GOLDEN FRIES, NO PICTURES PLEASE."
T
his is healthy suffering here;
quite healthy indeed. Picked my nose
and counted my loose change,
stopped at a dim-lit diner, ordered a cheese-
burger charbroiled and thought about how I'd
start this story off. I'm gonna start if off numeri-
cally-12, 24, 8-42, 128. The important thing.
about stories, whether they are true or fiction, is
the communication between the story teller and
the person to whom the story is directed. Most
ancient civilizations had story tellers and, of
course, most ancient civilizations had rulers. The
rulers were called lords or kings. Most lords were
called lords 'cause they had the power to domi-
nate or control whatever they felt like in ancient
times. It was normally land. The lords wished to
possess land. Wise story tellers never told lords
or kings that the land could not be possessed.
Plenty of story tellers died with distorted looks
upon their faces, concealing the truth. Lords of
men ride mules, but that's too long of a
story to tell. Lordships died, and with them
so too did die their dungeons. Now in mod-
ern times trees grow downward, and up
nothing blossoms.
Upward... the sound of shoes was heard
faintly in the distance. As the sound grew
near I could see what was coming towards
me scared I was and very frightened were
my wits. If the reader of today can re-com-
prehend, I must try and describe the sound
fully. Loud and clear now, a squeaking noise
from one wheel. Click and clack from
shoes, the sound of an unoiled wheel
squealing, and then a... BA-BOOM. Each step
was similar but different. When the two were
close enough for me to see their faces, I looked
to the ground. One I'm assuming was an elderly
man in a wheelbarrow. The sides and bottom
were filled with cushions; it seemed like splendid
comfort. I did see that much and from the sound
of the man pushing and holding the wheelbar-
row, I took it that he was deformed or crippled.
His walk was marred greatly, from what I could
see from the distance.
would have said a thing otherwise. The trippy
walker set down the wheel barrel carefully.
"Where are you two from?" I asked. "From the
west," the old one carrying the wheel barrel said.
I thought his answer was strange considering
that I had just took notice that they had
approached me from the east.
The man reclining in the cushioned wheel bar-
rel was young: younger than I was. Wow, I
thought, why is the old man carrying the young
boy? I brought my hand up over my face to
scratch an itch-it was truly to hide my bizarre,
factual expression. More silence. The young kid
seated in the wheel barrel spoke first and then
the cripple behind him spoke. "We've traveled
hundreds of thousands of miles to see the
strange king, our lordship, whom hides himself
among the poor."
"In this fake night sky I shall lead you to him."
The man with both deformed hands holding
the wheel barrel ripped out a clump of his hair
and threw it to the floor. His voice, deep and low:
"Rocks and stones are inside the pillow cases.
We let loose what your mind wishes to conceal."
My cheeseburger showed up. I paused from
writing. The waitress set it down nicely. It had
only traveled four feet. The warm smell tickled
my nostrils and warmed my belly. I chomped
and chewed and my eyes were wide, like always.
A short fat fucker in a railroad conductor's hat
rushed to the juke box. I thought maybe he'd
play some redneck shit like Daring David Duke,
but he played Cher's "If You Believe In Life After
Love." That was the strongest chord. My first
impression of this guy was wrong. The next song
was by The Clash, "Go Straight To Hell Boy." I
looked over and smiled at porky in the conduc-
tor's cap and threw him the "L" signal with my
hand. To me he just smiled, lifted his coffee cup,
and drank his caffeine down.
When they approached where I was at, they
were silent. My wit had returned and I was no
longer frightened, just filled with knowledge. Not
knowledge that you're taught, just knowledge
that you know. These two had approached me
from the east, unless the sound edged off a wall.
If I put my cash on it, that's where they came
from but I can't lie, I did not fully see them
approach. I only heard them approach. I've
heard stories of sound coming from one way and
the person coming from a different. Think about
that and you'll understand how easily people are
deceived. Then I spoke. I don't think these two
Golden revolver, Austin Martin vantage seven
108 THRASHER
I got bored with that story about the two from
the east or the west. I closed up my book and
decided not to write anymore. I moved the
french fries about my plate, selecting which ones
by Mark Gonzales
looked crispy but not too crispy. I found one and
chomped it down as my taste buds enjoyed it.
The constant search for perfection isn't always a
let down, I thought. Most of the other fries were
over-cooked. I got them to go, though. I paid my
bill, left a tip, and gave the cook a nod as I walked
out. In the parking lot next to my luxury British
sportscar was a Toyota Corolla DX-it was
stalled. Three punk rockers were crowded
around the opened hood. I approached cau-
tiously. One had a nasty look beneath that dark
cloud that was above him. He talked like a mean
hombre. The "can" and the "you" were mashed
together like, "Q-you jump us?" I thought, "Sure,
if I had a running start." No, I didn't say that.
