyebrow and strained his neck trying to look out the rear view window. When he saw that the bed was empty, he furrowed his brow and faced his brother. “No worries,” he calmly explained. “We’ll just go to the police.”

“The police ain’t gonna do shit!”

Oren restrained himself from swinging at his brother. Since there was nothing to be done, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. But Hutch, in a rare moment of self awareness, was embarrassed by his lack of vigilance. He unbuckled himself from the passenger’s seat and stepped out. While Oren was busy choking back tears of rage, he looked around the town square. It was a Friday night and the square was poppin’. The engines of Harley’s and Dodge Ram’s roared up and down the road and they all migrated around the local tavern like moths to a light. Figuring he had to do something, he consoled his brother.

“There there,” Hutch said as he patted Oren’s shoulder. “There’s no shame in a grown man crying. I would never cry in front of another man but it’s okay if you do. So why don’t you sit in the truck while I wander over to the watering hole. Surely someone over there saw something.”

Oren wiped his eyes and nose and looked towards the tavern. It would have been comical if it wasn’t so tragic. Kal’s Komfy Kantina the sign read in gothic lettering. As if that wasn’t enough, a prominent flaming cross was the finishing touch. To Oren, this wasn’t a promising start. But before Hutch marched in its direction, he grabbed his brother by the elbow. “If you get in trouble there,” explained Oren, “I can’t help you.”

Hutch shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 2)

Dusk was settling over the delta when they crossed the state line. Oren’s heart sank. His eyes gazed over the flat cotton fields of scraggly trees and twisted debris left over from a long ago storm. A bloated deer carcass was chained to a pillar holding a sign reading Welcome to Louisiana. They were going 8-0 southbound down 165. Oren uncapped a bottle of Bacardi and took a swig. “We need to get in and out, ya hear?” he told Hutch.

“But I gotta piss.”

“You’re gonna have to hold it.”

As he gripped the steering wheel, Oren’s palms turned clammy. Then, when he nearly finished the half pint of Bacardi, they entered the outskirts of Mer Rouge. Hutch scanned the surroundings. As they passed a decrepit yet lively Gulf gas station, he noticed reams of pickups parked outside. As he looked closer, some had dead boars tied to the hood while patrons sauntered into the establishment with shoguns slung over their shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re worried about,” said Hutch. “People seem friendly enough around here.”

“Look at you. Look at me. Notice a difference?”

Hutch cocked his head. “What? Is it because I’m Italian?”

A little further down the road, Oren’s red 81 Jeep Honcho entered the small yet bustling town center and he quietly hoped his Utah tags wouldn’t draw attention. On the other side of the square, off to the right, was Fred’s Hardware Store. Oren pulled past the gaggle of bikers and camo-covered farmers who were drifting into the local watering hole. He squeezed his truck into the tight parking space. Before he climbed out, he left the engine running. “Keep an eye on the shit in the back,” he warned Hutch. Then he slammed the door shut.

The bell dinged as he stepped inside. From behind the counter, a fellow in a blue button up and red hat looked up from his issue of the Louisiana Gazette. This was presumably Fred. Oren placed his hands in his pockets and hastily wandered the aisles searching for a toilet plunger. When he found a row of them in the back, he picked one up and took it to the register. Fred chewed his gum and didn’t move an inch. “From around here boy?” he asked.

Oren stammered. “Uh yeah, I’m from across the border. In Arkansas.”

“Then why do you have Utah plates on that fancy truck of yours?”

“It’s uh. Its my sister’s.”

“Your sister’s huh? So what are you carrying in the bed?”

“Nothin.”

“Nothin?”

“Vacuum cleaners.”

“Vacuum cleaners,” Fred pondered. He popped the gum in his mouth and rang up the plunger. “Well ain’t that a damn shame.”

“What’s a shame?” Oren asked as he pulled out his billfold.

“Oh nuthin. I would have sold them boys a vacuum cleaner at a decent price had they come in here.”

Oren turned around. He saw a flock of hooligans on the other side of the window reach into the bed of his Honcho. Each of them was carrying a large box with a sketch of a vacuum cleaner on the front. Forgoing the plunger, Oren sprinted outside and shouted. “Hey hey hey! What the hell?!,” he screamed. But the youths sprinted off into the woods with his cargo.

“Goddamnit!” he yelled. Then he peeked into the cab. Hutch was sound asleep.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 1)

The shit water cascaded down the bowl and onto the cold tiled floor like brownish rapids over the Armagosa. Oren was helpless to do anything about it. His brother had a cursed ass which shat out turds as thick as tungsten and wide as a rolling pin. Feeling helpless, the elder brother wanted to shake his fist at the heavens for this family curse, yet the comfort of depression sat in knowing this was his cross to carry. Then, seeming unbothered, the younger brother looked to his distressed sibling. “I tried to courtesy flush,” explained Hutch. “But it all came out in one piece. My sphincter wasn’t strong enough to break it up.”

He was splayed out across the bed while thumbing through the latest issue of Hot Rod.

