Ole Quint's a tired soul, mateys. This posting is the direct result of 96 hours of rapid-fire neuron activity, none of which even closely resembled sleep - unless you'd consider the brief moment I zoned out after whacking my prefrontal lobe against Tress' station wagon windshield.
How did I end up banging me noggin' on her windshield, you ask? Well, I felt that the least she could do for an old friend such as meself was to overlook my borrowing of her vehicle for at least a few days worth of my journey to the Keys of West. And so, just like that, I tacked a note to the back of her mother's ass before I left informing Tress of the favor she'd be grantin' me.
At least, I had all intentions of leaving a note, but it may have escaped me memory as my concentration was otherwise engaged at the time - let me just say that her mother has a superb derriere! And now that I think of it, my failure to leave written notification of my plan might explain why Ole Quint ended up in a high speed chase on I-95 in a last-ditch effort to evade the several state troopers that were tailing me, and also why he ended up driving off a particularly steep embankment in the first place! Surely Tress believed her wagon was stolen!
I'm actually quite embarassed that it hadn't actually dawned on me until now why the cops were tailing me! I just made a run for it because, well, given me spotty background, I figured it would be in me best interests to avoid any interactions with the authorities.
But either way, now all ye know what happened to me noggin', and the way I see it, a bump on the skull is a fair trade for avoiding what quite possibly could have been a lenghty prison vacation. And avoid it I did! Ya think the cops in Florida are gonna risk death chasing some drifter like meself down an embankment that's steeper than Gwen Stefani's chest(pre-surgery)? Hell no! I'd wager my vas deferens those lazy bastards didn't even want to catch me. That would mean they'd actually have to get out of their air-conditioned cruisers and work up a sweat!
So as he writes these words, yer ole pal Quint is enjoying a particularly strong libation in a drab establishment located somewhere in a lovely town called Miami. Have you ever heard of such a name before? Ridiculous! I'd personally call it "Titville" because titties are all I've been seeing since I got here, but Governor Bush is something of a coward when it comes to embracing such name changes. My letter to his secretary suggesting that they modify "Tallahassee" to the much more approachable and easier to spell "Watchthatgirlpee" has of yet gone unanswered.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Monday, June 06, 2005
Near Death in Tallahassee
I spent last evening lighting firecrackers in the ass of a young lady who called herself Tress. The sparks caused serious damage to the fleshy cheeks of her milky white buttocks, but she begged Ole Quint to continue. The entire ordeal went on for several hours; I believe her to be a masochist.
After the light spectacle, I bedded Tress on the back lawn of her house. It was a bizarre scene even by my standards, and her family did not seem at all pleased to witness these strange events unfold. Her father attempted to castrate me with a steak knife, which I thought was rude.
All in all I enjoyed myself at Tress' annual family barbecue. Ole Quint was most grateful for having been invited in the first place, though I probably wouldn't have been if Tress hadn't nearly killed me with her car several hours before the party. She was running last minute errands in a vain attempt to sculpt an evening of bliss for her parents, and she was half-blinded by stress and cooking sherry. Fearing she would fail a breathalyzer and be convicted of drunk driving or worse, she begged me not to report the incident, and offered sex in exchange for my silence.
Never being one to take advantage of a woman in distress, and noticing a recently purchased bucket of potato salad in the backseat of Tress' station wagon, I suggested a different solution to our dilemma. A look of horror spread across her face as she imagined how events might unfold at a family party with yours truly as the guest of honor, but a police cruiser passed by shortly after my suggestion and Tress hurriedly motioned for me to get in her car.
We returned to her quaint, one-story house with the charming backyard patio and she spoke of her recent divorce while I helped her retrieve decorative lawn furniture from the shed. Tress' manic behavior irritated me, so I suggested she gobble down a few blue pills that I had bartered my shoes for the previous evening in hopes that they would quell her anxiety.
And just like that, ole Quint created a monster. Her parents showed up around five with their criticism unchecked at the door, expecting a few minor flaws that they could exploit like immigrant landscapers, and what they got was a daughter dancing around the house, half-naked and fully drugged, entertaining what appeared to them to be a middle-aged bum who reeked like a sumo wrestler's taint.
It was Tress' decision to put on the fireworks display with her ass. We had already eaten and several of her family members were growing antsy, asking to play games like charades and pictionary. Tress would have none of it, and insisted on something more exciting.
I was merely her assistant in the debacle...holding the stick as I lit the fuse of the rocket that was perched a mere 3 inches above her backside. Her parents, though useless to stop the insanity of the situation (as everyone learned when her father tried to castrate me and I knuckle-punched him in the solar plexus), refused to leave because they were fearful that the escalating severity of their daughter's antics would result in her demise.
Sometime in the twilight hour I sobered up enough to realize that I was growing bored (and not to mention chaffed) with the repeated sessions of rough intercourse, and the realization that Tress' parents had witnessed the entire night's events had finally struck me as odd. I unlocked Tress' legs from around my neck and spread the massive tree trunks that are my legs to pry her arms apart; then I stood up in all of my naked glory and winked at Tress' mother and father.
The mother fainted - probably in awe of the magnificence of my genitalia - and surprisingly enough the father issued a subtle, but mischievious grin. Though Quint has sailed the rough waters for most of his life, often sacrificing female companionship for several months at a time, he has never been one to resort to the affections of a man, and a quick shake of the head made that clear to the old man, who promptly bowed his head in tears.
I gathered the few articles of clothing I had that were strewn about the patio like evidence at a crime scene and slipped around the front of the house to make a swift and necessary departure, pleased to leave behind the mingled aroma of burnt ass, sex, and cold burgers. I have to say that even though Tress is a woman, she paid her dues like a man.
After the light spectacle, I bedded Tress on the back lawn of her house. It was a bizarre scene even by my standards, and her family did not seem at all pleased to witness these strange events unfold. Her father attempted to castrate me with a steak knife, which I thought was rude.
All in all I enjoyed myself at Tress' annual family barbecue. Ole Quint was most grateful for having been invited in the first place, though I probably wouldn't have been if Tress hadn't nearly killed me with her car several hours before the party. She was running last minute errands in a vain attempt to sculpt an evening of bliss for her parents, and she was half-blinded by stress and cooking sherry. Fearing she would fail a breathalyzer and be convicted of drunk driving or worse, she begged me not to report the incident, and offered sex in exchange for my silence.
Never being one to take advantage of a woman in distress, and noticing a recently purchased bucket of potato salad in the backseat of Tress' station wagon, I suggested a different solution to our dilemma. A look of horror spread across her face as she imagined how events might unfold at a family party with yours truly as the guest of honor, but a police cruiser passed by shortly after my suggestion and Tress hurriedly motioned for me to get in her car.
We returned to her quaint, one-story house with the charming backyard patio and she spoke of her recent divorce while I helped her retrieve decorative lawn furniture from the shed. Tress' manic behavior irritated me, so I suggested she gobble down a few blue pills that I had bartered my shoes for the previous evening in hopes that they would quell her anxiety.
And just like that, ole Quint created a monster. Her parents showed up around five with their criticism unchecked at the door, expecting a few minor flaws that they could exploit like immigrant landscapers, and what they got was a daughter dancing around the house, half-naked and fully drugged, entertaining what appeared to them to be a middle-aged bum who reeked like a sumo wrestler's taint.
It was Tress' decision to put on the fireworks display with her ass. We had already eaten and several of her family members were growing antsy, asking to play games like charades and pictionary. Tress would have none of it, and insisted on something more exciting.
I was merely her assistant in the debacle...holding the stick as I lit the fuse of the rocket that was perched a mere 3 inches above her backside. Her parents, though useless to stop the insanity of the situation (as everyone learned when her father tried to castrate me and I knuckle-punched him in the solar plexus), refused to leave because they were fearful that the escalating severity of their daughter's antics would result in her demise.
Sometime in the twilight hour I sobered up enough to realize that I was growing bored (and not to mention chaffed) with the repeated sessions of rough intercourse, and the realization that Tress' parents had witnessed the entire night's events had finally struck me as odd. I unlocked Tress' legs from around my neck and spread the massive tree trunks that are my legs to pry her arms apart; then I stood up in all of my naked glory and winked at Tress' mother and father.
The mother fainted - probably in awe of the magnificence of my genitalia - and surprisingly enough the father issued a subtle, but mischievious grin. Though Quint has sailed the rough waters for most of his life, often sacrificing female companionship for several months at a time, he has never been one to resort to the affections of a man, and a quick shake of the head made that clear to the old man, who promptly bowed his head in tears.
I gathered the few articles of clothing I had that were strewn about the patio like evidence at a crime scene and slipped around the front of the house to make a swift and necessary departure, pleased to leave behind the mingled aroma of burnt ass, sex, and cold burgers. I have to say that even though Tress is a woman, she paid her dues like a man.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Truckin'
Tis me, lovelies! Ole Quint has returned to ye. And despite your worries for the safety of yours truly, I can assure you that they are completely unwarranted. Sure my skin is soft and pleasing to the eye, but I assure you it possesses the fortitude of Achilles' ballbag!
Allow me to bring you up to speed since me last entry...
After spending about a week in the vice-like grip of a particularly strong sheet of LSD, I commandeered a 14-year-old boy's bicycle as he delivered newspapers on the streets of West Virginy. Then I headed South, continuing on my path of enlightenment with my eyes staring in the direction of my ultimate destination...the docks of the lovely Key West. I set off about two weeks ago and presently I stand just shy of the border between Georgia and Florida.
The weather is hot and I reek like the greenish yellow liquid that rises in between the plastic trash bags in the backs of waste collecting vehicles before spilling onto the sun-beaten asphalt during the humid summer days. I'm sure you've smelled it. Surprisingly, it doesn't taste half bad. It's quite deceiving.
Before you judge me, why don't you tell me how one should survive when travelling several hundred miles on his own with no money and very little possessions. I tried eating grass! Sure it looks pretty, but it's not that appetizing! Come to think of it...it's not unlike a Mexican prostitute.
Allow me to bring you up to speed since me last entry...
After spending about a week in the vice-like grip of a particularly strong sheet of LSD, I commandeered a 14-year-old boy's bicycle as he delivered newspapers on the streets of West Virginy. Then I headed South, continuing on my path of enlightenment with my eyes staring in the direction of my ultimate destination...the docks of the lovely Key West. I set off about two weeks ago and presently I stand just shy of the border between Georgia and Florida.
The weather is hot and I reek like the greenish yellow liquid that rises in between the plastic trash bags in the backs of waste collecting vehicles before spilling onto the sun-beaten asphalt during the humid summer days. I'm sure you've smelled it. Surprisingly, it doesn't taste half bad. It's quite deceiving.
Before you judge me, why don't you tell me how one should survive when travelling several hundred miles on his own with no money and very little possessions. I tried eating grass! Sure it looks pretty, but it's not that appetizing! Come to think of it...it's not unlike a Mexican prostitute.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Friday, May 06, 2005
Head Bowed; Tail Between Legs
Argghhh...I guess an apology is in order for me hastiness in ending the last post, but you try posting stories of your life from a barn in south Virginia! Damn snakes and rabbits crawling all over me! I'm used to a more oceanic lifestyle; not this rubbish! But since barns provide an easy, and not to mention free, refuge as I make me way south for a much needed respite of undetermined duration, I guess I'll have to make due.
By the way, I expect that you'll accept my declaration that "an apology is in order" as my actual apology, because you and I both know that it's as close as you'll come to receiving an outright mea culpa from ole Quint, who is more man than Blackbeard and Magellan combined!
After losing my head a bit during that last post, I enjoyed a smoke to calm the ole nerves and decided that it was irresponsible of me to turn on you, oh faithful reader. But those are exactly the type of psychotic reactions an unhealthy dose of lysergic acid diethylamide inspires in a person who hasn't slept in 92 hours.
