The Longest Day (redux)...

Sweet merciful Dennis Franz I'm in worse shape than I thought! That little seven mile run I committed to last week turned out to be a bit more difficult than I expected.

As I was just about to clear the first quarter mile of my journey, I felt something seize up in my good leg and crumpled to the ground like a drunk with a wooden leg who foolishly attempts to run across a 7 mile bridge. The embarassment was severe. I quickly regained my composure and hobbled over to the guard rail overlooking the ocean, raised a white-knuckled fist into the air, and cursed the gods for their brashness. I vowed revenge.

A kind old man with a dirty yellow golf shirt and wrap-around glaucoma sunglasses motioned to me from a faded Grand Prix as I lay huddled on the ground kneading the ball of pain that had formed in my quadricep. The old man spoke in a voice that was tinier than Farrah Fawcett's nipples. Okay, I realize that as far as nipples go, Farrah's papilla mammae are titans in a world of men. In all seriousness, they resemble small uncut sausages. But in the grand scheme of things, they're actually quite small. We shall run with that idea for the analogy.

I cupped a hand to my ear and asked him to repeat himself. "Would you like a ride, my friend?" he asked. I simply couldn't imagine what it must have been about my present circumstances that conveyed helplessness and painted me as a specimen in need of hospitality. Surely it could not have been the fact that I lay heaped in a ball on the cement! OF COURSE I WOULD LIKE A RIDE, GOD DAMN IT!

After crawling the distance between the guard rail and the Grand Prix, I propped myself up by holding onto the trunk and then proceeded to hop on my wooden leg until my ass was firmly nestled in the backseat. "Andelay!" I shouted. Beads of perspiration cascaded down my forehead like Mexicans at a slip-and-slide party. The fat little droplets burned my eyes and further ignited my murderous rage. Again I cursed the gods!

Old man McGillicuddy proceeded to drive me over the bridge and into Key West. Though I still cannot comprehend how my travel companion managed to see the road whilst wearing those ocular monstrosities, I did not dare ask him for fear that my inquiry would cause him to second-guess his abilities and careen into the wrong lane.

Father Time dropped me off a few blocks away from Duval Street. I thanked him for his generosity and swore to one day repay the favor. It was a touching moment uncharacteristic of one so grizzled as myself and I was grateful for the bonding experience with a man old enough to be my father. Realizing that my masculinity was at stake, I punched the old man in the face and yelled "How dare you touch me there! I most certainly am not gay!" loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear.

As I sauntered away amidst the din of honking horns and angry catcalls, I started whistling the theme song to "Different Strokes" and ruminated that I'd like to father a few children of my own some day. I sometimes wonder whatever happened to those Drummond children in real life. Obviously, they are no longer working in television. With their intelligence and captivating personalities, they're surely doctors or lawyers by now!

I redirected my course towards a comfortable looking bench distanced approximately half a knot away. Fully aware that Key West has the largest homeless population per capita in the whole country, and afraid that one of the brigands might be occupying the bench by the time I covered the distance, I momentarily forgot about my sore leg and sprinted for the empty refuge.

At about the halfway point, my eyes connected with those of a particularly imposing derelict who was digging through a trash can on the other side of the bench. He recognized what I was on about and snarled. Crumbs from an old peanut butter sandwich powdered his chin and spittle lent a shine to his bottom lip. The bench was his territory, and he wanted me to know it.

Fearing that my reputation would suffer if I yielded to his wishes, I redirected my course once again and charged the hobo like I was Gary Busey...well just about anywhere. His angry brow lifted as his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open, allowing a large portion of partly chewed peanut butter sandwich to escape what would have been certain doom in his bowels. My enemy formed the ready position, and though I can't be sure, I believe my knuckles shuddered with excitement.

I was upon him seconds later. One quick jab to the forehead proved to be enough to knock him off balance. A quick thrust with me wooden leg came down so hard on his thigh bone that I believe mine ears detected a cracking sound. Old man strength coursed through my veins as I lifted the large metal trash can high above my head with the intent to smite me nemesis from this mortal coil. It was then that the transient surprised me. Like a feral animal backed into a corner, he proved to be quite ferocious when warranted.

