borderline vagabond, chapter one (sneak preview)

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TheNewScum.ORG Presents:

An intentionally arranged series of words.

“Borderline

Vagabond”

By Zachary Kyle Elmblad

Copyright 2010 by The New Scum Productions

Most Rights Reserved

visit http://www.thenewscum.org for more

info.

THIS IS THE SCRIBD.COM EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW OF

ZACH ELMBLAD'S NEWEST BOOK, “Borderline

Vagabond.” IT MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED IN APUBLIC FASHION WITHOUT CONSENT OF THE AUTHOR!

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Chapter One – Consternation

“Pigfucker!”

It was the first word I had heard of

what was a long line of obscene and

incessant curses I could have sworn were

being directed at me.

But from whom? For what reason?

I couldn't quite tell if it was a dream,

or if it was really happening – no, not yet.

“You fucking bastard, wake up !”

I heard it again. Where was I? Who?

How did I get here? When? I got punched inthe shoulder – not hard, but with enough

force to wake me up for real this time.

With certainty this was, indeed, the waking

world. I shook my head and opened my eyes.

“It's Nine P.M.! We should be punching

whores in the mouth and drinking gallons of



gin by now! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SLEEPING?!”

He was shouting now, jumping up and down

on the floor next to the couch. He was red-

faced and pointing at me with a violently

extended index finger.

“Fuck! What day is it?”

I stuttered when I said 'day.' I was

still waking up. How long had I slept?

When did I get here?

“Tuesday! Friday! Easter! Who gives a

fuck?! Let's get drunk and walk out on our

tab! We've got shit to do and bitches to

fuck and you just wanna park ass on the

couch!”

“Fuck it, you're right, man. Let's do this

thing. No time like the present.”

I peeled myself up off the couch and

palmed the coffee table for my glasses. I

was too lazy to wear contacts, and too poor

for LASIC. Complex organs, the eyes. I



rubbed them because they felt like they

needed to be rubbed. It didn't really help.

“Get up and wash off your face like a big

boy, it's time to fuck cocaine and snort

hookers. Wait. Nevermind, fuck it. Let's

just go down to the skank shack and throw

dollar bills at titties!”

“Cocaine? ”

“Jokes, man. Why buy coke when you can buy

whores?! Fucking is much better than

getting your face rocked on an eight ball!”

“What?”

“Just get off the couch, asshole! JESUS

DOESN'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE! IT IS TIME TO GO!Get the fuck off the couch!”

“God, fuck man, you're insane. Paranoid.

Delusional. Twisted. You're a menace to

society! An overall bad seed, your mother

didn't slap you enough!”



“I'm good people, that's why you're sleeping

on my couch, now get up and start drinking

you lazy, pathetic, no good piece of couch

potato dog vomit! Rise and shine, cock

sucker! You're the one that drove twelve

hours to come party with me! Early bird

gets the fucking worm!”

Hooper. The crazy bastard. He was

living in some strange neighborhood outside

Chapel Hill, North Carolina. It'd been

nearly a year since I'd seen him last, and

times spent with this loathsome experiment

of humanity were endless tirades of alcohol,

strippers, and drug buffets. He was the

kind of guy that'd come up behind you with a

machete, mumbling something about drug

cartels and guerrilla warfare, only to turn

at the snap of a finger and ask if youwanted to brew up some chamomile tea and eat

cake donuts.

He'd buy you shots at the bar just to

watch you get too drunk to keep up with him.

He'd give you a brownie and never tell you

it's dosed with pot butter and liquid acid.

He would rather just wait for you to figure



it out yourself. Never accept food from a

stranger with a smile like his. It's a

knowing smile, an anticipatory smile, a

downright wicked and treacherous smile. A

smile you wouldn't forget for the rest of

your life.

We had lived together for a stretch,

sometime in the past, and had developed a

strange method of communication that mostly

involved limitless use of profanity and

offensively diminutive insults. It seemed

to work well for us. It was good to see my

friend again at long last.

“Fire up the bong, Hoop, and summon me eight

squirrels to castrate. I've got a tingle in

my shaft. I wanna skull fuck a hooker and

stick a piece of re-bar up your mother's

cunt. Break up a wall for me.”

“My mom's cunt is shielded with a wrought-

iron encasement. You'll never make it

alive. You're a failure. Break up your own

fucking wall. You couldn't even fuck a girl

in a brothel with a thousand dollars. You

can't even stay awake after Nine, how are



you going to become a master alcoholic like

me?”

“I'd fuck a thousand hookers with ten bucks

and a razor blade rubber. I'd tell 'em to

do it and they would, because Jesus taught

me mind control when we vacationed in the

Czech Republic. I have to enter a trance

first, though. That's why I'm sleeping.

I'm secretly controlling you along with

everyone else in the world at the same time.

You've got no free will, motherfucker,

philosophize yourself out of that!”

“Mind control? Did you just tell my mind to

get the hell out of the house and proceed

directly to the nearest bar?”

