Rock Thunder

His lips were covered with frothy mescaline. His lips bled, punctured by his teeth. “Why do you see me as a savage?” There were several thousand in the newly arrived crowd, yet none of the faces revealed the slightest expression. They all wished him wrong.

This was Little Johnny’s first fourth grade play. “Frankenstein.” I’m not longer sure if it’s Frankenstein. I should be down the alley between 47th and Lexington behind the jazz club, Reggie’s, with a pipe in my mouth. What the fuck am I doing in front of these people? Why am I the monster? Why do they see me as a savage?”

30 years later…

Johnny listened to jazz records in his body-length cardboard box that existed in a local homeless community called “rock thunder,” where everyone plays it cool and the homeless community thrives in its collective cooperation. The homeless legislature was comprised of two chambers, the homeless House and the homeless Senate. Silly Bobby had been a senator for the last 15 booze binges. He advocated the free distribution of used syringes to all addicts.

Silly Bobby was homeless. He was also domeless. He hadn’t gotten dome in approximately 1.3 eons. He found ways to turn his shame into his fame, becoming one of the most respected senators to show up for meetings. Little Johnny looked up to him like an uncle, or some kind of nice social services worker.

They first met at the new year’s bash. Since they had no desire to kiss, they realized the mistletoe hanging above was not essential. Silly Bob removed it and fed it to Moe, the kid with the hangover. They originally discussed only politics, issues regarding the Homeless House and Homeless Senate’s incapacity to adequately represent the interests of the broader bum community. There were Dem Bums, Republican Bums, Bums for Peace In Darfur, and Beach Bums. So many constituencies the senators had to represent!

Their second meeting occurred while they were both surfing. Little Johnny had make-shifted a surf board out of a long cabinet door he had kicked down from the old abandoned syringe factory.

“I like the way you handle that board, Johnny!” Bobby murmured over his left shoulder as they float through the lukewarm river water. He wanted to kill Johnny because of a recent guffaw among the two chambers about women that have been visiting the township conjugally. Johnny, being that pride and joy of the Dem Bums, had many affairs on the premises, and Silly Bobby, being homeless, had absolutely shit but the Beach Bums and Bums for Peace in Darfur. But they never truly enjoyed his company, as he was homeless, and ragged, and had nothing to show for it. What a stud. What a bachelor. What a man without restraint.

Johnny was concerned. His was in danger of being drowned by his arch nemesis, Silly Bobby. What a fucking bitch! His long cabinet door was no match for Silly Bobby’s hefty chunk of urine stained Styrofoam.

Silly Bobby’s political affiliations lay with the Republican Bums, a better funded, and more slickly oiled political machine. They had recently garnered support from BADD, Bums Against Drunk Driving, and BETRA , Bums for the Ethical Treatment of Rock Algae. With the combined financial support of those two fundraising behemoths, Silly Bobby would surely achieve his goals and ambitions.

The last time he felt this sensation was when he was wearing tinted sunglasses on a very long, and very intense acid trip. Boris Ergnine, the investment concierge of his soul, had taken him to Tax Village, where they discussed the meaning of life and the meaning of money, and the meaninglessness of money in life. Johnny was walking among the space candy in Central Park with a strut and a slow pace.

It was at that moment that Silly Bobby opportunistically shoved him into the river with a jolt, sending Johnny into a million different kinds of pain, a million different kinds of woe, and an infinite gradient of colors flashed through his mind in waves of unspeakable beauty and horror.

There were never any bubbles… there was a door under Johnny’s right arm, and under his left arm was a branch he nabbed from the undertow. Silly Bobby’s urine stained Styrofoam surf contraption was in the lead as they approached a massive waterfall. This is what they needed to do. The Homeless Congress outlawed voting in favor of seeing the two candidates try to survive nearly suicidal stunts. The winner of the death mission would earn the seat, and rule the Bum community in an authoritarian fashion. Little Johnny hoped to be that one!

“You chose a really bad fucking time to fuck with me, Silly!” Johnny yelled.

“I don’t choose to make things right this way, you damn fucking scallywag!” There was no reasoning with Silly Bobby.

The Bobby showed the same mescal ferocity as Johnny had on that lonely day in fourth grade. The exploitation. The burning message to do the right thing for the greater good. ‘Don’t fuck up,’ was the mantra of that uber-embarassing display of shit acting. The fire of this memory burning strong inside of him, Johnny takes the stick out of the water and jabs Bobby in the eye, sending Silly Bobby into a Silly fit of agony, making Silly motions in the water as he clawed as his eyeball, to free the stick from his own head.

However, Little Johnny realizes his victory is short lived as they both plummet to their deaths down the waterfall onto cold jagged rocks, splitting their skulls.

The End.

Zucker/Slez
August, 2008