Crazed and Defused - Part II

Since this is Part II, you might want to read Part I, below, first...

~~~~~~~

“Jake, my man, we are gonna take care of business,” he said, grinding his right fist into his left palm. “Now, as I was saying, Slot left, 21 Y absolutely rules.”

“No, man,” interrupted Sean Peppers. He was the tallest of the group. And he resented his height. He just wanted to blend in, and his height made him stick out. So his shoulders stooped and his knees bent. And he was usually quiet. But a slip regarding football meant something to Sean. “You were talking about Slot one, Y package, dude. 21 Y is when Mallarky hooks in between the linebackers. Get it right, dude.”

“Whatever,” hissed Toby. “Anyone see Sarah Cluney’s little skirt today? Sweet. Reminded me of Kitty.” Now Toby had a misty look in his eyes. “Remember Kitty? Man, she had the most incredible body ever.”

“I heard she goes to Cornell now, dude.”

“Yeah, whatever. She’s probably making some dude very happy up there. I sure do miss her.” Toby had a far-away look in his eyes.

Mitch kept listening. He knew they’d brag about one thing or another before too long. He wasn’t disappointed. He shifted his book as he switched the crossing of his ankles to make himself more comfortable. He scratched his back a little on the tree. Still listening.

“That puke is in for a big surprise tonight, man,” began Toby. “My brother says he works over at Town Pizza, over off Lancaster Street. You guys know where I mean?” They all nodded. Here it comes, thought Mitch.

“His buddy Tee told me that puke delivers all night starting at seven. He goes out. He comes back. He goes out again. And –”

“Sounds like you’re doin’ the deed, man!” shouted Neil King. Neil was constantly thinking about sex. Anything you said could be construed to have a sexual meaning or contain sexual content. And when the connection, real or fictitious, was made in Neil’s head, he blurted out his findings for all to hear. “In and out and in and out. Awesome! Momma’s got a squeeze box! Daddy never sleeps at night!”

“Shut up, Squeal,” said Toby. Neil shrunk back to where he had been sitting. If he’d had a tail he would have pulled it between his legs. But he was still quietly humming his little tune.

“Anyway, this dude starts at seven and delivers all night. He usually finishes up around eleven, except on weekend nights, when he goes ‘til one or so. I say we catch up with him at eleven tonight and take care of business.” Toby was seeing it all in his mind now.

Mitch made a mental note of the address and time. He kept his head down and kept reading.

“What’s the point, dude?” Jake asked. Jake was shorter than the rest of the guys, but made up for his lack of height with sheer power. He was a wrestler and nobody messed with him. He was powerfully built and slow to anger. He always asked what the point was. His wide face belied a calm soul. Mitch could never quite figure out what he was doing with these morons. He seemed like a good guy.

“The point, numb nuts,” began Toby. Jake slowly turned his eyes to Toby. Toby backed up a step.

“Sorry, dude. What I meant to say was… the point is that this a-hole, this bucket of puke, this piece of garbage has crossed the line.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~
'til next time...

Crazed and Defused - Part I

The following is an excerpt from a story called "Crazed and Defused":

Mitch wore long, baggy pants that barely clung to his butt cheeks. Why he even bothered to wear a belt was beyond me. I guess it was just for style. Or maybe the belt buckle doubled as a bottle opener. Or just maybe it was a utility belt, you know, like Batman’s. Anyway, he wore those pants low, so low that the cuffs scraped the ground when he walked. They scraped and scraped until they’d been worn to a cool fringe.

Mitch spoke with a slow deliberation. He took his time when all around him people rushed and tripped over their own tongues. His speech came out at a steady, unhurried pace. He spoke in complete sentences. That in and of itself was a miracle. Considering that no one he knew spoke in complete sentences. Or much more than a grunt, for that matter. No, Mitch’s friends couldn’t be bothered with complete sentences. They were busy texting LOLs and IMHOs and joining the latest social network so they could let everyone see their inane lives in full, living color. Mitch walked slowly; he spoke slowly; he even ate slowly. Mitch took his time in life. He tasted things. He savored things. He watched and listened.

One fine, cool afternoon in mid-September, as he and all his classmates were becoming re-acclimated to another year of high school, Mitch strolled slowly, quietly, and alertly through the quad. His radar was working perfectly – as usual. He was catching sumptuous bites of conversations, surreptitiously eyeballing the girls in their scant clothing before they covered up for the fall. He was scanning, probing, looking to all the world like a quiet dunce. He was anything but.

Toby Grant and his band of muscle-bound misfits were planning something. He could tell by the way they acted like nothing was going on. They made a forced show of nothing. Greek gods stretching their shirts, looking like the mindless prats they were. As he sat himself down next to a tree and pulled his hat down a half-inch further to shade his eyes, crossed his ankles, and took out a book, he blended in with his surroundings. Everyone knew he was bright. Everyone knew he was focused. Everyone knew he read. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to see here.

He opened his book and tilted his head down, never giving the impression that he was doing anything but reading. Never giving the impression that he was doing anything but focusing on his own little world and shutting out the bigger, more confused and confusing, one. He tilted his head and sat alertly taking in everything around him. Toby was expounding on two of his favorite topics: the football team and the cornucopia of girls he found worthy to be on his list of desirables. In between Toby’s brilliant one liners “Sherry’s got the best ass I’ve ever seen, man” and “Slot one, Y package left is definitely our most potent weapon, man,” Jake Martin was chiming in, asking annoying questions, and disrupting Toby’s serene and Zen-like flow.

“Toby, what are we gonna do about this guy?” Jake asked. He didn’t seem to particularly care. He just asked. Toby smiled indulgently.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
'til next time...