100 Years of Solid Dudes
Colonel Aureliano Buendia faced the firing squad…He remembered ice of all fucking things. I didn’t really know what that meant. But, recalling the day I held the Roman candle to Jake and my girlfriend: I think that’s when it clicked. My firing squad consisted of me, Malcolm, our other roommate—Marshall—as best friend and co-conspirator, and my toy artillery. We made them freeze. So, maybe that’s why Buendia thought of ice. Maybe the barrels of those rifles made him too frigid to move. Perhaps Jake and Christine were too frozen up by what was about to unfold: caught between the threshold of the kitchen and living room, whimpering like dogs in the cold. But I always preferred fire over ice. And it was time to heat things up.
So, part of me prayed to fucking god that the gas on our sloppy stove was on. I could see an old pot of spaghetti, noodles draped over the rim. Maybe Jake or Christine was attempting to warm it up, like they warmed up to each other. Jake, my roommate, fucked Christine, my girlfriend. And they had the gall to stand there and deny it? I wanted to see us all charred to a crisp. Marshall didn’t deserve it. But he fucking told me about it.
My boney hands played meticulously with the fuse on my flagrant toy. Jake’s baby face and blue eyes flinched. He played with his only manly feature: light brown stubble. For being four years older than me, he was underdeveloped. But I guess that’s how he got off with fucking underage girls. He was a shaggy haired, Peter Pansy in a Starbucks shift manager uniform. I was an artist with talent. And he was banging out my girl.
Christine’s slanted gaze bounced frenetically. Her dark green parka and long black hair outlined her snow white face. I wanted to see her complexion fluster into a mess of blotchy, crimson. Another part of me wanted to take her to bed. I wanted to slap those full thighs, slap that fat ass, and ride the fuck out of her. “Malcolm, you are my god,” she would scream. But that was just wishful thinking and a potential rape charge.
So, we stood in silence. Eventually, Marshall told me I should probably light the fuse. I nodded. My fingers groped into my jeans’ pockets and retrieved a green lighter.
“All I’m trying to say is this,” Jake said. “Christine and I might…”
I told Jake to shut it. With a snap of the thumb, the BIC flicked. He began backing up. Christine begged me to stop. She asked me to listen to her. But I’d already seen the text message that Adeline sent Marshall. I asked why her best friend would lie. She was speechless. I placed the flame to the fuse and told them to get the fuck out.
“Malcolm?” Christine asked in disbelief. Tears ran down her cheeks, striping her face in black eyeliner.
“Cut the shit,” I said. “Leave, now!”
The little slut didn’t listen. Worse, she pulled the “I love you” card. Bad move. In five seconds, it was Christmas on the Fourth of July. Sparks of green and red burst from the red, white, and blue striped tube. Jake ran through the kitchen, knocking the trash can. Clumsy bitch. The collision sent the silver barrel toppling, spilling bottles, cans, and rotten food on the tile floor. Marshall had just cleaned. Pissed on my behalf and angry about the mess, he grabbed his red road bike, flung it over his shoulder, and was out the door. He peddled down the alley after Jake. His profanities and threats resonated through the living room window.
Christine had been stoic as I, until that moment. Marshall’s cries and Jake’s escape seemed to have no effect. But the flames erupting on her parka’s fur lining sent her fleeing through the fucking apartment. Jake and Marshall were gone by the time Christine got to the alley. Paying little mind to her crying, I opened up the fridge for a drink: beer and beer. I grabbed a can of Pabst and an empty High Life bottle from the floor.
When I made my way out to the fire escape, her coat was engulfed in fire. I called out to see if she needed any help. She already had the parka on the cement, stomping out the flames. She was too fucking busy to acknowledge me. But I got her attention. I grabbed the empty High Life bottle by the neck and tossed it at her with all of my might. Unfortunately, it only grazed her hair.
Christine asked if I knew what the fuck I was thinking. I wanted to break her face. She was still stomping the parka even though the flames and embers were gone.
“You’re a worthless piece of shit, Malcolm,” she shouted. “If you weren’t such a goddamned waste, I wouldn’t have fucked your friend.”
I sprinted down the stairs. Christine knew what was coming. But before she could get away, I yanked her by the arm, pulled her shirt’s collar, and told her to listen.
“Fuck you, Malcolm,” she cried. With a glare, she pulled her head back and spat in my fucking face.
