Back into the hole we climbed out of

Dick was a Hall of Fame stalker.

Or “private eye”, as he called himself.

I shot up on some ‘roids to help with my low T when I got pissed off.

“That mother fucker,” I though. “He borrowed $15 from me ten years ago and never paid me back.”

I was of course thinking of Nicky Wallz, a bouncer at a strip club I once frequented. I lost touch with him after the joint got shot up in a disastrous FBI raid.

“I’m gonna beat his ass,” I thought. But I didn’t know where to find him.

Dick was sitting there, cutting away a slice of deer meat with his sawtooth Bowie, when I asked him: “I need you to find me a Nicky Wallz.”

“Aye mate,” he replied. “The price es steep though lad. Ya donnae have a penny to yur name. I just a might be callin n a favour from ya.”

“Just find him.”

Weeks went by. In my restlessness, I began bulking and sculpting. I fought every shit heel in the bar that wanted some, smashing glass and busting heads…all in preparation for my showdown with Nicky Wallz. But Dick was dragging his ass.

“Hey Dick!” I yelled. “What’s the word on Nicky? I told you to find him seven weeks ago. You better not be cruising the the rest stops again.”

“Oy mate, I see ya lookin’ fit lad. But donnae talk to me like tha again. Or else I’ll stab ya in the scrote,” he replied.

“Oh you want some of this?”

“Aye I do.”

We both removed our shirts, displaying our perfectly sculpted abs and chest. Before we fought, we rubbed each other in oil…down our arms, down our legs…before removing our underwear, where I used the oil to rub his magnificent c—…..

Anyways, after venting my frustrations, Dick asked me, “Aye mate, why you bein such a snoot lately? What is it with this Nicky fella?”

I didn’t know how to answer.

“Perhaps I just haven’t noticed how the time has passed,” I said. “I’m getting older. I’m losing friends, acquaintances. Maybe they’ve moved on and I haven’t. I just feel like I’ve learned nothing. Nothing of importance. Nothing about myself.”

We sat in silence for a few moments.

Dick spoke up. “Well lad, I found him weeks ago but didnae wanna tell ya. Maybe let sleepin’ dogs lie yeah?”

Maybe he was right. Nevertheless…

“Where is he?” I asked.

Dick and I went down to the Los Angeles County Hospital, Psych Ward B. The doctor warned us to handle Nicky with utmost care. The nurses were handing out meals to the patients when I walked up to Nicky and slapped the trey out of his hands.

“Recognize me asshole!” I said.

Amazed, Nicky said, “James, you’re alive old friend?”

“Still?! Old friend?!” I said. “Where’s my $15 you piece of shit?”

“Is that what this is about? Money? Nothing else?” he replied.

“What do you mean?”

“James, when I was 15, I was homeless and sleeping under a car. An older woman found me and took me in. She fed me. Clothed me. And gave me an education. We were close. Too close. We began a forbidden love affair. It was wrong, we both knew that. We tried to hide it, but the authorities found out. They took her away but not before we sired a child. That woman was Jenny, your mother.”

“Horseshit,” I said.

“Not horseshit. My only regret is never having the heart to tell you. After that strip club got shot up to absolute shreds, I never recovered. That’s why I’m here, because I just can’t bear the guilt of knowing who I am.”

Dick and me left the hospital in quiet contemplation. Could it be true? How could my mother have hid this from me?

We wandered back to the car then I pulled out a cigarette. I said to Dick:

“Damn, I should have asked for more than $15.”

Stop shi€£ing all over the place!

I’m gonna apologize ahead of time for this one.

“Weaver’s my name. Dick Weaver,” the tall burly Scotsman told me. “I was a whaler fer 13 year. Been a private eye fer 15.”

The man was covered in hair from head to toe. He wore only plaid. And denim.

His jeans were tight.

I put out an add for a roommate to help with rent. Dick was the only one who responded.

Dick sat down, pulled a cracker out of his toboggan, then started munching.

“Listen here young lad, let’s set some ground rules. Me bein a private dick, I do ne wanchya snoopin around me business. If I catch ya, I’ll kill ya. If I see ya sippin on me Irn-bru, I’ll kill ya. If I catch ya eatin me powsowdie, I’ll eat yur cock for breakfast,” he told me.

“Fair enough,” I said.

After I showed him his bedroom, he grunted for a bit and then slammed the door. I went to bed.

The next morning, Dick was hanging up clandestinely taken pictures of naked women on the wall.

“You said you were a private eye, right?” I asked.

“Aye”

“Is this a special case you’re working on?” I inquired.

