Note to the reader-
First off, on a personal point,
a huge thanks to anyone who
voted for my story "There's
Something Terribly Wrong with
Clown" for this quarter's Member's Choice award.
I'm truly honored.
And also a congratulations to my colleague
and friend, Pat75, for the story "Anna", which
will share MC honors with me this quarter.
Now, back to work I go.
This story isn't really a potty-mouth throwdown
like the title would suggest.
Rather, it's an idea I've been kicking around for
a few months and really wanted to do after the
success of "Clown".
In your comments, please tell me your thoughts
on the story. I would love to hear them.
Cheers and thanks,
Signed,
the Rabbit.
CHUCK GETS FUCKED
Steve Miller once said, “You’ve got to go to hell before you get to heaven.” Yeah, Steve Miller was a lying bastard. No pearly gates at the end of my day. No big reward. No man in a beard. Just me and my lonely ass in this damn eatery at the front of a retail establishment…waiting for my shift to start.
Some anonymous goon walks over and sits across from me. He should feel honored. Usually, sitting across from me without permission is a hell worthy trespass. Luckily, I’m expecting him.
He opens his mouth and stinks of 40s and 100 reds. “Chuck?”
Putting down my tablet which I had been reading a digital copy of Preacher on, I look up at my guest. What a fucking loser. Dear God, are those dreadlocks? You’re white! Dress it! “Yes, that’s me. Do you have the items I ordered?”
“Yeah, Daggett says you cool, man. So, I got that hook-up for you.” He reaches into his filthy boyfriend jacket, nervously looks left then right, and pulls out a small sandwich bag with two brown, gooey cakes in it. “Yo, these ain’t light. Heavy shit in there man.”
I examine them keenly with my palm and reach back to pull out my wallet. He jumps in relentless paranoia, a victim of his own presumed drug abuse and reuse. “Chill, Junkie Brewster, I’m just getting my bill-fold.” I open it up. These funny cakes better be on the up and up. Only got thirty greenbacks left. “How much?”
“Two pack special, homeboy. Twenty-five and we’ll call it even, son.”
The desire to call the police and have them lock this piece of trash up blows up my five senses. Not for the drugs. God, no! I LOVE drugs. But just for the idea of chemical castration. We can take no risks. We have to stop ones like this from procreating.
I exhume a Jackson and a Lincoln from the back of my wallet and slide it to him on the eatery’s table. In quick order, he slides me the baggie and shoves the bills into his jacket pocket. I pick up the baggie and pop it open. These cakes might look like something chocolaty and delicious, but they smell like the armpits of an opium den attendant. I remove one of the cakes from the bag and shove it in my mouth, much to the junkie’s dismay.
“Yo yo yo! You can’t take them here, man! You gonna get too fucked up!”
The sinister sweetness of the batch slides its way down my throat and into my esophagus. I smile an evil grin and pop open a can of Austrian go-go juice, chugging it in five seconds flat. The chugging is followed up by a very impressive belch.
“Dude! You can’t be mixin’ this shit wit’ the Bull! You gon’ get seriously fucked up, kid!” He rubs his eyes in what is apparently this little shit’s only way of expressing displeasure at something.
I take the second brownie from the bag, chug a second can, shove the brownie into my mouth, and mix the terrible energy drink taste with the repellant cocoa subtext of the brownies before swallowing the whole mix in one impressive slurp. “Listen, you mother fucker…” I point at him and notice a butterfly on my fingertip. “Ho-ho-hooooly shit…isn’t it beautiful?”
“Dude, you tripping already? I’m the fuck outta here. Go home. Sleep this shit off.”
The butterfly flies away. Get back here, you fluffy little bastard! I want to ask you what life in a cocoon is like. “Can’t go home. There’s work to be done! I’m…” I stand up and throw my hands on my waist. After all, I am goddamn Clark Kent. “a Customer Service Manager.” I make a blowing noise with my mouth and fake flying away.