“Hell yes, I did.”

“Well, damn, man. I guess I'll just have to

trust your judgment! It's good to see you

maintain moral integrity when utilizing mind

control.”

“Now you're thinking! I wondered if it'd be



possible with that tiny fucking brain of

yours! You're finally beginning to

understand the greater purpose, man.”

“My greater purpose is to get drunk and fuck

hookers with my dick. We're leaving. I

hope you're ready for this.”

He was a crude person, but not out of

necessity or ignorance. He was a crude

person because he found it utterly

hysterical to offend people. He was sick

with the power of words. He'd call a guy a

pussy to his face and then give him a high

five and buy him a shot. He'd cut up pizza

with a hatchet at four in the morning. He'd

come to your house and eat all your food,

then show up a week later with a car full of

groceries and a backpack full of drugs andbooze.

He'd buy you a pack of cigarettes to pay

back the square he bummed off you a week

ago, but then he'd just smoke half the pack

anyway. He would read things out loud in

other languages that he didn't actually

speak. When this guy was around, everybody



had a good time. He was one of those rare

people, the ones that are so memorable they

couldn't be properly explained. The guy

you're proud to call a friend, even if he

disgusts everyone else around you. That's

why I drive half way across the country to

see him. He's that cool.

“I found this new tit bar a couple of miles

away. Get in the truck, and let's go throw

money at chicks.”

“Finally, a good idea! I was wondering when

you'd be over the formalities; fully

prepared and ready to find the main nerve.”

“Oh, I'm ready.”

He grabbed his money clip and keys, Igrabbed my phone and my wallet. We each had

a glass of Dewar's and rolled up a fat joint

to burn on the ride out. There really was

no cocaine, that one was always just a

little too much for us – both in expense and

consequence. Better to play around the edge

than to go over it. It was all jokes,



really. There were no hooker skull fucks

going down that night. We weren't as

audacious as we made ourselves out to be.

It's just a whole lot more fun to keep

people guessing.

The world can get boring sometimes, and

it's good to know that you can count on some

folks to make it a bit more appealing.

Throwing some shit in the pot an stirring it

up just to see what comes out at the end.

Things are far more interesting that way.

The real world needs a little fiction in it

every once in a while.

“Light this, fuck stain.”

“Give me a lighter, scrotum mouth.”

He passed me a lighter and I checked theside streets for cached cop cruisers before

I sparked up the joint. We passed it back

and forth and cut the offensive back and

forth for a real conversation.

“So, how's everything been going, dude?”



He didn't yell anymore, it was his

normal speaking voice. He really did want

to know.

“Hell on Earth, man, twenty four hours a day

on this wretched rock in space.”

“Aw, come on, it can't be that bad. At

least you've got a house and a job and a car

and money to come drink with me in the dirty

South!”

“You're right, man, it isn't all that bad,

but I just wish I could get a better fuck

out of life every once in a while. All this

day to day drudgery and the bills and these

monotonous pseudo-relationships make me want

to eat paint chips. I think I'm getting

soft. Old, even.”

“Soft as a limp dick! What are you going to

do? Cry?! We'll get ya all cheered up,

man. Don't worry. I'm glad you made it

out, and we're certainly gonna have a good

time. No sense sitting around wishing you

were dead. Get off of it.”



“Yeah, you're right, man. I know. I'm just

over-emphasizing the negative. There's hot

chicks to look at, beer in my fridge, music

on the speakers, and good times on the

calendar. I just wish the fun never

stopped.”

“Fun wouldn't be fun anymore if you didn't

have some bad shit go down between the good

times. You know this, you dumb fuck. Stop

getting down on yourself. We're nearly

there.”

He pulled a half-full bottle of Jose

Cuervo from underneath his truck seat. He

twisted off the cap, put it to his lips, and

suckled a mouthful before handing it over to

me.

“I've been saving this for a special

occasion. I don't usually share my road

liquor, you're a special guest.”

“I'm honored,” I said, as I took a warm gulp

of the tequila for myself. It burns a



little bit more when it's been in a hot car

for who knows how long, but the effect is

still the same and I love it.

I reached into the cargo pocket of my

shorts for my pack of smokes, flipped the

flap open, and grabbed one with my lips. I

fished a lighter out of the other pocket and

sparked it up.

“I thought you were quitting, man. Those

little fucking bastards are gonna kill you

some day.”

“Keeping that fifth of Cuervo under your

seat isn't a very good idea, either, you

know. And besides – quitting is for

quitters, isn't that right?”

“Every good thing comes to an end, man.Quitting isn't quitting, it's looking out

for yourself. It takes a careful balance of

poisoning yourself and then taking the

punishment.”

“Words to live by, those,” I said.



I couldn't help but reach for the bottle

of tequila again as I sucked down the last

of my cigarette before flicking it out of

the window and narrowly missing a less-than-

thrilled pedestrian. We pulled into the

strip club parking lot, which was mostly

empty.