Never joke of the battery; it's bad US edict.
"Yeah," I said. "Who's got the cables?" One of
the other guys grabbed the keys from the ignition
and opened the back trunk. Out came the cables.
"My battery is beneath the rear seat; one of you
guys is going to have to help me." Thank
God it wasn't the one with the mean look
on his face. He was ready to kill some-
body. The guy who came to help me was
as skinny as a twig. His hair was bright
yellow and stood straight up. As we pulled
the back seat out to get at my battery, he
said, "Cool ride."
"Thanks," I said, "It was a gift from the
queen." He snorted, not knowing I was
being entirely honest. We hooked the
cables up. The mean punk with the nasty
look on his face had short, cropped black
hair. He stood back by the trunk of the car
while this one with orange hair cranked the key...
stunnt, stunnnt. It wouldn't start. I looked down,
depressed, 'cause I knew I was an open target for
a car jacking... still no ignition. The one with the
short black hair reached into the trunk. He was
behaving very slyly. He moved up so that he was
standing before the cables. I backed slowly to
where the cables entered my car. A more fierce
look came over his face and from his left side just
beside his hip rose a silver revolver. I didn't
wanna ask if it was real. I didn't expect punks to
be up on heat. He said in a shaky voice (no doubt
he was nervous), "Let's say we take your car and
you use your cell phone to call AAA?" As much
of a nice guy that I am, I wasn't gonna be havin'
that. I tweaked my head to one side, the way a
bird does before it pecks a bite with its beak. "I'm
sorry?" I said, my voice steady and clear. He
aimed at my waist and fired. I moved fast, bitch.
The fucker took off my middle finger. Before he
could get off another shot, I used the cables and
managed to yank him up off his feet. I rushed
over quickly and planted my right foot into his
throat. While holding my left hand (which was
numb) out and away so no blood would drip on
him, I made eye contact. He was a nervous
wreck. His hand immediately let go of the gun. I
reached over with my right hand and picked it
up. Shit, I looked at my left hand and it was man-
gled. I aimed the gun at him and removed my
foot from his throat. "Poor kid," I said. His friends
had their hands up. "Come on, I was loaning you
help, why would I shoot you?" The two put their
hands down slowly. The cook, the waitress, and
some customers ran out.
"Everything's okay, it's alright." I dropped the
gun and helped the kid who had shot me up to
his feet. He was puzzled. My left hand, a bloody
mess, was way out in left field. "I've got a first aid
kit in the trunk, will you get it?" The yellow-
haired kid ran for it. "Fuck" is all I could think. I
wanted to bite the little bastard's nose off but I
know better than that. It doesn't pay to lose con-
trol. The kid with the yellow hair yelled back, "I
can't find it.".
"Is there a blue and white striped shirt
back there?"
"Yeah," he screamed.
"Bring that." Ever so quickly, blood saturated
the shirt. Now it was purple and pink. "Put the
cables in your trunk."
"What?"
"Put the cables in the trunk. Quick. Come
on, move it!" Hopefully they didn't call the
cops. I looked over my shoulder towards
the diner. They had all went back inside
after they saw that we were doing fine. I
mean, no struggles, no extended gun fire.
The three punks were confused. The one
with the nasty expression on his face said,
"This is strange. I feel like I should run or
something. I mean, I just shot you and you
don't seem to mind." He sounded stupid
and confused. I looked at him now. He just
looked down and was afraid of me. "Don't be a
pussy. Don't you know how to say you're
sorry?" I must have touched a nerve. He stared
with his face getting all good and wrinkled up.
"Man, I'm sorry."
Tears there were more of those than the
blood I was losing. "What kinda punk rocker are
you anyhow? Be a rude boy and stand proud,
before and after thrashing." I didn't say that, but
I was thinking it. "Don't worry about it, my hand
will be fine." Yellow-spikes put my seat back in
my car. My left hand was wrapped tight. "Get
in," I told them. They got in, two in the back, one
in the front. "Did you lock up your car?" I asked.
"No," the yellow-haired said happily, "we
swiped it from PJ's mom."
"Who's PJ?" I asked. The boy with the black
hair had a red face from crying. He lifted his
hand. "I'm PJ." I looked in my rear-view mirror
to catch the other two names.
"I'm Billy," the yellow-haired said.
"I'm Dax," the orange-haired said.