She accused me of flirting with other girls. That was the problem. I backhanded her on the cheek and sent her falling. “Fucking cunt,” I screamed, stomping on her ankle.
“Get out of here,” I told her, driving my foot down harder. “If you call the police, I will give you hell.”
She nodded. The red flush I had been anticipating finally showed. She was marred with resignation.
Marshall rode up on his bike. “I couldn’t find him,” he said, gasping for breath. “He jumped over a fucking fence, man.”
Without saying anything, he turned his tiny frame and reached into a backpack. He retrieved a handle of Jim Beam. It was time for a drink. As we headed up the fire escape, a white car pulled into the alley. It was Adeline’s: Marshall’s girlfriend, Christine’s friend, my informant. Christine limped into the passenger seat. They were gone.
We barged into the living room and placed the bottle next to a grimy copy of 100 Years of Solitude. For a while, we sat taking swigs. Outside, the sun broke through the morning haze. For the first time since I awoke, I felt relaxed. I picked up the book and plopped down on the couch. Marshall lit cigarettes for us. And we enjoyed the quiet.
“Hmm…Maybe I should write a book. It would be called 100 Hundred Years of Solid Dudes,” I said, taking a drag of my cigarette.
Marshall laughed. I told him, my book would win 2013 Nobel Prize for Literature. Marshall nodded and told me I could do whatever I wanted. So, I took a ball-point pen, scratched out the “tude” on the book’s cover, and replaced it with “Dudes.” I wrote my name atop the author’s and showed it to Marshall. He grabbed the pen and wrote 2013 over the year it won the Nobel Prize. We chugged more whiskey. It was time to party like it was 2013.
I unbuttoned my flannel and opened up Jake’s Vinyl player: Government Warning, perfect for dancing. I placed the needle on track one and shifted the dial.
The speakers belted out high-energy power chords, distorted bass lines, and sloppy drumming. I grabbed beer cans from the kitchen floor and put them on the coffee table. With my gut protruding and my skinny back flung high, I began stomping the empties. The soles of my shoes felt increasingly worn with each crushing blow. I wanted my feet to bleed. The bourbon didn’t leave my hand. With each taste, my inhibitions grew blurrier. I chucked some empty beer bottles at Jake’s bedroom door. One broke. The music stopped.
“Malcolm, I know you’re having fun,” Marshall shouted. “But if you want to wage a war against Jake, maybe we should do it the right way.”
I asked him how. He called Jake’s ex-girl: Emily. He announced that she was coming over with bleach. Fucking her would be better. Beating Jake to a pulp would suffice. But Marshall was right. Jake didn’t care about Emily or getting his ass kicked. He cared about his possessions.
I told him to let me know when Emily showed and swaggered into my wreck of a room. A charcoal drawing of a goat’s skull in a black and white suit hung above my wall. Elaborate acrylic paintings of young Asian women in very little clothing, stalked by shrouded men littered the corners. My personal favorite: a painting of me wearing an elephant mask, holding a chainsaw, hung directly above my mattress. I sat, picked up my moleskine, and scribbled on a beer stained piece of paper. All about Jake’s dick and Christine’s vagina. The entry concluded with a doodle of them fucking doggy-style while Christine sucked my dick.
When I returned, Emily was on our three-seater smoking a cigarette. She wore a bright yellow and purple sundress with black stilettos. Classy. I really wanted to take her to bed. But I had to contain myself. Oh, but she looked like Christina Ricci: rose petal lips, perfect jaw line, firm tits, long legs, a fat ass, and a tiny frame.
“Hi, Malcolm, I brought you a gift,” she said smiling.
“You came to bang the fuck out of me?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
She laughed and raised a large orange container of Clorox. She informed me that we were going to bleach all of Jake’s stuff.
I came closer to Emily, resting my arm on her clavicle. Slowly, I worked my hand down her dress. She struggled and told me to stop. Ignoring her, I slid my hand into her bra and gently caressed her nipple. Suddenly, I felt a burning sensation on my face.
“If you touch me again, Malcolm—and I know you’re having a bad day, and I’m sorry—but I will slap the shit out of you,” Emily said, pointing her finger. “Is that clear? Good. Now, let’s go wreck Jake’s things.”
I took the container of bleach and slapped her ass hard. She laughed.
We went into Jake’s room. Everything was pristine. His walk-in closet contained 30 shirts all neatly hung. The hardwood floor was shiny. His Hi-Def television was beautiful. The queen sized bed was draped in layers of sheets...It was there they fucked.