So allow me to offer the remaining details I originally intended to include in that last post...
Joe grabbed Sally about the waist like a caveman on amphetamines with a stubborn erection, and upon reaching the doorway of his new abode, he heaved her inanimate body so that she was halfway inside the entrance. Then he grabbed her legs and swung them around and grabbed the handle to lift himself inside. At that point he slammed the door shut, forcing my spy to relocate in order to accomodate the lack of visibility.
Apparently, Sally woke shortly after the door was shut, and unlike Joe, she remembered everything that happened with an idiot savant's clarity. Just as he crouched down to mount her, she whirled around and booted him in the crotch hard enough to propel one of his testicles into his stomach. I know what you're thinking, and yes, my spy's hearing is that precise! It should make no nevermind that he's deaf in one ear. The man knows when he hears a testicle flying into a stomach!
Oddly enough, Sally's a sucker for needy men, and just as she reached the door, she turned around to see ole Joe huddled on the cold, steel floor of the railcar, and she felt sorry for him. So she ran over to him and turned him on his back and ran a filthy hand through his even filthier hair, and she medicated Dingy with another dose of heroin to help him through the crippling pain of stomesticulitis. That's when Joe insisted that they consumate their newfound mutual respect for one another by engaging in sexual congress. Sally agreed and what ensued was the most gruesome, animalistic love-making this world has ever known.*
And that's the last I heard of Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally. I'm glad they found someone with whom they could share crack cocaine with during the horrors of a dreadfully hot summer in a stuffy steel railcar, but if I come back next winter and those tramps still believe they're entitled to my home, well I assure you they have another thing coming! I'll napalm the damn place!
*This statement stands true so long as we're not considering New Jersey, because everyone knows that 90% of those indigenous to Jersey are wretched abominations of human beings.
By the way, I expect that you'll accept my declaration that "an apology is in order" as my actual apology, because you and I both know that it's as close as you'll come to receiving an outright mea culpa from ole Quint, who is more man than Blackbeard and Magellan combined!
After losing my head a bit during that last post, I enjoyed a smoke to calm the ole nerves and decided that it was irresponsible of me to turn on you, oh faithful reader. But those are exactly the type of psychotic reactions an unhealthy dose of lysergic acid diethylamide inspires in a person who hasn't slept in 92 hours.
So allow me to offer the remaining details I originally intended to include in that last post...
Joe grabbed Sally about the waist like a caveman on amphetamines with a stubborn erection, and upon reaching the doorway of his new abode, he heaved her inanimate body so that she was halfway inside the entrance. Then he grabbed her legs and swung them around and grabbed the handle to lift himself inside. At that point he slammed the door shut, forcing my spy to relocate in order to accomodate the lack of visibility.
Apparently, Sally woke shortly after the door was shut, and unlike Joe, she remembered everything that happened with an idiot savant's clarity. Just as he crouched down to mount her, she whirled around and booted him in the crotch hard enough to propel one of his testicles into his stomach. I know what you're thinking, and yes, my spy's hearing is that precise! It should make no nevermind that he's deaf in one ear. The man knows when he hears a testicle flying into a stomach!
Oddly enough, Sally's a sucker for needy men, and just as she reached the door, she turned around to see ole Joe huddled on the cold, steel floor of the railcar, and she felt sorry for him. So she ran over to him and turned him on his back and ran a filthy hand through his even filthier hair, and she medicated Dingy with another dose of heroin to help him through the crippling pain of stomesticulitis. That's when Joe insisted that they consumate their newfound mutual respect for one another by engaging in sexual congress. Sally agreed and what ensued was the most gruesome, animalistic love-making this world has ever known.*
And that's the last I heard of Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally. I'm glad they found someone with whom they could share crack cocaine with during the horrors of a dreadfully hot summer in a stuffy steel railcar, but if I come back next winter and those tramps still believe they're entitled to my home, well I assure you they have another thing coming! I'll napalm the damn place!
*This statement stands true so long as we're not considering New Jersey, because everyone knows that 90% of those indigenous to Jersey are wretched abominations of human beings.
A Needle in a Haystack...Or Just in Joe's Arm
It's been a few days now since my close call with Dingy Joe and Sally, and aside from a repulsive bruise on my right bicep caused by Joe's pipe-lashing and a handful of fingernail scratches under my eyes, you'd never know that less than a week ago I kicked death in the gonads and lived to tell about it. Yes, my friends, oxygen has been tasting that much sweeter since that afternoon.
Sure, I was merciful and perhaps weak by allowing two of my enemies to live, but as they are nothing more than unintelligent addicts from the bottom of the barrel, I am content with the knowledge that they lack the necessary accouterments to track the musky scent of yours truly. And let's be honest, even if they did, I'd surely pound their faces into mashed potatoes with Washington and Lincoln! Who are they you ask? Why they are my fists, good reader; so named because they closely resemble in size the two flanking heads on Mount Rushmore. And they prefer French, or as I prefer to call them, "Freedom greetings"...two kisses, one on each side of the face.
Because you are my trusted companions and dare I say...friends? No, I don't like the sound of that. We'll stick with the former label. But even so, I feel I should let it be known that I have eyes and ears from Hoboken to Madagascar. Sure, several of these eyes and ears are about as accurate as those formerly employed by Hellen Keller, but more often than not I can depend on the paranoid delusions of the operators of said eyes and ears to steer me clear of any serious predicaments.
The facts as I have gathered them thus far hold that not long after I left, Joe snapped out of his heroin daze and limped back towards the railcar. He seemingly had no recollection of the afternoon's previous events, and just as he reached for the handle on the door to pull himself up, his roaming eye spotted Sally's unconscious form slumped on the ground to his left.
Now it is rare for a heroin addict to retain a sexual appetite whilst in the ravages of the drug, but as I have told you before, Dingy Joe is not your average human being. His libido rivals the intensity of an Indian kid at a spelling bee competition, and I shudder to imagine the thoughts that danced inside his head like a Parkinson's patient with bladder control problems upon first noticing Sally's helpless form lying prostrate on the ground.
At this point, according to my sources, Joe grasped Sally around the waist like a sack of...well let's see...I used retarded midgets last time...hmm...a sack of full grown...no wait, that won't work either. Damn it! A sack of shit! You're all a sack of shit! End of post!
Sure, I was merciful and perhaps weak by allowing two of my enemies to live, but as they are nothing more than unintelligent addicts from the bottom of the barrel, I am content with the knowledge that they lack the necessary accouterments to track the musky scent of yours truly. And let's be honest, even if they did, I'd surely pound their faces into mashed potatoes with Washington and Lincoln! Who are they you ask? Why they are my fists, good reader; so named because they closely resemble in size the two flanking heads on Mount Rushmore. And they prefer French, or as I prefer to call them, "Freedom greetings"...two kisses, one on each side of the face.
Because you are my trusted companions and dare I say...friends? No, I don't like the sound of that. We'll stick with the former label. But even so, I feel I should let it be known that I have eyes and ears from Hoboken to Madagascar. Sure, several of these eyes and ears are about as accurate as those formerly employed by Hellen Keller, but more often than not I can depend on the paranoid delusions of the operators of said eyes and ears to steer me clear of any serious predicaments.
The facts as I have gathered them thus far hold that not long after I left, Joe snapped out of his heroin daze and limped back towards the railcar. He seemingly had no recollection of the afternoon's previous events, and just as he reached for the handle on the door to pull himself up, his roaming eye spotted Sally's unconscious form slumped on the ground to his left.
Now it is rare for a heroin addict to retain a sexual appetite whilst in the ravages of the drug, but as I have told you before, Dingy Joe is not your average human being. His libido rivals the intensity of an Indian kid at a spelling bee competition, and I shudder to imagine the thoughts that danced inside his head like a Parkinson's patient with bladder control problems upon first noticing Sally's helpless form lying prostrate on the ground.
At this point, according to my sources, Joe grasped Sally around the waist like a sack of...well let's see...I used retarded midgets last time...hmm...a sack of full grown...no wait, that won't work either. Damn it! A sack of shit! You're all a sack of shit! End of post!
Friday, April 29, 2005
The Final Showdown
I apologize for the delay in posting, gentle comrades, but it's difficult to find time to type while struggling to survive amidst the chaos of the streets. It surely is a jungle out there!
A lot has happened in the two weeks since we last communicated. As you know, I plotted the demise of two of my friends, Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally, who at the present time share the misfortune of also being my mortal enemies. That plan did not go as smoothly as I anticipated, but everything has a funny way of working itself out in the end.
As I informed you in my last post, the idea was to have Joe "take over my lease" on the 15th and have Sally show up on the 16th. But ever being the horrid wench that she is, Sally forgot which day we had agreed upon amidst the clutter of LSD flashbacks that regularly swamp her neurotransmitters like fat kids at a Star Trek convention, and she showed up a day early. Just as I began walking away from the railcar fully satisfied that my plan was coming to fruition, my nostrils detected a stench with an all too familiar blend of urine, fecal matter, and dead horseshoe crabs that I recognized immediately as the calling card of Strychnine Sally. Curses!
Knowing full well that I had to face this dilemma before it festered and exploded like a zit on the face of one of those fat kids I was talking about earlier, I picked up an old railroad spike that I saw sticking out of the grass, tucked it securely in the waistline of me pantaloons, and turned to face a very agitated, and seriously drug-addled Sally, who was already pounding her firsts against the sliding metal door of the railcar.
Joe opened the door slowly to steal a peek at whomever it was causing the racket. He didn't bother to remove the needle from the inner crook of his elbow.
"What's goin' on out here?" he begged in a tired drawl that is a common characteristic of a man entangled in a heroin daze.
"Getty on outta my house, you!" Sally screamed. "Quint sold it to meh fair and square!"
Fully aware of the escalating tension, I decided to sneak around the car and allow them to fight it out, but just as I made my move, ole Dingy stumbled out of the car and spotted me.
"Hey Quint, what's she on about? Is this all true?"
"Quiiiiiiint!!!" Sally shrieked like a banshee, all the while hobbling in my general direction.
"Keep away from me ya brigands or I'll brain ye!" I shouted, unsheathing the railroad spike from me pants and slashing wildly in front of me.
There's one thing you should always keep in mind when dealing with deranged hobos, and that is that they wake up to death every morning and they smile. And rightly so! Why fear death when hell boasts a warmer climate than Philadelphia? Such is the logic of a hobo.
Sally was on me like that busty blonde was on Jerry Maquire in the film of the same name when she screams, "Don't ever stop fucking me!" Except Sally was screaming, "How dare you fuck me!" and instead of having intercourse with me, she was clawing at my eyes with her overgrown fingernails.
I began to wonder where exactly my plan had gone so wrong, when all of a sudden Sally landed a knee in my groin and I fell to the ground like a sack of retarded midgets in mid-coitus. My peripheral vision detected Joe standing off to the side, a sly grin on his face, and I recognized immediately what was happening. Joe decided to employ my logic by watching Sally and I kill each other off so that he could escape with nary a scratch on his person. We'll I'd have none of that!
As Sally jumped on my back and attempted to bite through my right shoulder, I regained my grip on the spike that had fallen on the ground at my feet, and swung it around hard and smacked her squarely on the face with the blunt side. She plunged to the ground in much the same fashion as I imagine that same sack of fornicating midgets would, only there would also be snakes and rats inside the sack, and the sack would be on fire...and one of the midgets would have SARS.
She appeared to be unconscious, but I decided to give her a swift and solid boot to the gut just to be sure. While not dead, Sally was definitely down for the count. Either that, or she's one hell of an actress, and if that's the case, the lump I had just administered to her forehead should be halting any auditions she might have in the near future.