Oren rubbed his hand over his chin and thought. He stood at the threshold of the bathroom as the water inched towards his feet. Finally the toilet completed the filling cycle and the full gravity of wretched stench ass filled his nostrils. Oren winced. “Christ,” he said aloud. But he assessed the damage and concluded it was manageable. Braving the elements, he stepped into the inch-thick pool of boo-boo water and searched for a plunger, first under the sink and then by the toilet. Nothing. Oren exited the bathroom and wiped bits of shit and toilet paper from the bottom of his boots onto the nylon carpet.

“Go to the lobby and ask for a plunger,” he ordered Hutch. “I’ll try to get this shit cleaned up.”

“But what do I say?”

“You walk up to the guy at the front desk and ask him if he has a plunger.”

“But what if he doesn’t?”

“Goddamn, Hutch!”

“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?!”

“If room service comes in here tomorrow and sees your shit on the floor, we’re gonna get kicked out of yet another hotel room!”

“But I’m afraid!”

“Afraid of what?!”

“That the hotel man will get mad at me.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Hutch! Just come with me!”

Hutch climbed off the bed and followed Oren down the hallway and into the lobby. The man at the front desk was tall. Lean. He was hunched over the desk and heavily engaged in the latest issue of Water Fowler magazine. He hardly looked up to see the two brothers approach him. “It chaps my ass that duck hunting season is over,” the receptionist said. He didn’t take his eyes off the magazine.

“Yeah that sucks,” said Oren. “Do you got a plunger?”

“Did you boys clog the shitter?”

“Yeah but it’s not too bad.”

“Well shit. Let me look back here.”

The hotel man lowered the mag and leisurely looked behind the desk. After five seconds of searching, the man shrugged. “Don’t look like we have nothin back here,” he explained. “Maintence won’t be here until Monday mornin. How bad is it?”

“Its not bad. Look, is there a hardware store near here?”

The hotel man closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his few wisps of hair. It appeared he was about to have an aneurysm. “I don’t reckon,” the man said. “Unless you want to head into Morehouse Parish.”

“Across the border?”

“Yessir.”

“Can you give me the name of the town?”

“Yessir. It’s some piss hole called Mer Rouge.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Ranking the 50 States (the ‘meh’ states)

These states are only slightly better than the ones on the prior list. Which isn’t saying much.

39. Massachusetts

No one wants to say it, but Massachusetts is the Florida of New England. And it’s a toss up as to which state is more racist.

38. Connecticut

Speaking of New England, Connecticut seems like it’s the only state in that region that has a meth lab problem. Plus there’s no real reason to live there unless you can’t afford NYC or Massachusetts.

37. Alabama

Alabama is what Mississippi would look like if the Magnolia State had any self-respect. Still though, Alabama doesn’t have much going for it other than college football.

36. Ohio

Like I’ve said before, I’ve only spent maybe 20 minutes in this state. But for whatever reasons, I just love to shit all over Ohio. Probably because, like Mississippi, people get so butt fuckin hurt when I do so.

35. Virginia

Unlike Maryland and Delaware, I acknowledge that Virginia is an actual state. But the northern half can go fuck itself, while the southern half should become a part of North Carolina.

34. North Carolina

I’m sure people love living here. Unfortunately this state hosts four ACC schools and all four of them suck.

33. Alaska

Beautiful state. But I don’t think Alaska catches the shit I think it deserves. People are weird, and not in a good way (unlike the next state on the list). It’s also cold and has a shit ton of grizzly bears. Fuck that.

32. Louisiana

I hate putting Louisiana this low. People are weird, but in a good way. And New Orleans might be the best shitty city in the US, which counts for A LOT in my book (and I like the food too). Unfortunately it might be the ugliest state geographically.

31. Pennsylvania

Pittsburgh is probably a cool place. And again, I’m sure people love living there. But the only knock against PA is Philadelphia. That is the most unfortunate city in the US

30. New Jersey

Now I know what you’re thinking: “Why is New Jersey ranked this high?”. And that’s a valid question. There are more assholes living in NJ than there are people. But I can appreciate that. If I found out tomorrow that I had to spend the rest of my life there, I wouldn’t be disappointed. I’d probably fit right in.

The Pitch: A Very Short Bio

They say Rome wasn’t built in a day.

They say you can’t count your chickens before they hatch.

They say you can’t shit where you eat.

They say I should seek therapy because everyone’s worried about me.

They say I have a drinking problem and that I shouldn’t mix downers with downers.

They say I have crippling debt and that I am months away from homelessness

Hi I’m James. And maybe they’re right. What do I know? Well let me tell you a little about myself.

I was born outside of a Denny’s in Scottsbluff, Nebraska in either late 1979 or 1981 depending on who you believe. I attended Norhwestern on an athletic scholarship, but was suspended for PED usage, and, in the words of the university, “cockfighting”.

So I hit the road. I hit up every strip club and drug den from Baton Rouge to New Orleans. I learned a lot about myself on that trip. I learned that sometimes growing up means putting your pants on one leg at a time. Sometimes it’s about changing your pants. Sometimes your pants just aren’t long enough and you accidentally expose your wiener.

But the most important thing in life is this: show up to court on time and pay all of your fines.

So I actually know quite a lot. And if you stick around, you might learn something too.

So stay tuned my friends….