**This is just a quick 10-page sample of the current follow-up to "Viaja Bizarro" that I've been working on over the past few months as I battle a spell of the old writer's block after having a newborn. A lot of folks have been nagging me to get the next one out, so until I finish it up, here's just a taste of things to come. This is just the intro. The adventures are soon to follow.....
"ARE YOU WEARING MAKEUP, FAGGOT?" My so-called best friend and 300+lb Samoan P.I.C., Cannon, yelled out for all to hear like the town fucking crier as he charged up to me in the outdoor halls of our summer school.
“What? Hell no, I'm not wearing makeup, bitch! Fuck you!” I practically cowered as I tried turning my head away in a weak attempt to hide a face from which I could feel the icy heat of terror-sweat beginning to surface.
“Fuck yeah, he is! Look at that shit! His bitch ass got some powdered ruse on & shit. Looks like there’s a big-ass red dot under that shit too!” A brace-faced dick-shit named Corbin, who looked like Toby Turtle from Disney’s Robin Hood wrapped in electrical tape, piped in from my peripheral. The same black fucker that we had tortured for years for having such a white name.
“Who the fuck are you talkin' to, ass-fucker? With your white ass name your race-hatin' mom gave you,” my defenses were up. Cannon was one thing, but I couldn't take shit from one of the fuckers that I was so used to feeding shit to, “You better go on somewhere with your shiny ass mouth, you fuckin' Black & Decker pecker wrecker!”
My efforts were pointless. All the clever diss names and all the LSD in the world couldn't save this day from being shitty. I was, in fact…wearing some of my mother's makeup.
Sorry. Let me back this up a couple hours to fill you in on the origin of my plight…
I woke up that morning with my regular ritual of an overlong teenage boy shower (wink, wink) and slappin’ some goop in my bleach-streaked dome fuzz, which looking back now, I can see was probably pretty gay looking, but I lost my virginity shortly after I bleached it the first time so I ended up keeping it from ages 13 to 17. Whatever. Shit got me my first shot at prepubescent chest pudge and funny smelling fingers. Judge all you want. Fuck you. Anyway, I was wrappin’ up the ol’ ritual and had a few minutes to spare before my regularly scheduled departure when I came across a pet toy belonging to my mom’s two cats, Maggot & Angel. It was one of those cheap made-in-China Dollar Tree toys with the suction cup base and a wobbly 18-inch spring with a little furry doodad on the tip. So to kill time, I figured, “Why not suction this thing to my forehead and chase the cats around with it hanging from my face?” Brilliant, right? Well, after doing this for about fifteen minutes I finally decided to pull the thing off and it gave me a little bit of a struggle. It finally released its grasp on me with a *pop* and revealed a perfectly rounded purple hickey. I was horrified! My beautiful face! What was a bleach-headed boy to do?? In a panic, I ran to my mother for advice. She tried soothing me by calmly telling me that it wouldn’t be a problem. Just a quick fix. No biggie. She took me in the bathroom and told me that she could easily remedy this with just a little bit of her concealer. I was far from into going to school with some bitch paint slathered across my face. That’s fucking gay (spending a half-hour in the mirror putting styling gel in your dyed hair and carefully putting each strand in its proper place in order to make it look sloppy was perfectly heterosexual though. Whatever. Again, fuck you.)! My options were minimal though and it sounded better than having what looked like a forehead Bindhi on PCP across my face so I caved. She opened up the little jar thingy and started smearing a tiny wedge of sponge through the powdery slime before lightly patting it above my brow like she was putting the finishing touches on a masterpiece. I looked in the mirror and fell into a panic. “Nobody’s gonna buy this shit!! Look at me! What the fuck? There’s an obvious circle of a different color than my skin staring right back at me!” She managed to convince me that the only reason I could see it was because I knew it was there and I was looking for it. I tested her theory by quickly glancing back and forth at my reflection. I bought it. I was young and evidently impressionable to the degree of retardation. Deep, deep down though, I knew my social doom was imminent.