Joe pulled a length of pipe out of his trench coat and whirled it about his head like a madman. I pounded my chest and charged at him like a bull with incredibly large testicles. We clashed like titans as we wrestled to the ground.
My attempt to drive the spike into his solar plexis was thwarted when he walloped me on the right arm with the pipe. A normal human being might have cried out in pain, but I bellowed a war cry the likes of which this world has not known since the days of Crazy Horse the wild Injun, and I jabbed fiercely at my assailant.
Joe attempted to ensnare me in a headlock, but as he did so, I jerked his arm behind his back and slammed his face into the dirt. That's when I realized that the needle still dangled from his vein like a turd too long to expell in one push. But a new detail had also grasped my attention. Joe had yet to shoot the hit!
Seizing the opportunity, I injected the drug into Dingy Joe's arm and waited for him to lapse into a heroin induced coma. I did not have to wait long. The reaction was immediate and powerfully effective. He no longer struggled against my grip, so I backed off in an effort to regain my composure.
Sally was still sprawled out in a heap not far away and Joe remained slumped on the ground in a vegetative state with a vacant expression on his face; one that I had seen many times before. In a way I was sad to leave. After all, these people were like family to me. Only they were slightly less abusive that me own.
A lot has happened in the two weeks since we last communicated. As you know, I plotted the demise of two of my friends, Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally, who at the present time share the misfortune of also being my mortal enemies. That plan did not go as smoothly as I anticipated, but everything has a funny way of working itself out in the end.
As I informed you in my last post, the idea was to have Joe "take over my lease" on the 15th and have Sally show up on the 16th. But ever being the horrid wench that she is, Sally forgot which day we had agreed upon amidst the clutter of LSD flashbacks that regularly swamp her neurotransmitters like fat kids at a Star Trek convention, and she showed up a day early. Just as I began walking away from the railcar fully satisfied that my plan was coming to fruition, my nostrils detected a stench with an all too familiar blend of urine, fecal matter, and dead horseshoe crabs that I recognized immediately as the calling card of Strychnine Sally. Curses!
Knowing full well that I had to face this dilemma before it festered and exploded like a zit on the face of one of those fat kids I was talking about earlier, I picked up an old railroad spike that I saw sticking out of the grass, tucked it securely in the waistline of me pantaloons, and turned to face a very agitated, and seriously drug-addled Sally, who was already pounding her firsts against the sliding metal door of the railcar.
Joe opened the door slowly to steal a peek at whomever it was causing the racket. He didn't bother to remove the needle from the inner crook of his elbow.
"What's goin' on out here?" he begged in a tired drawl that is a common characteristic of a man entangled in a heroin daze.
"Getty on outta my house, you!" Sally screamed. "Quint sold it to meh fair and square!"
Fully aware of the escalating tension, I decided to sneak around the car and allow them to fight it out, but just as I made my move, ole Dingy stumbled out of the car and spotted me.
"Hey Quint, what's she on about? Is this all true?"
"Quiiiiiiint!!!" Sally shrieked like a banshee, all the while hobbling in my general direction.
"Keep away from me ya brigands or I'll brain ye!" I shouted, unsheathing the railroad spike from me pants and slashing wildly in front of me.
There's one thing you should always keep in mind when dealing with deranged hobos, and that is that they wake up to death every morning and they smile. And rightly so! Why fear death when hell boasts a warmer climate than Philadelphia? Such is the logic of a hobo.
Sally was on me like that busty blonde was on Jerry Maquire in the film of the same name when she screams, "Don't ever stop fucking me!" Except Sally was screaming, "How dare you fuck me!" and instead of having intercourse with me, she was clawing at my eyes with her overgrown fingernails.
I began to wonder where exactly my plan had gone so wrong, when all of a sudden Sally landed a knee in my groin and I fell to the ground like a sack of retarded midgets in mid-coitus. My peripheral vision detected Joe standing off to the side, a sly grin on his face, and I recognized immediately what was happening. Joe decided to employ my logic by watching Sally and I kill each other off so that he could escape with nary a scratch on his person. We'll I'd have none of that!
As Sally jumped on my back and attempted to bite through my right shoulder, I regained my grip on the spike that had fallen on the ground at my feet, and swung it around hard and smacked her squarely on the face with the blunt side. She plunged to the ground in much the same fashion as I imagine that same sack of fornicating midgets would, only there would also be snakes and rats inside the sack, and the sack would be on fire...and one of the midgets would have SARS.
She appeared to be unconscious, but I decided to give her a swift and solid boot to the gut just to be sure. While not dead, Sally was definitely down for the count. Either that, or she's one hell of an actress, and if that's the case, the lump I had just administered to her forehead should be halting any auditions she might have in the near future.
Joe pulled a length of pipe out of his trench coat and whirled it about his head like a madman. I pounded my chest and charged at him like a bull with incredibly large testicles. We clashed like titans as we wrestled to the ground.
My attempt to drive the spike into his solar plexis was thwarted when he walloped me on the right arm with the pipe. A normal human being might have cried out in pain, but I bellowed a war cry the likes of which this world has not known since the days of Crazy Horse the wild Injun, and I jabbed fiercely at my assailant.
Joe attempted to ensnare me in a headlock, but as he did so, I jerked his arm behind his back and slammed his face into the dirt. That's when I realized that the needle still dangled from his vein like a turd too long to expell in one push. But a new detail had also grasped my attention. Joe had yet to shoot the hit!
Seizing the opportunity, I injected the drug into Dingy Joe's arm and waited for him to lapse into a heroin induced coma. I did not have to wait long. The reaction was immediate and powerfully effective. He no longer struggled against my grip, so I backed off in an effort to regain my composure.
Sally was still sprawled out in a heap not far away and Joe remained slumped on the ground in a vegetative state with a vacant expression on his face; one that I had seen many times before. In a way I was sad to leave. After all, these people were like family to me. Only they were slightly less abusive that me own.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Leaving Home Should Not Be a Moment of Sadness. It Should Be an Opportunity for Exacting Revenge
Hello again, dear friends. I feel that I am obligated to inform you that today is a day of change for ole Quint McGuinley. The time has come for me to move on from the abandoned railcar that has been my home for the greater part of a year now; my main reason being that the city will soon be shrouded in a blanket of humidity that I anticipate will cause the atmosphere inside the steel car to rise to oven-like temperatures.
Sure ole Quint wakes up with the sun and spends most of his days wandering around barefoot in air-conditioned supermarkets to avoid the ravages of such a climate, but that's not the point! The point is that I am a complex human being who requires frequent lifestyle changes in order to feel secure. That might not make sense to a lot of you, but I am not here to explain myself. I am here to chronicle the insanity that is my existence; not babysit simpletons!
Forgive me for that outburst. I just did fifty squat-thrusts in 20 seconds and a bead of perspiration found its way to my left eyeball. Argggh!! I could punch a hole through a man's pectorals when that happens!!
Before I go off on a tangent, I just want to let you know that the decision is final. I already drafted a blood contract with Dingy Joe that entitles him to 100% of my railcar property on the 15th of April, which is this Friday...tomorrow. What I neglected to inform him is that I also made an agreement with Strychnine Sally to move in on the 16th.
The way I see it, they'll fight like savages over the rights to my railcar and probably slaughter, or at the very least severely maim each other in the process, allowing me to slip away with no worries and no reparations to be made. And right around the time winter rolls around again the police should be removing the yellow restrictive tape from the perimeter of my railcar, providing me easy entry to my former quarters and a warm refuge from the frigid air.
And before you launch an attack on my personal integrity for hatching such a cruel design, please permit me a second to explain my position. Dingy Joe has yet to receive his comeuppance for accosting my belt. Sure, I bare-knuckle boxed the fella, but he could have at least told me he had the AIDS! The way I see it, that's TWO strikes against him! This is only ONE revenge scheme!
If Dingy survives Strychnine Sally's brutal onslaught, then I will forgive all previous wrongs...provided of course that he returns my belt in the same condition it was in when I last saw it. If he cannot, then God help him.
As for Sally, the only thing she ever did for me was give me a nasty case of the clap! That filthy harlot would do the same to me if only she thought of it first; and if she owned her own railcar, of course. To hell with the whole lot of 'em!
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to return to packing my rucksack and leaving a healthy dump under the makeshift bed of grass. What kind of realtor would I be if I didn't leave a welcome gift for my tenant?
Sure ole Quint wakes up with the sun and spends most of his days wandering around barefoot in air-conditioned supermarkets to avoid the ravages of such a climate, but that's not the point! The point is that I am a complex human being who requires frequent lifestyle changes in order to feel secure. That might not make sense to a lot of you, but I am not here to explain myself. I am here to chronicle the insanity that is my existence; not babysit simpletons!
Forgive me for that outburst. I just did fifty squat-thrusts in 20 seconds and a bead of perspiration found its way to my left eyeball. Argggh!! I could punch a hole through a man's pectorals when that happens!!
Before I go off on a tangent, I just want to let you know that the decision is final. I already drafted a blood contract with Dingy Joe that entitles him to 100% of my railcar property on the 15th of April, which is this Friday...tomorrow. What I neglected to inform him is that I also made an agreement with Strychnine Sally to move in on the 16th.
The way I see it, they'll fight like savages over the rights to my railcar and probably slaughter, or at the very least severely maim each other in the process, allowing me to slip away with no worries and no reparations to be made. And right around the time winter rolls around again the police should be removing the yellow restrictive tape from the perimeter of my railcar, providing me easy entry to my former quarters and a warm refuge from the frigid air.
And before you launch an attack on my personal integrity for hatching such a cruel design, please permit me a second to explain my position. Dingy Joe has yet to receive his comeuppance for accosting my belt. Sure, I bare-knuckle boxed the fella, but he could have at least told me he had the AIDS! The way I see it, that's TWO strikes against him! This is only ONE revenge scheme!
If Dingy survives Strychnine Sally's brutal onslaught, then I will forgive all previous wrongs...provided of course that he returns my belt in the same condition it was in when I last saw it. If he cannot, then God help him.
As for Sally, the only thing she ever did for me was give me a nasty case of the clap! That filthy harlot would do the same to me if only she thought of it first; and if she owned her own railcar, of course. To hell with the whole lot of 'em!
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to return to packing my rucksack and leaving a healthy dump under the makeshift bed of grass. What kind of realtor would I be if I didn't leave a welcome gift for my tenant?
Friday, April 08, 2005
Recipe for Living a Long and Happy Life Despite a Lifestyle that Promotes Death and Suffering
It's Friday, me gentle friends, and ole Quint has learned a few things since his last posting. Firstly, it turns out that I do not have the AIDS after all. A thousand apologies for scaring you, but apparently my self-diagnosis was a tad premature and the cause of my sickness was merely a nasty case of the 24 hour flu.
While it is common knowledge that I have been known to jump the gun from time to time, it is not something I'm proud of. But then again, I wouldn't be a man if I confessed my feelings, so therefore I shall not. If you are looking for someone to pour his heart out to you, I believe Oprah is on every day in the afternoon.
Secondly, no one of sound mind should bare-knuckle box Dingy Joe, as he currently has the AIDS. As much as I wish this knowledge was available to me prior to our bout of fisticuffs the other day, I am confident that I am impervious to the immunodeficiency disorder and my mind is at ease. You wish to know my secret, don't you? Well, I'll never tell.
Fine! I'll impart my wisdom to you. After all, I'm a drunk and I won't get around to securing a patent for my technique anyway. It's really quite simple and it amazes me that scientists haven't discovered the cure themselves.
If you want to avoid the AIDS - especially if said AIDS was acquired during a recent confrontation with a homeless man named Dingy Joe - the best way to keep the virus from ravaging your T-cells like Ted Bundy at a sorority house is to bathe in turpentine for 3 hours and make sure to scrub the cuts extra good!