"My name is Sid, "I said while smiling. No, no.
My fucking face is always twisted when I smile.
My name is Herman. I know who Sid Vicious is,
though. I like punk a little. I like the Anti-
Nowhere League.
I pulled out and drove as smooth as I could.
"Doesn't it hurt?" Dax asked.
"No," I said, "I don't really feel pain."
PJ was up in front with me. "Jesus," PJ said, "I
wish I didn't feel pain." I wanted to reach in my
glove box and let him have it, but with age you
learn to control yourself and it never pays to
lose control. "I'm joking," I said. "I feel pain. It
hurt me that I was offering to help you jump
start your car and then you tried to steal my ride.
That hurt more than the gun shot. Just as easily
as you are riding with me, you could have been
tangled up back there beneath me." I smiled. I'm
a man of power. I steered my sportscar directly
into an oncoming big-rig. The trucker honked
and we went right through it. When we came
out the other end, the three were all screaming.
You scream 'cause your life is all you live for.
Once you live for yourself and many others, you
learn to appreciate wonders.
"Oh my god. I can't believe you did that. How
did you do that?"
"I didn't do nothing," I said. "You imagined it."
"This is, a fucking cool day," Dax screamed
from the back. Billy said, "Yeah it is!" PJ just kept
saying, "Oh my god! No way, how did you do
that?" Luckily Dax said, "Who cares how he did
it, it was fun. Do it again."
"No, you guys are easily tricked. I swooped
close by it so it seemed like we went
through it. You all closed your eyes 'cause you
were scared."
"Oh," PJ said in a loud voice. "That trick, I'm
gonna remember that." Dax and Billy were quiet
in the back.
"Where are you guys headed anyhow?" PJ
said, "To a punk show in Reseda."
grazed wound. They thought it was odd. "You're
fucking sub-human," Dax said. I looked in the
rear-view mirror; he was stoked on me. I giggled
and said, "What's sub-human?"
Dax said, "The way you shifted out of the bul-
let's way, then tripped him with the jumper
cables and now you just look at your hand like
it's an infant or something."
I changed the subject. "Do you guys like
the Meteors?"
"Who's that?"
"English psycho-billy," PJ said. I hit the brakes
and the car came to a quick stop.
"This is your stop PJ. Here is where you
get out." PJ got out real cool like, no sweat
off his back.
"Aren't you guys getting off too?"
"No," Dax said. "It's about a good 20 miles to
where the show's at."
PJ said, "I'm the one who stole my mom's car
in the first place so we could go."
"Yeah and it broke down cause you kept
trying to start it when it was already started,"
Dax said.
"You're an idiot. Fuck you!" PJ screamed back.
The back door was still open. I leaned over and
opened my glove box. I gestured to my
pistol, a gold Smith & Wesson. "Don't let
him talk to you that way. Quiet him up."
PJ looked at the gun and realized he had
already fucked up once. He slammed the
door. I closed my glove box.
"You wanna sit up here?" Dax looked at
Billy. The two whispered something to
one another, then they spoke up.
"Hey Sid."
"Yeah," I said. "What?"
"We should probably get off here with
PJ, 'cause we are best friends." It takes
honesty and guts in a cruel world. I
stopped the car and let them off so they could
be with their friend. As I drove off, I thought
that maybe it was an alright story. No, that's a
goofy story.
I tilted my head back and signaled to the wait-
ress. "Can I order a steak sandwich?"
"A steak sandwich," the waitress said. "Aren't
you full yet?"
"No," I said.
"Okay." She wrote the order into her small
booklet, ripped it out, and pinned it up on a
wheeled conveyor belt so the cook would see
it. I crossed out everything that I wrote and
started again.
I chopped my thumb off and threw it to the
floor. It quickly grew feet, ran off, and started a
family. I chopped my pinky finger off and gently
set it down to the ground. It grew feet but did
not run away. It stayed where I had left it. In time
it grew a family and lived happily; only my
thumb which I had thrown down constantly
came from far away to battle my pinky. The poor
pinky family did not know how to fight but were
smart and wise from being set down gently.
"Well, that's no problem. I'm going straight up
to Costa Mesa." The boys in the back laughed.
They could feel the sarcasm. "No, I'm driving to
Tacoma to meet this Italian momma I met in
Roma." They got quiet, and the drive to Receda
from Lemetta took extra long. I unraveled the
shirt and looked at my hand. It looked okay, just
grazed on the front side. No swelling. Good
thing I got that no-swelling shot when I was a
kid. I smiled while looking at my mangled,
Children who live on cat food and would kill you for a quarter.
109