Marshall was gone. I asked Emily where he went. He was outside talking to Corey. Apparently, Corey wanted Jake’s comics. He could have them. There must have been close to a thousand—all Marvel—in his drawers.
Emily undid the cap on the Clorox bottle. Together we grabbed the handle and poured the slick substance on the bed. It was a fucking mess. In a matter of minutes, blue sheets turned a sickly yellow and the room reeked of sourness reminiscent of kiddy pools and water parks.
I yanked the bottle from Emily and continued pouring. The container burst geysers of blue. I wanted that goddamned bed to rot. At last, a taste of alleviation. I suggested we bleach all of his clothes.
“Not without my help, motherfucker,” Marshall shouted, stumbling through the living room, Corey following closely.
Corey’s white boy afro, shirt one size too small, and septum piercing made him look like a clumsy bull. And just like a clumsy motherfucking bull, he was idiotic and a great destroyer.
Eight vandalistic hands and four reckless minds: We ransacked the clothes. Marshall sprayed one of Jake’s shirts with WD-40. Corey pulled a book of matches from his pocket. He struck one on and let it fall. A purple Gator polo erupted in flames. I rushed to open the bedroom window. It was fucking fuming.
We sprayed 15 more shirts with WD-40. When enough of them were scorching, I retrieved a mop from the bathroom and bunched them together. I threw the makeshift torch through the window. It nailed the hood of Jake’s VW-Golf. And a rising black cloud arose.
Corey fetched some trash bags. He wanted the comics before they got destroyed.
“Malcolm, I’m about to smash Jake’s fucking tv screen,” Emily shouted, scavenging beneath Jake’s bed. I waved her off. That shit was going to be mine.
Marshall tore doodles into Jake’s shirts with a steak knife. One had a tear in the shape of a dick. Another bore the shape of a gun. My personal favorite read: “Jake’s Demise.” Emily found what she was searching for: a four pound wrench—efficient for breaking things. It was for Jake’s skateboard: the one in his closet. I knew where I was headed.
I discovered a box of videogame cartridges and tossed them to Emily. She smashed them until they were only bits of broken plastic. Then, I found his skateboard…and a picture of his mother. She looked young and attractive. I slipped it in my pocket.
With the skateboard in hand, I made my way to the window. My torch’s flame was dying and the board looked flammable. So, I cast it downward. It seemed to fall for an eternity. When eternity halted, the parking lot rained glass. I missed my target. It hit the car’s windshield. And it was beautiful. Everyone stopped what they were doing. The echo of the explosion stretched for miles.
Corey and Marshall scooted me away in shock. When they glanced out at the parking lot, their motives changed. Corey announced he had acquired enough comics. Marshall was starving. He was going to grab lunch.
I was furious. My best friend was ditching me. I yanked the wrench from Emily and approached him. “This was your fucking idea, man,” I said, spinning the wrench between my fingers.
“Dude, if you don’t drop that thing, I’m gonna to kick your ass,” Corey said, protruding his chest. Marshall gripped his serrated knife tightly. I was outnumbered.
Then, I had an epiphany. Everyone wanted something. Marshall and I wanted the tv. Emily wanted it destroyed. And I wanted to fuck Emily’s brains out. I pivoted my feet and asked the gents if they wanted to play rough. Corey told me to chill out.
Without warning, I dashed at the television and swung the wrench like a sledge. Kristallnact in the parking lot. Kristallnacht in Jake’s room. Colonel Malcolm Baxter the Third, the solid dude, delivering the coup de grace.
Marshall was enraged. We exchanged our curses and threats. Then he departed with Corey. All I saw were middle fingers galore and two turned backs. And then silence.
I lit a cigarette and asked Emily if she wanted to fuck. No. But she was going to pee on the bed. That was a good idea. Her panties were just below her knees when I whipped my junk out. I pissed on the bed, the floor, and then Emily. She seemed unscathed. But now I was facing the firing squad. Two brown eyes and rose petal lips ready to spit bullets. I liked it. No. I fucking loved it.
“Malcolm, what the fuck was that for?!” she screamed, jumping off the bed. I told her to clean up and meet me in my room.
When Emily left for the bathroom, I retrieved the picture of Jake’s mom. I rubbed one out, splattered on her face, and set the photo on his nightstand. He might come back to get what was left of his stuff…
No comments:
Post a Comment