I told you it wasn't complicated. And if you follow that with a long night of imbibement and hookers and you can be sure that 6 months from now you will be lesion free! Take my word for it. If ole Quint managed to avoid the AIDS this long, there's no way in hell you'll get it.
While it is common knowledge that I have been known to jump the gun from time to time, it is not something I'm proud of. But then again, I wouldn't be a man if I confessed my feelings, so therefore I shall not. If you are looking for someone to pour his heart out to you, I believe Oprah is on every day in the afternoon.
Secondly, no one of sound mind should bare-knuckle box Dingy Joe, as he currently has the AIDS. As much as I wish this knowledge was available to me prior to our bout of fisticuffs the other day, I am confident that I am impervious to the immunodeficiency disorder and my mind is at ease. You wish to know my secret, don't you? Well, I'll never tell.
Fine! I'll impart my wisdom to you. After all, I'm a drunk and I won't get around to securing a patent for my technique anyway. It's really quite simple and it amazes me that scientists haven't discovered the cure themselves.
If you want to avoid the AIDS - especially if said AIDS was acquired during a recent confrontation with a homeless man named Dingy Joe - the best way to keep the virus from ravaging your T-cells like Ted Bundy at a sorority house is to bathe in turpentine for 3 hours and make sure to scrub the cuts extra good!
I told you it wasn't complicated. And if you follow that with a long night of imbibement and hookers and you can be sure that 6 months from now you will be lesion free! Take my word for it. If ole Quint managed to avoid the AIDS this long, there's no way in hell you'll get it.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Home...and the AIDS
Hello, my friends, enemies, and former/present lovers. I understand your surprise that ole Quint hath returned a living organism from his voyage to the Isle of Erin, but I assure you that my charter back to the states did not come without high cost.
When I began this online journal several months ago, I made a pact with myself to remain honest with my readers at all times, even if such honesty meant risking the loss of all respect I have accumulated thus far. Well, it is with great discomfort that I report to you that I may have acquired the AIDS whilst traveling abroad in Ireland.
Yes, it has been said. The AIDS. I can understand if you are disappointed in Ole Quint and I assure you that I will stop at nothing to gain back your trust. Believe me, I realize that you hold your friend Quint to a higher standard than most other human beings, and I strive to meet your expectations. But sometimes it's just so hard! After all, I am only one man!
But before you get all teary eyed and melancholy, allow me to assure you that the symptoms of AIDS are not quite as bad as I expected. Yes, I have been sneezing a lot and my urine smells like peanut brittle that has been left out in the woods long enough to welcome a mossy growth, and yes I threw up after a serious 2 day drinking binge for the first time in 30 years. But on the whole I am still the strong, energetic, barrel-chested sculpture of the gods that I have always been. And might I add that my sideburns still possess a brilliant youthful sheen that drives women completely out of their minds...and knickers! Hargh Hargh Hargh I'll never learn, eh?
Well, I have plenty of things to do today. I plan on doing 4,000 push-ups to spite my newly acquired virus. And then I have to bare-knuckle box Dingy Joe because he stole my favorite belt whilst I was abroad and I can think of no better way of exacting revenge than bleeding the AIDS all over him. A tad harsh perhaps, but I've always been an extremist.
When I began this online journal several months ago, I made a pact with myself to remain honest with my readers at all times, even if such honesty meant risking the loss of all respect I have accumulated thus far. Well, it is with great discomfort that I report to you that I may have acquired the AIDS whilst traveling abroad in Ireland.
Yes, it has been said. The AIDS. I can understand if you are disappointed in Ole Quint and I assure you that I will stop at nothing to gain back your trust. Believe me, I realize that you hold your friend Quint to a higher standard than most other human beings, and I strive to meet your expectations. But sometimes it's just so hard! After all, I am only one man!
But before you get all teary eyed and melancholy, allow me to assure you that the symptoms of AIDS are not quite as bad as I expected. Yes, I have been sneezing a lot and my urine smells like peanut brittle that has been left out in the woods long enough to welcome a mossy growth, and yes I threw up after a serious 2 day drinking binge for the first time in 30 years. But on the whole I am still the strong, energetic, barrel-chested sculpture of the gods that I have always been. And might I add that my sideburns still possess a brilliant youthful sheen that drives women completely out of their minds...and knickers! Hargh Hargh Hargh I'll never learn, eh?
Well, I have plenty of things to do today. I plan on doing 4,000 push-ups to spite my newly acquired virus. And then I have to bare-knuckle box Dingy Joe because he stole my favorite belt whilst I was abroad and I can think of no better way of exacting revenge than bleeding the AIDS all over him. A tad harsh perhaps, but I've always been an extremist.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
To the Motherland...
Yargh! Ole Quint shall be absent for an undisclosed amount of time as he returns to explore his roots on the Isle of Erin. Yes folks, for those of you who did not get the reference, I am travelling to Ireland, a land of romance and mystery, known for its magnificent landscapes and delightful spirits. The trip is scheduled for ten days, but any number of following factors could contribute to my inability to hold to that itinerary:
1) Guinness Brewery
2) Powers Irish Whiskey
3) Harp
4) Murphy's
5) Bushmill's
6) Irish lasses
7) Hard Cider
8) Leperchauns
9) Jameson Distillery
10) Cirrhosis of the liver
Now friends tell me that my quality of life suffers because I spend the majority of my days lounging/wandering around in an alcoholic haze. Well let me just say that ole Quint has the self esteem of a raging bull. That is to say that on most days I graze about calmly and am forced to eat grass for sustenance, but I perk up like a priest's libido during a confirmation ceremony when rednecks jab me in the testicles with hot pokers.
My point is that I am open to any criticism one might be bold enough to offer. It does not bother me that my friends do not appreciate waking up to find me comatose and naked on their kitchen floor. It does not bother me that they throw boiling pots of water at me to wake me up and scream for me to "Get out of my house you horrible man!"
My hide is thick. I can handle attacks on my person! But what really crawls around in my short hairs like a heaping platter of ravenous crotch lice is that these same people have the nerve to spend their weekends running around from winery to winery all because of that horrific movie "Sideways"! Well I am inspired by your silliness and I applaud your impudence, you dirty mother-loving whores!
Argh, now I'm worked up like a Japanese businessman during a karaoke competition. Curse the whole lot o' ya! I'm signing off to run down to the dock and check on the possibility of stowing away on an earlier ship. I assure you that you'll be hearing from me when I return.
1) Guinness Brewery
2) Powers Irish Whiskey
3) Harp
4) Murphy's
5) Bushmill's
6) Irish lasses
7) Hard Cider
8) Leperchauns
9) Jameson Distillery
10) Cirrhosis of the liver
Now friends tell me that my quality of life suffers because I spend the majority of my days lounging/wandering around in an alcoholic haze. Well let me just say that ole Quint has the self esteem of a raging bull. That is to say that on most days I graze about calmly and am forced to eat grass for sustenance, but I perk up like a priest's libido during a confirmation ceremony when rednecks jab me in the testicles with hot pokers.
My point is that I am open to any criticism one might be bold enough to offer. It does not bother me that my friends do not appreciate waking up to find me comatose and naked on their kitchen floor. It does not bother me that they throw boiling pots of water at me to wake me up and scream for me to "Get out of my house you horrible man!"
My hide is thick. I can handle attacks on my person! But what really crawls around in my short hairs like a heaping platter of ravenous crotch lice is that these same people have the nerve to spend their weekends running around from winery to winery all because of that horrific movie "Sideways"! Well I am inspired by your silliness and I applaud your impudence, you dirty mother-loving whores!
Argh, now I'm worked up like a Japanese businessman during a karaoke competition. Curse the whole lot o' ya! I'm signing off to run down to the dock and check on the possibility of stowing away on an earlier ship. I assure you that you'll be hearing from me when I return.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
The Actual Birthday
Well, well, well, I believe an apology is in order for my error in recognizing the date of my own birthday, but I think you'll agree with me in saying that I got the worse end of that deal. Either way, I did just celebrate my actual birthday, and these are the events that I can recall:
I woke up bright and early to the sound of knuckles rapping on the cold metal door of the abandoned railcar that has become a home to me. Never one who believed in the "early bird gets the worm" theory, I chucked an empty bottle of Night Train as hard as I could in the direction of the noise.
The projectile landed so forcefully that when the glass shattered, many of the shards flew back and landed in my hair. Sadly, I did not notice this until much later whilst I was receiving a scalp massage from a young Oriental woman I met during my weekly visit to the Salvation Army. The glass cut me up a bit, but it really did a number on the little Asian concubine's fingers. She actually had the nerve to ask me for permission to stop!
Ah well, where was I? After I made it clear that I was not interested in receiving visitors, I rolled back over on my makeshift bed of old gym mats, scratched my bare barrel of a chest, and attempted to seek refuge in my dreams once again. There were a few seconds of silence before the rapping began again.
My body went into overdrive and I was on my feet in the "Drunken Dog" fighting stance in a tenth of a second. "What do you want, ya brigand?!" I shrieked, running full steam ahead at the door. My hands gripped instinctively for the handle and hurled the heavy metal aside.
With murder in my bloodshot eyes and blood streaking down my forearms from the vicelike grip I had on the broken glass in my hand, I lunged outside and tackled my asailant! My eyes were blind with rage and the world outside my living quarters was bathed in a blood-red tint. As it turns out, it was not a usurper at my door at all. In fact, it was my good buddy, Dingy Joe.
If it were anybody else, they most likely would have shit themselves upon being tackled by a bloody beast of a man such as myself. But Dingy Joe is not your average human being, and as I'm sure you've guessed already, it takes an above-average person to hang with Ole Quint.
I helped Dingy off the ground and we exchanged a firm handshake. It made no nevermind to him that I used the blood-covered hand; to be completely honest, I don't think he even noticed. To my great delight, my friend pulled a flagon of bourbon from his trenchcoat and smiled.
He must have remembered my birthday, because normally Joe is the type of guy who would slit your throat if you so much as glanced at his liqour - not that I can say much in opposition to that. I took a swig from the bottle and passed it back to him; he did the same. This process repeated for several hours before we finished the bottle and decided to head downtown to prowl for skanky broads.
I think we were halfway down Delaware Avenue when the liqour overtook me and I jumped on top of a moving vehicle. The driver didn't seem to appreciate my tap dance routine on his Subaru, but who was he to challenge ole Quint? Certainly not a worthy opponent!
The antics grew worse and more frequent throughout the night before I ultimately lost consciousness in an alley behind a cheesesteak joint. I also pissed myself. That's right, I'm not ashamed to admit such things to you. You'll get nothing but honesty from ole Quint.
What, you may ask, did I learn from this experience? Well, I'll tell you. Birthdays, come and go, but friends and booze will be there forever.
I woke up bright and early to the sound of knuckles rapping on the cold metal door of the abandoned railcar that has become a home to me. Never one who believed in the "early bird gets the worm" theory, I chucked an empty bottle of Night Train as hard as I could in the direction of the noise.
The projectile landed so forcefully that when the glass shattered, many of the shards flew back and landed in my hair. Sadly, I did not notice this until much later whilst I was receiving a scalp massage from a young Oriental woman I met during my weekly visit to the Salvation Army. The glass cut me up a bit, but it really did a number on the little Asian concubine's fingers. She actually had the nerve to ask me for permission to stop!
Ah well, where was I? After I made it clear that I was not interested in receiving visitors, I rolled back over on my makeshift bed of old gym mats, scratched my bare barrel of a chest, and attempted to seek refuge in my dreams once again. There were a few seconds of silence before the rapping began again.