The savage grabbed onto my good leg with both hands and fixed a monster bite on my calf muscle. The pain was dull and bearable, as all of his teeth had rotted out years before, but it was enough to catch me off my guard and force my very hands to drop the trash can onto me peg, causing me to fall on top of me adversary. I would see that he'd pay for such a bold move.

A quick elbow to the face served to slow the monster, and I repositioned myself so as to have the upper hand. I had to give it to the bastard...he could certainly take a beating. After several minutes of trading blows back and forth, I looked around with a partially closed eye and happened to notice that our little quarrel was attracting something of a crowd. A boy of no more than 10 stared at us with an expression of awe and bewilderment. He resembled a young Haley Joel Osment, my mortal enemy. There were tears streaming down his face as his mother struggled to tear him away from the scene.

"Give it up, marauder!" my enemy gargled through a mouth of blood. He simply didn't know when to quit! A quick headbutt to the face knocked him to the ground, and I held him there with my left hand while I loosened the peg from my stump with the intention of using it to bludgeon him about the frontal lobe. The hobo noticed what I was doing and flew into a rage. He contorted and bucked his body so violently that I'm surprised and somewhat disappointed that he didn't break his own back.

The brigand's erratic movement served to loosen my grip, and he scuttled towards the bench in a mad dash. Refusing to be thwarted, I kissed my wooden peg and prayed that her aim be true as I heaved her at my foe's skull. And true she was! My peg made a target of the transient's brain stem; seconds later, he slumped to the ground. I grabbed onto the wheelchair of a particularly nosey woman who gathered to witness the battle and forced myself into her lap. "Ride! To the bench, woman! Posthaste!"

The terrified young lady revved the engine of her motorized cart and delivered me to my spoils - or in this case, my spoil - at a very dramatic speed of 5 mph. I looked down at my opponent, who was unconscious as I suspected and in no shape to endure more physical abuse. Had he extended his fingers, they would have been touching the leg of the bench and I might have felt obligated to proclaim him the winner. But as things ended up, the bench was mine!

I leered at the stunned spectators, winked, lowered me cap on me brow, and streched the ole bones in preparation for a few hours of much needed shut-eye. No sooner had I closed me eyes when all of a sudden there came a gentle tapping on me arm. I lashed out violently and gripped the hand of me assailant with a mean's to displace the bones. As I pulled the brigand closer to get a good look at him before extinguishing his life force forever, who do I see but the curious young boy whose mother had tried to drag away a few moments prior? And what does the little scalawag have in his hand but me peg?!

I apologized for nearly causing irreparable damage to the skeletal structure of his hand and gave the boy a large chunk out of a partially eaten donut that I had salvaged from a dumpster not more than a few hours earlier as a way of saying thanks. He smiled and nibbled on my peace offering. I rubbed the little rascal's head and was about to tell him that he would make a fine leader some day, when all of a sudden the imposing homeless man to whom I had just given the thumping of a lifetime took advantage of my newly acquired blindspot by rushing me; effectively flipping the bench in the process!

We thrashed about like schizophrenics during a fire drill. My assailant clasped his hands together and brought them down on my kidney with such force that I urinated in me pantaloons. I retaliated by hooking the bastard's ocular cavity with my index finger.

Pools of thick blood collected on the cement beneath us. Several of the spectators ran away and those who were brave enough to stay paid the price in projectile vomit. Police officers arrived at the scene with absolutely no idea how to handle the situation.

A severely obese teenager dressed in what appeared to be an outfit made of rubberbands and paper clips was vomiting so uncontrollably that he shot one of the officers in the face with a stream so forceful it knocked the man off his feet. Tears plummeted from the kid's tear ducts like the falls of Niagara as his hands gripped the top of his head and he started spinning around like a doomed helicopter crying "Why?" in between chunks of the Whopper he had for lunch and his own bile.

Young Fatty McGee stopped whirling around long enough for a brave officer to run up and mace him in the face. Another policeman ran up behind him and clubbed him across his back hump so savagely that the behemoth of a teenager dropped to the cement with a sound not unlike that of a cold pancake smacking a wet windshield.