The security in these places can

borderline on the excessive, and twenty

bucks a head was way too much for a cover

charge. We ponied it up, and figured we'd

better get our money's worth.

After photocopies of our driver's

licenses were taken, we were led through a

large black door. As it opened, the scent

of sweat, cheap perfume, and despair filled

my nose. The surroundings were all too

familiar. Mirrors on the walls, disco balls

sending shattered reflections all over theroom, imitation velvet chairs with low arms,

U.V. Responsive carpet, and a long Formica

bar-top with a leather-skinned woman behind

it who had graduated from the stage to the

manager.

We made haste for the bar, looking the

woman in the eyes as we approached. We're



no hooligans, and you're no fool. Let's

remember that, and keep face.

“What can I get you, boys?”

Before I can open my mouth, Hooper is

already summoning a plethora of libations.

“Two Irish Car bombs, two shots of Jager,

two Newcastles, and some peanuts if you've

got them. I tip well, lady.”

“Right away, honey.” She said in a

Marlboro-tinged southern accent.

“You're going balls deep on the first

thrust, aren't you, Hoop?”

“Ain't no other way. A toast! Say afucking toast and let's be on with it.”

My favorite toast, I didn't write. I

stole it from Neil Gaiman.

“To absent friends,

lost loves, old gods,



and the season of mist-

that we may each and

every one of us

give the devil his due.”

“Hail fucking Satan!” Hooper screamed before

he pounded his Irish car bomb and brought it

down with a hollow smack against the bar.

“To the new Millenium Jagermeister Christ!”

I screamed back at him while I tipped back

the Jager and poured it on down the hatch.

We laughed for a bit as the bartender stared

at us with a shocked stare and widened eyes.

“Starting a tab?” She said.

“Fuck yeah, we're starting a tab- we're only

getting started! We had to pay twenty bucksto get in to this place!”

She took his credit card, and we

gingerly sipped the Newcastle. We had to

hold off on shots for a while, or else we'd

be dragged off by the shirt collars. There

were some very large, and very scary men



guarding every door.

It wouldn't have been the first time we

were dragged from a bar, either. We had a

tendency to offend. Although it was funny to

us, it was rarely funny to anyone else-

especially those on the receiving end of our

attempts at stretching the limits of

decency.

“Coming up next, the sexy Sandra struts her

stuff on the stage. Meanwhile, two girls

for twenty! Pick your two favorite babes

and retreat to your own private dance in our

V.I.P. Lounge!” The D.J.'s stereotypical

voice cut over the opening synth lines of

“Poker Face” by Lady Gaga.

Sexy Sandra wasn't so sexy. She was the

fat chick they kept around for fetish'ssake. There's always the construction

worker in the back that comes up to stick

dollars in her fat rolls. Bluffing with her

muffin, indeed.

She prowled around the stage like she

was looking for a bowl of ice cream, and

grabbed the bar in the middle, untying her



top for the big reveal.

She unleashed her flopping sacks of

flesh as the construction worker yelped and

spilled another of many beer stains to come

on his plain white T-shirt. He ran up to

the stage with a dollar bill in his hand and

his legs shook as he slipped it underneath a

breast she lifted for him. He sauntered

back to his table with a sheepish grin.

Sooner or later, she had his arm in hers as

she led him to the V.I.P. Room for a twenty

minute dance with the other fatty, Shaniqua.

The guy might never forget that night. Me,

I only wished I could.

“Christ! Get off the stage and on to a

treadmill!” Hooper wasn't one to sugar coat

things.

She ignored him, and carried on with her

performance. I'd bet she was in her mid

twenties, probably been dancing about three

or four years. She had a product to sell, a

specific demographic, and a willing

clientèle. Hooper's caterwauling surely

wouldn't affect her income or success.



Strippers don't strip because they're

made to do it. Strippers strip because they

make money stripping. There's all kinds of

women, and they're generally equally

represented at a strip club. There's

Asians, Blacks, Latinos, Whites, Fatties,

Anorexics, Tattooed, dread-locked, shaved,

and unshaved. So many women, so little

time. What a shame. Everybody's got their

penchant, and strip clubs aim to please.

Hooper would find a girl he liked if he

waited long enough.

The next was “Foxy Roxy” as the D.J.

called her. The brunette-bombshell type.

Character aged thirty five, girl aged twenty

three. Bet your bottom dollar. She wore a

collared and starched white shirt tied off

in the front, and thick-framed glasses. She

looked mean, vicious even. Hooper wastransfixed. He fished a dollar out of his

pocket and walked slowly up to the stage.

She dropped down to her knees, and

opened the front pocket on her white shirt.

Hoop folded the bill in half, and stuck it

in her pocket. She wiggled her tits in his

face, and he walked back with a smile.



“Much better,” he said, with a red faced

grin over his bottle of Newcastle.

borderline vagabond, chapter one (sneak preview)

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