My body went into overdrive and I was on my feet in the "Drunken Dog" fighting stance in a tenth of a second. "What do you want, ya brigand?!" I shrieked, running full steam ahead at the door. My hands gripped instinctively for the handle and hurled the heavy metal aside.
With murder in my bloodshot eyes and blood streaking down my forearms from the vicelike grip I had on the broken glass in my hand, I lunged outside and tackled my asailant! My eyes were blind with rage and the world outside my living quarters was bathed in a blood-red tint. As it turns out, it was not a usurper at my door at all. In fact, it was my good buddy, Dingy Joe.
If it were anybody else, they most likely would have shit themselves upon being tackled by a bloody beast of a man such as myself. But Dingy Joe is not your average human being, and as I'm sure you've guessed already, it takes an above-average person to hang with Ole Quint.
I helped Dingy off the ground and we exchanged a firm handshake. It made no nevermind to him that I used the blood-covered hand; to be completely honest, I don't think he even noticed. To my great delight, my friend pulled a flagon of bourbon from his trenchcoat and smiled.
He must have remembered my birthday, because normally Joe is the type of guy who would slit your throat if you so much as glanced at his liqour - not that I can say much in opposition to that. I took a swig from the bottle and passed it back to him; he did the same. This process repeated for several hours before we finished the bottle and decided to head downtown to prowl for skanky broads.
I think we were halfway down Delaware Avenue when the liqour overtook me and I jumped on top of a moving vehicle. The driver didn't seem to appreciate my tap dance routine on his Subaru, but who was he to challenge ole Quint? Certainly not a worthy opponent!
The antics grew worse and more frequent throughout the night before I ultimately lost consciousness in an alley behind a cheesesteak joint. I also pissed myself. That's right, I'm not ashamed to admit such things to you. You'll get nothing but honesty from ole Quint.
What, you may ask, did I learn from this experience? Well, I'll tell you. Birthdays, come and go, but friends and booze will be there forever.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Ole Quint's Birthday
Yargh! Ahoy there, landlubbers. The fates have been kind to ole Quint yet again, and have seen fit to allow yours truly relatively safe passage to yet another birthday! I decided to celebrate the day by resting my weathered bones in a most accomodating hammock, reading comic books, and writing poetry about my love for the sea. Orange dust accumulated on my fingers with frequent plunges into the bag of cheese doodles at my side and my belly grew full and hot from the many swigs of Wild Turkey bourbon I had been enjoying since dawn.
It makes no nevermind that I was fastened to a billboard several stories above I-95 and the windchill stood at 14 degrees. Quint has survived fiercer weather, I assure you. But my attempts to convince the ever-increasing crowd below likewise proved to be in vain.
At first I mistook the gathering public for worried fans, and so I decided to allay their fears by allowing them a glimpse of one of the many whiskey bottles, or as I like to refer to them, space heaters, that I bundled into my backback before climbing the treacherous ladder. However, my hands were wet from an overeager guzzle, and the bottle slipped from my grasp, falling several hundred feet before crashing into the cold cement at the bottom of my perch. The crowd dodged the projectile and no one was badly hurt by the shrapnel, but even at my great distance I could recognize the all-too-familiar signs of a crowd thirsty for my blood.
One of the larger ants attempted to play the hero by scaling the metal rungs. He couldn't have been more than three quarters of the way up before his figure began shrinking and in a few minutes there were no longer any specks on the ladder. Pity. I could have used a drinking partner.
A few hours went by. Just when I started to notice signs of fatigue developing amidst their ranks, I accidentally lost my grip on a second bottle, only this time it was dark outside, and not a one of them noticed it coming. A loud shriek pierced the atmosphere like a dog's fangs biting my calf muscles in an attempt to drag me out of its master's house. I cringed.
If ole Quint were capable of fear, I might have panicked at that moment. As luck would have it, I am not. It wasn't long before the blue and red lights were flashing and a deep voice boomed inaudibly through a megaphone, most likely demanding my hasty descent. I decided that prison wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing; hell, I'd get a free place to stay and a couple good meals each day. But on the other hand, I like my options. Also, I don't think it needs mentioning that there's no such thing as a good hooker in jail, unless you're into weiners and that sort of thing, which I most certainly am NOT!
The police kept the mass of hatred at bay with yellow tape and shined a spotlight on me from below, but surprisingly enough there were no attempts to ascend the structure. I soon realized why. An hour after the first red and blue bulbs flashed with impatience and the sirens wailed incessantly, my ears detected a new sound - that of a police helicopter. The spotlights don't seem like a big deal when they're illuminating your figure as you run down back alleys, but it's a whole other story when they're thirty feet away!
My limbs flailed awkwardly as I made my way out of the hammock and gained my footing on the narrow metal ledge at the base of the billboard. Anger built up in my chest like acid reflux inside Ashlee Simpson's esophagus as I pumped my fist into the air in a sign of defiance for "the man". Fist pumping had a huge effect in the 1980s, as evidenced by Motley Crue concert footage; however, it did not seem to have the same effect on the police helicopter, for it showed no sign of retreating.
I threw what remained of my bag of cheese doodles at the propeller, but the powerful wind from the blades blew it right back in my face. Cheese dust particles flew in my eyes and I only aggravated the situation by attempting to rub them clear with my cheese-caked fingers. The pain was delicious! I cursed the world and swore to avenge my lost birthday.
As I cleared the dusty residue from my eyes with my hairy forearm, a sudden realization came to light. My birthday isn't until next week! I enjoyed a hearty laugh for being so dim and slapped my thighs. I could barely hear one of the officers in the helicopter as he shouted through a megaphone that "everything would be okay" and that "I have so much to live for".
The laughter had me shaking like an epileptic at a Japanese dance club. Amused by my own scatterbrained idiocy, I momentarily lost my footing. Time ceased to exist as I struggled to regain my balance. My chiseled arms swam through the air at my sides, frantically grasping for anything to hold onto as I toppled off of the ledge.
My mind reeled at the thought that this could finally be the end of a true legend such as myself, but to be honest, I felt more concern for my faithful readers rather than my own well-being. I would have shed a tear if I were physically capable of producing that much eye lubrication.
Now here comes the real kicker. Ole Quint's flesh vehicle did not collide with the cement. Rather than smack the ground harder than a pimp's hand exercising its authority on a whore's face, my body sunk with relative comfort into a giant inflatable device. There's is truly something to be said for the luck of the Irish!
Thankfully, the police were able to overlook my bottle-throwing antics. They actually thanked me for the great press they received for thwarting an attempted suicide! I decided that rather than argue, I would just roll with that story. To be honest, the idea of bare-knuckle boxing prison queens on my actual birthday didn't strike my fancy. What with all the drama from my faux birthday celebrations, I think I'll keep it low key this week. I'm thinkin' I'll just hang back at the ole abandoned boxcar, do some drugs, and throw rocks at hobos. Yeah, that sounds nice...
It makes no nevermind that I was fastened to a billboard several stories above I-95 and the windchill stood at 14 degrees. Quint has survived fiercer weather, I assure you. But my attempts to convince the ever-increasing crowd below likewise proved to be in vain.
At first I mistook the gathering public for worried fans, and so I decided to allay their fears by allowing them a glimpse of one of the many whiskey bottles, or as I like to refer to them, space heaters, that I bundled into my backback before climbing the treacherous ladder. However, my hands were wet from an overeager guzzle, and the bottle slipped from my grasp, falling several hundred feet before crashing into the cold cement at the bottom of my perch. The crowd dodged the projectile and no one was badly hurt by the shrapnel, but even at my great distance I could recognize the all-too-familiar signs of a crowd thirsty for my blood.
One of the larger ants attempted to play the hero by scaling the metal rungs. He couldn't have been more than three quarters of the way up before his figure began shrinking and in a few minutes there were no longer any specks on the ladder. Pity. I could have used a drinking partner.
A few hours went by. Just when I started to notice signs of fatigue developing amidst their ranks, I accidentally lost my grip on a second bottle, only this time it was dark outside, and not a one of them noticed it coming. A loud shriek pierced the atmosphere like a dog's fangs biting my calf muscles in an attempt to drag me out of its master's house. I cringed.
If ole Quint were capable of fear, I might have panicked at that moment. As luck would have it, I am not. It wasn't long before the blue and red lights were flashing and a deep voice boomed inaudibly through a megaphone, most likely demanding my hasty descent. I decided that prison wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing; hell, I'd get a free place to stay and a couple good meals each day. But on the other hand, I like my options. Also, I don't think it needs mentioning that there's no such thing as a good hooker in jail, unless you're into weiners and that sort of thing, which I most certainly am NOT!
The police kept the mass of hatred at bay with yellow tape and shined a spotlight on me from below, but surprisingly enough there were no attempts to ascend the structure. I soon realized why. An hour after the first red and blue bulbs flashed with impatience and the sirens wailed incessantly, my ears detected a new sound - that of a police helicopter. The spotlights don't seem like a big deal when they're illuminating your figure as you run down back alleys, but it's a whole other story when they're thirty feet away!
My limbs flailed awkwardly as I made my way out of the hammock and gained my footing on the narrow metal ledge at the base of the billboard. Anger built up in my chest like acid reflux inside Ashlee Simpson's esophagus as I pumped my fist into the air in a sign of defiance for "the man". Fist pumping had a huge effect in the 1980s, as evidenced by Motley Crue concert footage; however, it did not seem to have the same effect on the police helicopter, for it showed no sign of retreating.
I threw what remained of my bag of cheese doodles at the propeller, but the powerful wind from the blades blew it right back in my face. Cheese dust particles flew in my eyes and I only aggravated the situation by attempting to rub them clear with my cheese-caked fingers. The pain was delicious! I cursed the world and swore to avenge my lost birthday.
As I cleared the dusty residue from my eyes with my hairy forearm, a sudden realization came to light. My birthday isn't until next week! I enjoyed a hearty laugh for being so dim and slapped my thighs. I could barely hear one of the officers in the helicopter as he shouted through a megaphone that "everything would be okay" and that "I have so much to live for".
The laughter had me shaking like an epileptic at a Japanese dance club. Amused by my own scatterbrained idiocy, I momentarily lost my footing. Time ceased to exist as I struggled to regain my balance. My chiseled arms swam through the air at my sides, frantically grasping for anything to hold onto as I toppled off of the ledge.
My mind reeled at the thought that this could finally be the end of a true legend such as myself, but to be honest, I felt more concern for my faithful readers rather than my own well-being. I would have shed a tear if I were physically capable of producing that much eye lubrication.
Now here comes the real kicker. Ole Quint's flesh vehicle did not collide with the cement. Rather than smack the ground harder than a pimp's hand exercising its authority on a whore's face, my body sunk with relative comfort into a giant inflatable device. There's is truly something to be said for the luck of the Irish!
Thankfully, the police were able to overlook my bottle-throwing antics. They actually thanked me for the great press they received for thwarting an attempted suicide! I decided that rather than argue, I would just roll with that story. To be honest, the idea of bare-knuckle boxing prison queens on my actual birthday didn't strike my fancy. What with all the drama from my faux birthday celebrations, I think I'll keep it low key this week. I'm thinkin' I'll just hang back at the ole abandoned boxcar, do some drugs, and throw rocks at hobos. Yeah, that sounds nice...
Monday, February 07, 2005
Post-holiday season summation - part 2
And so it was that I showed up at the front door of me old mate's house with little more than me coat and a strong buzz, the exact origins of which I cannot be certain. Peter opened the door a crack and peered outside suspiciously as though he expected a band of hooligans to shanghai him at any second. He surveyed the scene, grew some hair on his wee bitty balls, and finally lifted the chain to let me inside.
I waved goodbye to Tess from the doorway to let him know that I would be okay and stepped inside the large hallway of Peter's magnificent living quarters.
"That's a lovely chandelier you have there, Peter!"