I walk out to the registers which stand opposite the store's eatery. At the manager’s podium, conveniently placed smack dab in the middle of the check-outs, Daggett sits waiting for me. Without realizing it, I turn foot and walk away from him.
“Hey, Chuck, let me talk to you!”
I gotta go. I gotta go. Walk faster. Walk faster.
* * *
Halfway through the day and I’m just about ready to pop. It’s mid-day cash-outs and my manager’s manager is walking right next to me. How’s he staying so cool with all these goddamn locusts? They’re so ugly and there’s so many of them. God damn biblical creatures of hell! I’ll kill them all! I take a swipe at one and miss it as it flies away. Until next time, you bastards, until next time.
I mutter under my breath staring at them, “…until next time.”
Jorge turns to me as we reach the cash room. “What did you say?”
I snap out of my locust trance and look at him. He’s such a hypocrite. Wears a badge that says his real birth name and expects everyone to call him the American version. “Nothing, Jorge.”
“Please, call me George, Chuck.”
“You got it, George Chuck.”
He stops at the second security door. This is my turn. Upper management has the first code. Lead customer service manager has the second. Good ol’ checks and balance! Just like Washington wanted it! Ehh, Washington with his fucking wooden teeth. Washington…what a wannabe. Wait, what? Why all the W’s?
I flub my code on the first try. Damn it, Chucky, get it together, man! On a second attempt, I get it right. 4-6-9-1. I do a Tiger Woods celebratory fist pump to account for the success.
Jorge/George looks at me and grabs my shoulders with both of his hands. “Chuck, que pasa, huh? You look like mierda, boy.”
“Butterflies…and…bastard locusts…and Bible talk with your host…”
“What? Hey, listen to me. I want you to go take a break and get your shit together, boy. You look higher than the Space Needle.”
We walk out of the office. I finally feel like euphoric hits of hallucinatory activities are fading off. Probably should tell George this. I turn to him. WHAT THE FUCK?! When did that beret and beard come from?
“Remember, Senor Chuck, ‘It’s a sad thing not to have friends, but it is even sadder not to have enemies.’” He takes a drag on his pipe and points at the red star on his beret.
Sweat covers my face and I look out at all the cashiers. At one time, every single number light begins to flash and the customers jump up onto the conveyor belts and begin thrusting their hips in a synchronized dance. In turn, the cashiers begin to sing along to the Gorillaz classic “Electric Shock” whilst performing the bus driver dance famous in the 70s. My God, I think I might be tripping harder than expected.
I begin to rush and see a familiar pair of gloves hanging out of a young man’s khakis. “Hey, Clown! Man, am I glad to see--”
The man turns to me and I swear to God something is wrong with him. It’s Pennywise the fucking Clown. What the fuck! Pennywise! Run!
“Hey, Chuck? You alright?” asks the beast in an imitation of Clown's normal voice.
“Fuck you, Pennywise! I will find some silver and I will fucking murder you.”
Still in the Clown Barker voice, the six foot tall pale-faced clown says, “Pennywise, huh?” The beast smiles his big sharpened teeth smile and says in the most sinister voice ever, “Come down here, Chuck! We all float down here…”
I turn and pace myself toward the eatery. Got to get away from all these dancers, evil clowns, and revolutionary leaders. Got to get away fast!
I order a cheeseburger and some fries and sit down at my original seat. My face and my hands meet in an attempt at escaping the reality I have created with the prolific use of acid, marijuana, and angel dust-laced brownies and energy drinks. I look up and see a physical copy of Preacher staring me in the face. Finally, some normalcy!
I open up a conversation with the person sitting behind the comic book. “Hey, that’s actually a great edition. That’s the one where Jesse and Cassidy…”
“…fight the citizens of San Francisco’s Gomorrah. I know…Ennis and Dillon really put a lot of effort into this one.” My guest puts down his copy of Volume Two and shows me his face. I don’t need to see it. I already know that voice. It’s the same one I hear every time I have to talk to myself in my head. Looking straight ahead, I gulp in anticipation and try not to shriek as I look into the dark abyss that is my doppelganger, my subconscious, my inner monologue, my superego.