The cops started rounding up everyone they could. Several large black vans pulled up to the scene and officers rushed out by the dozen. They were dressed head to toe in riot gear and began beating anyone foolish enough to run to them seeking protection. By this time I had beaten my assailant to within an inch of his life and was convinced that I had quelled any remnant of aggression in his person.

Cops where everywhere. One of the men who arrived in the van climbed on top of the vehicle and fired a tear gas projectile into the crowd. I picked myself up, hurriedly refastened my peg to its rightful place, and taking advantage of the thick cloud of smoke, decided to make a hasty exit to a park accross the street.

Though I was unable to see through the cloud, I heard several officers scurrying about trying to round up any would be troublemakers. Thankfully, I had been tear-gassed so many times in the past that it takes triple the normal dose to knock the fight out of ole Quint. As the police searched around in the mist breathing comfortably with their gasmasks, ole Quint hobbled along with no worries whatsoever.

I crawled under a truck parked across the street from the scene and stared out as the cloud of gas dissipated. Bodies were strewn about. People were coughing and wailing and rubbing their eyes as cops ran around clubbing them over the heads with batons. No one was safe from the wrath of the KWPD. No one but ole Quint McGuinley that is!

Living in close proximity to homeowningly-challenged individuals for so many years has forced me to grow accustomed to the dark side of human nature, but I have never witnessed a scene as startlingly horrific as the one that occured the day I tried to cross the 7 Mile Bridge on foot. The sheer thought of it made me hungry.

After a brief and much needed nap in my shady nook under the truck, I casually arose to face a new day. Much of the carnage from earlier had been cleaned up, though I could still see a few spots of sawdust where there had previously been blood and vomit stains.

I lit a marijuana cigarette and strolled through the park thinking about how fortunate I am to be Quint McGuinley. As me right hand dug around in me pocket for a toothpick, me fingers touched upon a note. A 20 dollar note, mind you! I had forgotten that I had sold some of the homemade pottery that I borrowed from Tress!

Deciding that she wouldn't want ole Quint to go hungry, I looked around and spied a cozy outdoor cafe not more than a knot away. It appeared as though one had the option of sitting at the outside bar if they so wished, which seemed like a good idea to me since my skin and clothing had developed a filmy mixture of blood, vomit, and urine. Fortunately enough for me, there appeared to be a single available seat at this outside bar!

As I neared what would soon become my refuge from starvation, I locked eyes with an attractive blonde with full lips and a heaving busom who happened to be walking directly towards the empty seat. She smiled at me. I tip me cap and smiled back. I watched patiently as she turned her back and made a move for the stool. And then I rushed the wretched whore!

Seven Mile Bridge

Alas, I have reached the magnificence that is the Seven-mile bridge leading into Key West! It is a wondrous sight to behold as the setting sun paints the lapping waves a myriad of vivid colors before splashing into the sea for its nightly slumber. Honestly, I've seen less color at a diversity parade! Ha! Who am I kidding? You'd have about as much luck getting Ole Quint to a diversity parade as you would trying to limit Rosie O'Donnell's portions at an all you can eat buffet. But you get the point...lots of colors...wonderful to behold...blah blah blah. Moving on...

Since no one has seen fit to offer me safe passage in their vehicle as they make their way across the bridge, I have been forced to travel the entire distance on foot. Being that I am an outstanding physical speciman, I plan on running all seven miles at full speed. I'd be willing to wager that I just might even beat a few cars to the other side, provided that there's a modicum of traffic, of course.

It should be near midnight by the time I reach the city, and there's an "X" marks the spot on my mental map directly over the "clothing optional" bar that's located in the center of town. This is favorable because not only will young ladies be unable to form opinions based on the humility of my wardrobe, but even more importantly they will be afforded the viewing pleasure of my flesh galleon, Moby Weiner. It still strikes me as odd that there is an establishment within the confines of the continental United States that fully embraces the legal shedding of one's clothing, and yet more often than not that is exactly the type of behavior responsible for Ole Quint's frequent prison vacations! I guess I'll never understand the law.