"Jesus, Quint, you smell like a distillery!" he said to me. His face scrunched up as though my scent offended his nostrils. "Where did you say you're coming from again?"
"Well I just finished an excellent meal of ham and hashbrowns at fine local establishment not too far from your humble abode."
"Well can you explain why it is that you reek of booze?"
"Sure I can. It's because I was drinking it!"
"At a local diner?" He scoffed. "You didn't tell anyone you were coming here, did you?"
"Why I most certainly did, my friend! I'm rather proud of our friendship and felt that the world would be better-suited to know of our complex relationship."
Despair made a bed of Peter's brow.
"Now don't worry, Peteyboy. Everything is going to be just fine!" I grabbed him by the shoulder, led him into his kitchen, and sat him down at the massive table. His little daughter poked her tiny head in through an adjacent doorway and giggled. A wave of horror drowned Peter's facial expressions and when he recognized that I was well aware of his obvious discomfort, he balled his hands into white-knuckled fists.
"Elizabeth, dear, please go to bed," he said half beggingly with a tremor in his voice.
I slapped me old thighs. "Argh, is that one o' the little ones? "Hello little one!"
"Daddy, who is that man?" she asked.
"That's just daddy's friend. Now please find your way to bed!" His tone was stern, but his daughter's curiousity was not so easily appeased.
"Why does he smell like pee, daddy?"
Peter rose from his seat and quickly covered the distance between him and his daughter. He softly pushed her into the next room by her shoulders. "You heard me, now let's go!"
"Aw, bless her heart. What a deary! Honey, that's whiskey you smell on ole Quint!" I yelled after her. Upon further inspection, I realized that her young nostrils were keener than me own, and her proclamation was accurate, however I did not feel that it would be in my best interests to admit responsibility for urinating in my own pantaloons.
I scanned the fridge for an alcoholic beverage, but Peter returned quickly and halted my endeavors. It was apparent that he was not entirely comfortable with the idea of leaving me unsupervised in his home. I didn't blame him.
"Quint, maybe this isn't such a good idea after all."
"Now what does that mean?"
"You know full well what I mean. We didn't leave off on the best of terms, now, did we?"
"Surely not, you shivved me!"
Peter's head flew about the room like a Siberian weathervane. His body movements were forever betraying him and they taught me much. For instance, I just learned that Peter's family was left in the dark as to the events of his past. "Will you keep that down?" he begged. "Perhaps you should go."
"Aw, but I just got here, mate! I'm in no hurry. Where's that wifey of yours? I'd sure like to meet her..."
"No!" Peter said with a raised voice. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "No Quint, she's up in bed. She has to get up very early tomorrow and the last thing she has time for is a meeting with a filthy beggar like yourself."
Up to that point I had been trying to remain civil, but Peter pushed just a little too hard that time. "Watch your tone, Peteyboy! Here I am for a reunion and you see fit to insult me!"
"What reunion? How come I didn't get the invite? Face it, Quint, the only reason you're here is because you're homeless and you try to mooch off of any old friend who will have you.
"Peter, I could be standing here for a number of reasons, the least of which would entail seeking backpayment for my allowing you to sheath your weapon inside my body so many years ago. However, I'm the forgiving type and as I found myself travelling through Buffalo, my first thought was not of revenge, but of good tidings and happy new years. I simply came here to say hello and spin tales of the glory days."
I could see that his hard exterior was crumbling. At that point, his wife came into the room and asked if there was a problem.
"Ah, there's the skank!" I said.
My exclamation caused her to backstep. "Excuse me?"
"How dare you!" Peter yelled. No one speaks that way to my wife! Get out!"
I cracked my knuckles and approached me old mate. His body had become weak and flabby after many years of neglect and I decided that it wouldn't be difficult to throttle him. "Fine, I'll leave. But I demand your finest bottle of rum for reparation of past wrongs you've done me."
"Suzie, call the police!"
"Argh, let's not do that, Suzie. I'll go."
Peter escorted me to the door. He fastened the chain lock to the big wooden door behind me. "Quint, don't ever come back here. You can be sure that I'm going to seek a restraining order against you."
"Now, that doesn't make a lot of sense. Aren't you the one who stabbed me, Peteyboy?"
"Quint, you were practically raping my mother!"
I was momentarily at a loss for words. "Mother? Bev was your mother?" This news came as a brilliant shock to me.
"Yes, Quint, but you were too drunk to even notice my pleading with you to stop. I stabbed you because you're a brute and physical violence was the only reason you listened to!"
"Correction...I WAS a brute."
"Like I said, don't come back!" And with that, ole Peter Rittenshire slammed the door on the most engaging chapter of his life...for the second time.
Pangs of loneliness and a severe case of worms cramped my stomach as I made the long walk back to the highway, but I took comfort in several of the many tiny bottles of liquor that I accosted from Peter's fridge whilst he admonished his daughter. I laughed to myself. "His mother?" I thought. "How in the hell...?"
I waved goodbye to Tess from the doorway to let him know that I would be okay and stepped inside the large hallway of Peter's magnificent living quarters.
"That's a lovely chandelier you have there, Peter!"
"Jesus, Quint, you smell like a distillery!" he said to me. His face scrunched up as though my scent offended his nostrils. "Where did you say you're coming from again?"
"Well I just finished an excellent meal of ham and hashbrowns at fine local establishment not too far from your humble abode."
"Well can you explain why it is that you reek of booze?"
"Sure I can. It's because I was drinking it!"
"At a local diner?" He scoffed. "You didn't tell anyone you were coming here, did you?"
"Why I most certainly did, my friend! I'm rather proud of our friendship and felt that the world would be better-suited to know of our complex relationship."
Despair made a bed of Peter's brow.
"Now don't worry, Peteyboy. Everything is going to be just fine!" I grabbed him by the shoulder, led him into his kitchen, and sat him down at the massive table. His little daughter poked her tiny head in through an adjacent doorway and giggled. A wave of horror drowned Peter's facial expressions and when he recognized that I was well aware of his obvious discomfort, he balled his hands into white-knuckled fists.
"Elizabeth, dear, please go to bed," he said half beggingly with a tremor in his voice.
I slapped me old thighs. "Argh, is that one o' the little ones? "Hello little one!"
"Daddy, who is that man?" she asked.
"That's just daddy's friend. Now please find your way to bed!" His tone was stern, but his daughter's curiousity was not so easily appeased.
"Why does he smell like pee, daddy?"
Peter rose from his seat and quickly covered the distance between him and his daughter. He softly pushed her into the next room by her shoulders. "You heard me, now let's go!"
"Aw, bless her heart. What a deary! Honey, that's whiskey you smell on ole Quint!" I yelled after her. Upon further inspection, I realized that her young nostrils were keener than me own, and her proclamation was accurate, however I did not feel that it would be in my best interests to admit responsibility for urinating in my own pantaloons.
I scanned the fridge for an alcoholic beverage, but Peter returned quickly and halted my endeavors. It was apparent that he was not entirely comfortable with the idea of leaving me unsupervised in his home. I didn't blame him.
"Quint, maybe this isn't such a good idea after all."
"Now what does that mean?"
"You know full well what I mean. We didn't leave off on the best of terms, now, did we?"
"Surely not, you shivved me!"
Peter's head flew about the room like a Siberian weathervane. His body movements were forever betraying him and they taught me much. For instance, I just learned that Peter's family was left in the dark as to the events of his past. "Will you keep that down?" he begged. "Perhaps you should go."
"Aw, but I just got here, mate! I'm in no hurry. Where's that wifey of yours? I'd sure like to meet her..."
"No!" Peter said with a raised voice. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "No Quint, she's up in bed. She has to get up very early tomorrow and the last thing she has time for is a meeting with a filthy beggar like yourself."
Up to that point I had been trying to remain civil, but Peter pushed just a little too hard that time. "Watch your tone, Peteyboy! Here I am for a reunion and you see fit to insult me!"
"What reunion? How come I didn't get the invite? Face it, Quint, the only reason you're here is because you're homeless and you try to mooch off of any old friend who will have you.
"Peter, I could be standing here for a number of reasons, the least of which would entail seeking backpayment for my allowing you to sheath your weapon inside my body so many years ago. However, I'm the forgiving type and as I found myself travelling through Buffalo, my first thought was not of revenge, but of good tidings and happy new years. I simply came here to say hello and spin tales of the glory days."
I could see that his hard exterior was crumbling. At that point, his wife came into the room and asked if there was a problem.
"Ah, there's the skank!" I said.
My exclamation caused her to backstep. "Excuse me?"
"How dare you!" Peter yelled. No one speaks that way to my wife! Get out!"
I cracked my knuckles and approached me old mate. His body had become weak and flabby after many years of neglect and I decided that it wouldn't be difficult to throttle him. "Fine, I'll leave. But I demand your finest bottle of rum for reparation of past wrongs you've done me."
"Suzie, call the police!"
"Argh, let's not do that, Suzie. I'll go."
Peter escorted me to the door. He fastened the chain lock to the big wooden door behind me. "Quint, don't ever come back here. You can be sure that I'm going to seek a restraining order against you."
"Now, that doesn't make a lot of sense. Aren't you the one who stabbed me, Peteyboy?"
"Quint, you were practically raping my mother!"
I was momentarily at a loss for words. "Mother? Bev was your mother?" This news came as a brilliant shock to me.
"Yes, Quint, but you were too drunk to even notice my pleading with you to stop. I stabbed you because you're a brute and physical violence was the only reason you listened to!"
"Correction...I WAS a brute."
"Like I said, don't come back!" And with that, ole Peter Rittenshire slammed the door on the most engaging chapter of his life...for the second time.
Pangs of loneliness and a severe case of worms cramped my stomach as I made the long walk back to the highway, but I took comfort in several of the many tiny bottles of liquor that I accosted from Peter's fridge whilst he admonished his daughter. I laughed to myself. "His mother?" I thought. "How in the hell...?"
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Post-holiday season summation, part 1
Well well well, my dear friends...and intrusive enemies...we meet again. Of course I use the term "meet" in an abstract sense in that you are reading my words and we are not actually engaging in interpersonal communication as I'm sure many of you would like. Sadly, Quint comes in high demand and cannot afford you that opportunity, but for now, take pleasure in the words that flow from 'neath his pen...er...fingertips as he gently tickles the keys of the free library's computer.
Now, finally, to the point of this update. The New Year has sprung upon us like a Vietcong Guerrilla in Da Nang, and the attack in my case was particularly fierce and unrelenting. I'll begin by telling you a little about my post-holiday season. As you already know, ole Quint lost his job playing Santa Claus at the local shopping mall due to drug use and soiling the costume on more than one occasion.
Sure, I may have bitched about the job a bit, but all in all, I'm glad to be rid of the little maggots and their skanky mothers. Well, maybe not the skanky mothers. I quite enjoyed losing myself in the heaving crests of their ample bosoms. Oh mother glory!
So after that I decided to take a little road trip to keep me mind off the New Year, lest I be depressed, and so I decided to head South. The first thing I learned is that hitchhiking is no longer the easygoing American pasttime it once was in the good ole US of A. It took me seven hours of standing in the rain before I acquired a ride from a burly truck driver named Tess, and it just so happened that he was going North.
As luck would have it, Tess stopped at a diner in Buffalo, NY called The Tea Cup, where he busied himself by engorging his fat, beared face with several plates of hot apple pie. My thoughts were on Buffalo. I could remember a time when I knew a man who happened to reside in Buffalo. He was never what I'd consider a great friend of mine; and I don't think I'd be so generous as refer to him a good friend, but I knew him and I'd let him buy me a drink anytime.