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be? Evil Chuck?”
“Hey, hey, hey! I prefer ‘Less Likely to Do Good’ Chuck.”
“You hear to tell me something?”
He crosses his hands the same way I do and looks straight into my face. His eyes are a different shade of green than mine and his hair is black instead of brown, but, all in all, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference in a line-up. “Not really, no. This isn’t Star Wars. I’m not here with some prevalent information that’s going to help you later on in the story. You’re tripping balls right now and imagining yourself sitting next to and talking to yourself.”
My eyes open in a deer-in-the-headlights gaze. “You’re me?”
“No, I’m you. I’m the fake one. You’re the real one. Don’t get this confused. Then this trip will go from good to bad real quick. Loss of self is the worst thing that can happen. Just sit back and enjoy our conversation, Chuck.”
“Order six is up!”
I get up and walk over to the counter where my tray of greasy fast food is waiting for me. I take two deep breaths and return to my table where my subconscious is expecting my return.
He pulls out a black clove cigarette and lights it with the same kind of Zippo that I carry in my pocket.
“You can’t smoke in here. We’re indoors.” I reach over to grab the Djarum out of his hand but he pulls it away in protest.
“I can smoke in here, genius; I’m a figment of your imagination.” He takes a long toke from the delicious smelling tobacco.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Kind of behind on the times of what’s real and what’s not. You’ll have to excuse me.” I begin to grub on my food. No sense in not eating. Sure, I’m imagining myself across from me. And sure, I’m probably going to lose some brain cells. But, man, am I having the best time ever.
“You know, you really should stop eating so much unhealthy food, Chuck. All the cheeseburgers and French fries in the world won’t help the opposite sex find you anymore attractive. That’s why you haven’t been able to fall in love since Lily left.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think Lily left me because of my over-eating of fast food. She left me to go to school in Oxford. Surely you remember that. It’s your fucking job to remember shit for me.” I finish my cheeseburger and begin working on the fried strands of potato.
“It’s also my job to remember the shit you’ve unconsciously blocked out. Like that Facebook post she made about how that new guy is, how’d she put it, ‘Sooooo effing hawt. Oh em gee! I’m like in ell-oh-vee-ee!’.” He finishes his cigar and puts it out on the bare table. It sizzles and crackles in a feeble attempt at staying lit.
“I don’t want to talk about that, man.”
“Okay, so let’s talk about some more pressing matters. Why don’t we talk about Daggett and the…”
“I don’t want to talk about that either.”
My subconscious starts to become visibly upset. “Then what the fuck do you want to talk about?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that and I realized this…I was tripping when I first saw you and now I’m coming down off that trip. My heart isn’t beating as fast. My eyes aren’t blurry. I’m not imagining the cashiers and customers doing a synchronized dance number anymore. All in all, you are the only thing left from the things in the baggie. That tells me that I want you here and that you have something to tell me.”
“Chucky, I only have one thing to tell you…friends who bully you into risking your job, risking your career-hell!-risking your life…they aren’t friends you should align yourself with. I know we’ve had it tough. Our personality doesn’t make us good friend-making material. But Daggett isn’t your friend. He’s using you.”
“I know…that’s why I gave him…”
“Who are you talking to, man?”
I flip around to see Daggett standing behind me with a cheeseburger combo of his own and the most incredulous look I’ve ever seen on another man. Already knowing what I’d find out when I did, I turn to see that my dark duplicate has vanished back into my head. “No one. Just talking to…myself.”
“Riiiiight.” Daggett sits his tray down across from me. He leans in and begins to whisper. “Hey, remember…don’t come to work next Tuesday, alright?”
I wearily nod my head and avoid eye contact with him.
“Hey, also…and I don’t want to sound like a broken record…but, I just wanna verify the second code for the cash room, okay?”
“Sure, what number did I give you?”
“1-1-6-7?”
I nod my head slowly. “Yes, that sounds about right.”