“What business is that of yurs? Eh boy? Ask again an I’ll crack open ye noggin!” Dick angerly retorted.

“I was just asking. Jesus!”

That night, I was lying in bed when I heard some stomping around then considerable hootin’ n hollerin’ outside. It was none of my business. Hours later, Dick came stumbling into my room drunk as all get-out.

“Aye boy, I got to bein pissed at the pub an met a nice ol hen behin tha bar. Aye brought er here but she got to slippin digits n me hole. Aye it was a’right first but then I shat me britches,” he said.

“So you were smashing ass and then you shit the bed?”

“Aye. I cannae sleep because the sheets are covered in shite.”

“Well climb on in.”

Dick got under the covers. We shared a shot of whisky and a few tales of his time at sea before falling fast asleep.

The next morning, I awoke to find Dick wide awake and his hair-swirled chest in full view. I was fully clothed.“Top of the mornin’ to ya,” he said.

He climbed out of bed and his buttcheeks were beaten blood red.

“Aye boy,” Dick said. “I s’pose I should be congratulatin ya. You rammed me a new one!”

THE END

Dale’s gonna be okay

So Dale took me hostage at gunpoint in the breakroom. The boss walked in and saw me in a chokehold with a Smith & Wesson to my head and called the police. The cops subsequently called in a hostage negotiator.

I was in no mood to put up with this shit.

“Just shoot me already, Dale. Let’s get this over with,” I said.

The cops had the building surrounded with their weapons drawn and ready to shoot. The negotiator came out over his loud speaker:

“Dale, my name is Philip, we’re all here to help you. Tell us, what can we do for you?”

“Listen you mother fuckers!,” Dale said. “I just want to talk to my wife and kids again, a little respect, and a plane ticket to Columbia!”

“Okay okay. We can get you the plane ticket, but we need you to drop your weapon,” the negotiator replied.

“No! If I don’t get what I want I will blow this dipshit’s brains out! Tell him, James!” Dale declared.

“He will!” I said. “But don’t worry about it. I’m ready to die.”

Then a sniper round went through Dale’s leg, severing a major artery, and spraying blood everywhere. Dale screamed in agonizing pain, begging for death.

I was okay

But facing my own mortality made me ask some difficult questions: should I pay my mother’s nursing home expenses or should I pay my gambling debts?

I visited Dale in the hospital and he appeared to be in better spirits.

“Great news Jim,” he said. “It appears my violent tendencies lately have been due to a bad interaction with my medications! So now I’m on Xanax!”

“Oh that’s good to hear! What about your wife and kids?” I asked.

“Oh don’t worry about that. I’m sure my wife will lift that restraining order eventually.”

“What about your assault charges?,” I asked.

“Welp, I took a plea deal so now it’s 14,000 hours of community service and I have to register as a sex offender. But no jail time 😎”

So I decided to not press charges against Dale for threatening my life and putting others in danger.

After all, everyone has bad days.

Remembering ‘Friday Night Lights’

Went on a date for the first time since 2003. With a woman. When she came to my house and noticed the pictures on the wall, a collage of all the important people in my life, she asked “is this your father?”

I said “No, that’s Coach Eric Taylor, molder of men. The greatest coach of high school football in Texas history.”

Puzzled, she then asked “umm, is this your brother?”

I replied “No, that’s Matt Saracen, the quarterback for the Dillon Panthers during their championship run. He was thrusted into action after Jason Street suffered a life altering injury. He wasn’t the most talented quarterback, but he had a lot of heart. Are you fucking stupid?”

Friday Night Lights is the greatest television show of all time. Probably always will be.

I have a lot of regrets. I spend a lot of time thinking about them. And it’s very hard to capture that feeling of reflection…of nostalgia…when you reflect on events in one’s life. Movies and TV definitely have a hard time capturing that that sensation.

This is where FNL excels. Watching it is like reaching back into one’s past. Complimented by its dreamy soundtrack, the cinematography is an achievement in its own right.

Honestly, the cinematography, music, and actors bail out what is occasionally terrible writing. I mean, one season is about how a character murders somebody…and amazingly gets away with it. It’s a misstep that any other television show could never recover from. But FNL did.

Also, after spending three emotionally charged seasons with an outstanding set of characters, we get introduced to a different set of characters that take over the storylines. Few shows can pull that off.

It’s brilliant.

It also changed my life. I couldn’t watch the series finale because I was crying too much because I was REALLY fucking high.

“But James, I don’t like American football.”

That’s horseshit and you know it.

As Coach Taylor says: “Everyone loves football, they just don’t know it yet.”