Anyway, that's how I ended up calling the number for information and acquiring the telephone digits for one Peter Rittenshire, a man who 10 years ago unsuccessfully attempted to shiv yours truly in his gullet whilst on a doomed fishing expedition off the coast of Newfoundland. Not long after a little argument over the rights to a certain young lass named Bev, Petey snuck, jabbed, and left me fer dead on the cold, wet planks of the dock with little more than a flask of whiskey and a marijuana cigarette. Neither of us got the girl, giving me good reason to believe that she was a lesbian.
It came as a big surprised to me that the miserable bastard hadn't relocated in all of the years since our falling out, but sure enough the operator was able to redirect me after a brief search in her computadora (that's spanish for computer)!
"'ello," he answered in a distinctive English voice.
"Hey fucker! How ya doin'?" ole Quint responded gleefully.
There was a moment of silence on the other end and for a minute I wondered if maybe that good fer nothin' operator disconnected me somehow. The bitch! I'd gouge her eyes if I ever saw her!
"Quint?"
"Ahoy there matey," I shouted into the speaking part of the phone. If my lips got any closer, passersby would have thought me obscene.
"Quint, why may I ask are you phoning my house?" He sounded a little nervous, and it confused me...after all, he was the one who shivved me!
"Listen Petey, ole Quint's in a bit of a holiday bind and wondering if you're willing to lend a hand."
"Quint, we have not even talked since..."
"See, here's the deal. My efforts to migrate south for the season proved to be in vain and somehow I'm sitting in a Buffalo diner with a truck driver named Tess. I have no place to go and I'm damn near out of the money I borrowed from the drug store register. Care to help an old sea dog in need, old friend?"
"Um..."
"Great! Now all I'll need is your address and I'll be arriving momentarily!" I grabbed the knife that I keep strapped to my calf beneath my trousers and pricked the tip of my middle finger, drawing enough blood to write the number on a used napkin that lie on the floor.
"Now hold on a minute, Quint," he said, sounding more than a little agitated. "I'm not particularly sure that this is such a good idea."
"Now what is that supposed to mean?"
"Well, Quint, you're catching me a little off guard here. How can you expect to call me up out of nowhere and expect to arrange a get together?"
Honestly, friends, his babble was beginning to frighten me. I was beginning to think that I'd have to find shelter underneath a bridge. It certainly wouldn't be the abandoned railway car that I have been calling home for the past 6 months, but I'd make do. "Right, is that too much to expect from an old comrade?" I asked.
"Well, a lot's changed since the old days, Quint. I'm married now..." He paused for a second as if he didn't have the courage to disclose any more information about his private life. "...and I have kids now."
"Yaaargh! Do ya now? I love kiddies! And kiddies love Quint. We'll get along famously I'm sure. Now about that address?"
There was a long pause on the other end, and just as I was about to curse that damned devil woman of an operator again, Peter spoke. "Fine Quint, you may stop by my house. We're the big white mansion on Cayuga Creek Rd where it intersects with William St. There are 3 cars in the driveway and two SUVs. You really can't miss it. But you'll have to be gone by ten. I have to wake up early for an important conference."
"Ah, Mr. Important! Well, no worries, I shant be a bother to ye and yers. I'll be gone by 10am!"
"Yes. Wait! No!" Peter had a bit of a coughing spell into his end of the telly. "I mean that you are to be out of the house by 10 o'clock tonight, Quint!"
I squinted at the diner's wall-clock through the large window and noticed that it was already 7pm. "Well then, ole Quint better be on his way then, eh? See ya soon, me lovely."
To be continued...
Now, finally, to the point of this update. The New Year has sprung upon us like a Vietcong Guerrilla in Da Nang, and the attack in my case was particularly fierce and unrelenting. I'll begin by telling you a little about my post-holiday season. As you already know, ole Quint lost his job playing Santa Claus at the local shopping mall due to drug use and soiling the costume on more than one occasion.
Sure, I may have bitched about the job a bit, but all in all, I'm glad to be rid of the little maggots and their skanky mothers. Well, maybe not the skanky mothers. I quite enjoyed losing myself in the heaving crests of their ample bosoms. Oh mother glory!
So after that I decided to take a little road trip to keep me mind off the New Year, lest I be depressed, and so I decided to head South. The first thing I learned is that hitchhiking is no longer the easygoing American pasttime it once was in the good ole US of A. It took me seven hours of standing in the rain before I acquired a ride from a burly truck driver named Tess, and it just so happened that he was going North.
As luck would have it, Tess stopped at a diner in Buffalo, NY called The Tea Cup, where he busied himself by engorging his fat, beared face with several plates of hot apple pie. My thoughts were on Buffalo. I could remember a time when I knew a man who happened to reside in Buffalo. He was never what I'd consider a great friend of mine; and I don't think I'd be so generous as refer to him a good friend, but I knew him and I'd let him buy me a drink anytime.
Anyway, that's how I ended up calling the number for information and acquiring the telephone digits for one Peter Rittenshire, a man who 10 years ago unsuccessfully attempted to shiv yours truly in his gullet whilst on a doomed fishing expedition off the coast of Newfoundland. Not long after a little argument over the rights to a certain young lass named Bev, Petey snuck, jabbed, and left me fer dead on the cold, wet planks of the dock with little more than a flask of whiskey and a marijuana cigarette. Neither of us got the girl, giving me good reason to believe that she was a lesbian.
It came as a big surprised to me that the miserable bastard hadn't relocated in all of the years since our falling out, but sure enough the operator was able to redirect me after a brief search in her computadora (that's spanish for computer)!
"'ello," he answered in a distinctive English voice.
"Hey fucker! How ya doin'?" ole Quint responded gleefully.
There was a moment of silence on the other end and for a minute I wondered if maybe that good fer nothin' operator disconnected me somehow. The bitch! I'd gouge her eyes if I ever saw her!
"Quint?"
"Ahoy there matey," I shouted into the speaking part of the phone. If my lips got any closer, passersby would have thought me obscene.
"Quint, why may I ask are you phoning my house?" He sounded a little nervous, and it confused me...after all, he was the one who shivved me!
"Listen Petey, ole Quint's in a bit of a holiday bind and wondering if you're willing to lend a hand."
"Quint, we have not even talked since..."
"See, here's the deal. My efforts to migrate south for the season proved to be in vain and somehow I'm sitting in a Buffalo diner with a truck driver named Tess. I have no place to go and I'm damn near out of the money I borrowed from the drug store register. Care to help an old sea dog in need, old friend?"
"Um..."
"Great! Now all I'll need is your address and I'll be arriving momentarily!" I grabbed the knife that I keep strapped to my calf beneath my trousers and pricked the tip of my middle finger, drawing enough blood to write the number on a used napkin that lie on the floor.
"Now hold on a minute, Quint," he said, sounding more than a little agitated. "I'm not particularly sure that this is such a good idea."
"Now what is that supposed to mean?"
"Well, Quint, you're catching me a little off guard here. How can you expect to call me up out of nowhere and expect to arrange a get together?"
Honestly, friends, his babble was beginning to frighten me. I was beginning to think that I'd have to find shelter underneath a bridge. It certainly wouldn't be the abandoned railway car that I have been calling home for the past 6 months, but I'd make do. "Right, is that too much to expect from an old comrade?" I asked.
"Well, a lot's changed since the old days, Quint. I'm married now..." He paused for a second as if he didn't have the courage to disclose any more information about his private life. "...and I have kids now."
"Yaaargh! Do ya now? I love kiddies! And kiddies love Quint. We'll get along famously I'm sure. Now about that address?"
There was a long pause on the other end, and just as I was about to curse that damned devil woman of an operator again, Peter spoke. "Fine Quint, you may stop by my house. We're the big white mansion on Cayuga Creek Rd where it intersects with William St. There are 3 cars in the driveway and two SUVs. You really can't miss it. But you'll have to be gone by ten. I have to wake up early for an important conference."
"Ah, Mr. Important! Well, no worries, I shant be a bother to ye and yers. I'll be gone by 10am!"
"Yes. Wait! No!" Peter had a bit of a coughing spell into his end of the telly. "I mean that you are to be out of the house by 10 o'clock tonight, Quint!"
I squinted at the diner's wall-clock through the large window and noticed that it was already 7pm. "Well then, ole Quint better be on his way then, eh? See ya soon, me lovely."
To be continued...
Monday, December 27, 2004
Quint's stint as Santa Claus
Ole Quint enjoyed his Christmas very much. That's right, people. This season I decided to get in the holiday spirit, and figured it might be a good idea to lay off the particular brand of "spirits" that so often seem to land this wily seafarer in a hotbed of trouble. So, rather than hard boozin', I opted for a serious opium session instead. Lordy lord was that a bad idea, and now I'll tell you all the reasons why...
Me friend Legless Larry recently aided me in acquiring a job at the local shopping plaza. The booty would be 6 dollars an hour under the table to spend a few hours in the guise of Santa Claus himself, a job I all too hastily accepted. However, it just so happened that the opium session immediately preceeded the inaugural planting of my ass on the seat of all seats, and during my very first shift I learned much to my dismay that opiates are frowned upon by both supervisors and parents alike.
After falling asleep with a child in my lap and slumping to the floor soon after with a dark urine stain on the mall's scarlet Santa pants, my boss, a pretty man named Howard Dobbins, decided to intervene. Such was the end to the possibility of my advancing towards a lucrative and rewarding career as ole St. Nick. Ah well, I guess I have enough personalities already, me friends. Harharharharharharhar!!!
So I spent the rest of the holiday on a bender...then in jail...then on a bender again. Oh, and then I spent some time in the library, but I was simply using the historical reference section as a latrine because the Pizza Hut next door wouldn't permit me to make use of their facilities. So what if the dishwasher has a restraining order out on me! I happen to be a human being with a urinary tract infection, God damn it! It's not like I would have been capable of "stalking" or "harassing" or "aggravatingly assaulting" the guy, or whatever else it said on the papers...not when I had to pee that fuckin' bad!
Anyway, that whole deal led me back to jail, where I also happened to enjoy a bender, happily abusing the "tits" a fellow inmate provided me with as a kind gesture of welcoming a "first-time user". Typically, that's not a term one could apply to ole Quint, but in this case it did happen to be the first time I enjoyed rat poison, so I guess there's not much I can say in disagreement.
Me friend Legless Larry recently aided me in acquiring a job at the local shopping plaza. The booty would be 6 dollars an hour under the table to spend a few hours in the guise of Santa Claus himself, a job I all too hastily accepted. However, it just so happened that the opium session immediately preceeded the inaugural planting of my ass on the seat of all seats, and during my very first shift I learned much to my dismay that opiates are frowned upon by both supervisors and parents alike.
After falling asleep with a child in my lap and slumping to the floor soon after with a dark urine stain on the mall's scarlet Santa pants, my boss, a pretty man named Howard Dobbins, decided to intervene. Such was the end to the possibility of my advancing towards a lucrative and rewarding career as ole St. Nick. Ah well, I guess I have enough personalities already, me friends. Harharharharharharhar!!!
So I spent the rest of the holiday on a bender...then in jail...then on a bender again. Oh, and then I spent some time in the library, but I was simply using the historical reference section as a latrine because the Pizza Hut next door wouldn't permit me to make use of their facilities. So what if the dishwasher has a restraining order out on me! I happen to be a human being with a urinary tract infection, God damn it! It's not like I would have been capable of "stalking" or "harassing" or "aggravatingly assaulting" the guy, or whatever else it said on the papers...not when I had to pee that fuckin' bad!
Anyway, that whole deal led me back to jail, where I also happened to enjoy a bender, happily abusing the "tits" a fellow inmate provided me with as a kind gesture of welcoming a "first-time user". Typically, that's not a term one could apply to ole Quint, but in this case it did happen to be the first time I enjoyed rat poison, so I guess there's not much I can say in disagreement.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Election Day
Well, ladies and gents, ole Quint has slacked off something awful these past couple of weeks, and he fears that it will cost him the presidential election. The fact that I spent more time imagining myself campaigning during my last acid trip than I actually did in reality, I'm going to venture a guess and say that I probably stand very little chance of winning.
So, what to do now? Perhaps sail the seven seas once more. Maybe start a rock and roll band and tour the world, no doubt spending an inordinate amount of time in Amsterdam guzzling absinthe and smoking reefer. Oh, and not to mention soliciting prostitutes in the red light district! I could even start my own outlaw motorcycle club and ride around clubbing pedestrians to within an inch of their lives...
Ahhh, all of these adventures sound lovely indeed, but they are merely a few choices in a nearly limitless sea of possibility. As for now, I'm preparing to head over to the local Taco Bell to rustle up some supper. You wouldn't believe how many chalupas they toss into that dumpster! A man could eat like a king forever. Wait a second, I probably shouldn't have told ye that. Stay away from me Taco Bell, ya brigands!
So, what to do now? Perhaps sail the seven seas once more. Maybe start a rock and roll band and tour the world, no doubt spending an inordinate amount of time in Amsterdam guzzling absinthe and smoking reefer. Oh, and not to mention soliciting prostitutes in the red light district! I could even start my own outlaw motorcycle club and ride around clubbing pedestrians to within an inch of their lives...
Ahhh, all of these adventures sound lovely indeed, but they are merely a few choices in a nearly limitless sea of possibility. As for now, I'm preparing to head over to the local Taco Bell to rustle up some supper. You wouldn't believe how many chalupas they toss into that dumpster! A man could eat like a king forever. Wait a second, I probably shouldn't have told ye that. Stay away from me Taco Bell, ya brigands!
Friday, October 01, 2004
Rum, whiskey, and pot
I woke up in an alley the very next morning with no recollection of the previous eve's activities. After a few hazy minutes of contemplation, I managed to remember that my first day of campaigning went very well, and so I decided to celebrate with a lil of the ole bubbly. Being that I was well on my way to blossoming into the distinguished gentleman that I was born to become, I decided not to settle for the usual bottle of Beefeater Gin that warms my gullet during cold winter slumbers.
Instead, I opted to purchase the most expensive bottle of rum that I could find...and then several bags of marijuana, which I assure you are for medicinal purposes only. Somehow this led to several verbal disputes with men who did not appreciate my newfound political genius, and soon after to multiple physical altercations in the back alley of an establishment named The Brass Barrel.
If my memory serves me correctly, I bested every last one of my challengers, though I must be honest, my memory rarely serves me correctly. More oft than naught, it downright lies to ole Quint. Fine, I'll admit it, I'm prone to delusions of grandeur and severe hallucinations! I lost the damned fights, ya bastards! What more do you want from me?
Anyway, somehow I managed to spend all of the money I collected that first day in the Bergin Bros. parking lot, which I'm not entirely displeased with myself for doing. After all, it will help boost the moral of the crew. And anything that does such a thing can't be all bad, now can it? I don't believe that it can!
But the bad thing is that I continued along that path for several days. And by days, I mean weeks. Damn it, I spent everything that I ever collected! Fear not though, my friends and comrades, because ole Quint has finally regained composure. I realized what needed to be done. I grasped the fact that I needed to campaign and collect donations, all the while eliminating the purchase of marijuana afterwards.
Obviously, the rum would have to remain acceptable to stave off the booze shakes, and surely a fifth of Jack Daniels would be nothing but an asset to my socialiable nature, but aside from that...no wait, maybe just an eighth of canabis to calm me nerves would suffice. Yes, why a mere eighth could do no harm could it? An eighth it is!
Rum, whiskey, and pot! Quint likes them a lot!
Instead, I opted to purchase the most expensive bottle of rum that I could find...and then several bags of marijuana, which I assure you are for medicinal purposes only. Somehow this led to several verbal disputes with men who did not appreciate my newfound political genius, and soon after to multiple physical altercations in the back alley of an establishment named The Brass Barrel.
If my memory serves me correctly, I bested every last one of my challengers, though I must be honest, my memory rarely serves me correctly. More oft than naught, it downright lies to ole Quint. Fine, I'll admit it, I'm prone to delusions of grandeur and severe hallucinations! I lost the damned fights, ya bastards! What more do you want from me?
Anyway, somehow I managed to spend all of the money I collected that first day in the Bergin Bros. parking lot, which I'm not entirely displeased with myself for doing. After all, it will help boost the moral of the crew. And anything that does such a thing can't be all bad, now can it? I don't believe that it can!
But the bad thing is that I continued along that path for several days. And by days, I mean weeks. Damn it, I spent everything that I ever collected! Fear not though, my friends and comrades, because ole Quint has finally regained composure. I realized what needed to be done. I grasped the fact that I needed to campaign and collect donations, all the while eliminating the purchase of marijuana afterwards.
Obviously, the rum would have to remain acceptable to stave off the booze shakes, and surely a fifth of Jack Daniels would be nothing but an asset to my socialiable nature, but aside from that...no wait, maybe just an eighth of canabis to calm me nerves would suffice. Yes, why a mere eighth could do no harm could it? An eighth it is!
Rum, whiskey, and pot! Quint likes them a lot!
Friday, September 17, 2004
Beer and Toking on the Campaign Trail
Considering the sun began to rise not more than an hour after my little run-in with the cardboard king and his home-deprived Lolita, there was still a great deal of work to be done. After retreating to my boxcar as if I were being chased by the conductor himself, I set about designing the most beautiful pamphlets a pre-school dropout could imagine with only a blue crayon and a mess of littered paper scraps at his disposal.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged victorious with nearly two-hundred pamphlets (scribbled writing on sugar packets and dirty napkins) bearing the slogan: "Quint McGuinley for President or he'll bash yer heads!" The scrapper began saying that perhaps I shouldn't be so aggressive at such an early stage, but I think he noticed my hand raise in the air as if to slap him again, and he immediately caught his tongue.
So, with no time to waste, I equipped the scrapper and his skank with several packets and sent them to the west side of the town, whilst I traveled east towards the coast. After a quick detour so that I could swing by the local "open 24-hours-a-day" porn shop and peruse the latest in quality entertainment, I headed directly for the first of many supermarkets that I would be visiting that day.
The first place was a fairly large establishment owned buy the Bergin Bros, or so the named suggested. There was an area directly to the left of the entrance where people would have to grab a shopping cart if they so desired, and I figured that would be as good a place as any to set up shop. I leaned against the wall in a welcoming manner, dug my hand into my jacket pocket and grabbed a pamphlet...err sugar packet if yer the picky type.
As I think back, it probably wasn't a good idea to show up at 7 in the morning. Not many people seemed willing to shop at a closed grocery store and I guess I can't blame them. Before long, though, my luck changed for the better, and a few employees showed up to open the store. I hid myself behind the shopping carts in case they would mistake me for a hobo and call the police - believe it or not, that happens a lot.
By the time everything was set up, the parking began to fill with automobiles of every sort. One of the first vehicles to park in front of Bergin Bros was a tan '87 Buick, which spewed forth a lanky old man and what I can only assume to have been his wife, for it was obvious that she was no less experience in aging than her husband. Normally, I might have advanced on her and tried to acquire myself accompaniment for that evening, but seeing as how I was there on professional business, I figured I would contain myself for the time being.
As the couple approached the carts, I rose from my hiding place and ejected my arm, practically tattooing the sugar packet of information into the old man's face. Startled, he jumped back and nearly sent his wife to the pavement, but her reflexes were apparently sharper than her wrinkled skin, for she latched onto his arm and shot me a look of both terror and what I can only assume to be longing for ole Quint.
Without even so much as a glance at the packet, the old man asked me, "What do you want? How much?" I began to think that maybe this campaign thing wouldn't be as difficult as I thought. "How much?" I asked. "Well, how much do you have?"
The old man grabbed his wife's purse and handed it over to me. I reached inside and found a petite sequined change purse that beheld a treasure of more than $200 American dollars. The way I figured it, if everyone else I talked to that day continued to donate even half that amount, I'd have a pretty substantial means for getting around the country in no time at all. I took the cash out of the purse and handed it back to the old man. "This should do nicely," I said. "You're doing your country a great service."
I did not find the look I received very obliging, but I shrugged it off thinking that perhaps I was reading into it too deeply. Either way, as the old man led his wife inside the store, I overheard him whisper something to her about "calling the cops", and whilst I saw no crimes being committed in the vicinity of Bergin Bros, I decided to depart for my next supermarket anyway. My previous run-ins with the law would fill a book, and if the cops couldn't locate any other suspects, they'd surely be willing to settle for ole Quint.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged victorious with nearly two-hundred pamphlets (scribbled writing on sugar packets and dirty napkins) bearing the slogan: "Quint McGuinley for President or he'll bash yer heads!" The scrapper began saying that perhaps I shouldn't be so aggressive at such an early stage, but I think he noticed my hand raise in the air as if to slap him again, and he immediately caught his tongue.
So, with no time to waste, I equipped the scrapper and his skank with several packets and sent them to the west side of the town, whilst I traveled east towards the coast. After a quick detour so that I could swing by the local "open 24-hours-a-day" porn shop and peruse the latest in quality entertainment, I headed directly for the first of many supermarkets that I would be visiting that day.
The first place was a fairly large establishment owned buy the Bergin Bros, or so the named suggested. There was an area directly to the left of the entrance where people would have to grab a shopping cart if they so desired, and I figured that would be as good a place as any to set up shop. I leaned against the wall in a welcoming manner, dug my hand into my jacket pocket and grabbed a pamphlet...err sugar packet if yer the picky type.
As I think back, it probably wasn't a good idea to show up at 7 in the morning. Not many people seemed willing to shop at a closed grocery store and I guess I can't blame them. Before long, though, my luck changed for the better, and a few employees showed up to open the store. I hid myself behind the shopping carts in case they would mistake me for a hobo and call the police - believe it or not, that happens a lot.
By the time everything was set up, the parking began to fill with automobiles of every sort. One of the first vehicles to park in front of Bergin Bros was a tan '87 Buick, which spewed forth a lanky old man and what I can only assume to have been his wife, for it was obvious that she was no less experience in aging than her husband. Normally, I might have advanced on her and tried to acquire myself accompaniment for that evening, but seeing as how I was there on professional business, I figured I would contain myself for the time being.
As the couple approached the carts, I rose from my hiding place and ejected my arm, practically tattooing the sugar packet of information into the old man's face. Startled, he jumped back and nearly sent his wife to the pavement, but her reflexes were apparently sharper than her wrinkled skin, for she latched onto his arm and shot me a look of both terror and what I can only assume to be longing for ole Quint.
Without even so much as a glance at the packet, the old man asked me, "What do you want? How much?" I began to think that maybe this campaign thing wouldn't be as difficult as I thought. "How much?" I asked. "Well, how much do you have?"
The old man grabbed his wife's purse and handed it over to me. I reached inside and found a petite sequined change purse that beheld a treasure of more than $200 American dollars. The way I figured it, if everyone else I talked to that day continued to donate even half that amount, I'd have a pretty substantial means for getting around the country in no time at all. I took the cash out of the purse and handed it back to the old man. "This should do nicely," I said. "You're doing your country a great service."
I did not find the look I received very obliging, but I shrugged it off thinking that perhaps I was reading into it too deeply. Either way, as the old man led his wife inside the store, I overheard him whisper something to her about "calling the cops", and whilst I saw no crimes being committed in the vicinity of Bergin Bros, I decided to depart for my next supermarket anyway. My previous run-ins with the law would fill a book, and if the cops couldn't locate any other suspects, they'd surely be willing to settle for ole Quint.
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