Angry Black Men at a Gas Station In The Stow
Written: Oct 20 '05 (Updated Oct 20 '05)
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Product Rating:
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Pros: A wild and untamed imagination born of horrible and ugly reality: A Duende Original!
Cons: Duende only shows himself in public once every month or two
The Bottom Line: A modicum of restraint and understanding would prevent many unnecessary and violent gas station-related tragedies
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| Fez_Monkey's Full Review: Barstow |
Gentle Readers. A while back, in response to your constant braying and whining, I allowed one of my intrepid comrades to post an original essay. Unfortunately, Eggs' little offering was met with a combination of disdain and disinterest. Yet, even after Eggs bored you and insulted your intelligence, you still ask for more. Fine. You greedy bastards are insatiable, and now you'll get your due. Be careful what you ask for, bitches, because sometimes you'll get it. So, here comes the big gun. Duende, that intrepid little story-telling, hobgoblin of West LA, has penned a small tale for you. Don't be afraid. While it's true he is contagious, his disease requires close contact and no small amount of intimacy for transmission. Yes, I know he is frightening, a bit excitable, unpredictable, unstable, and prone to psychotic fits of unintelligible jabbering, but that is his nature, and we must all learn to be tolerant of the dumber beasts of the world. Despite his obvious and numerous shortcomings - both emotional and genetic, he is still a sound fella. Just keep a safe distance, and agree to even the most bizarre thing he says & you should be fine.
Welcome gentle reader and read my tale of woe. I know that you have been reading about the exploits of Eggs, Fez Monkey and Duende. I am sorry be the one to have to tell you that those screeds are all self-serving works of fiction; luckily, I’m here to light a candle, not curse your darkness -- so I will relate to you a story of our protagonists … as they truly happened…
Now this tale begins during a yearly pilgrimage to Vegas. Eggs, Fez Monkey and I were driving on the I15 to Sin City where they were planning to abuse their bodies in the most heinous of ways (I on the other hand was going to an annual Bible study convention). On this occasion we were also lucky to be accompanied by Bobo and his man-servant Saki (a small, dark-skinned, desiccated Asian male of indeterminate age and inscrutable mind) who decided to accompany us on our personal hajj.
We left L.A. at about 10:00 a.m. and I have now been driving for a little over 2 hours. At the outskirts of Barstow I assess the situation: For the past two hours Fez Monkey has been sitting shotgun, staring at the side of my head, asking, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? …”. Eggs, Bobo and Saki has been sitting in the back, where Eggs has been SLOWLY eating a box of Motzah (chewing every bite exactly 37 times before swallowing) and Bobo and Saki have been engaged in thumb wars. I think it’s time for a pit stop. In the ‘Stow I see a Denny’s, make an executive decision and pull in. “Time for breakfast boys,” I said.
As we enter, my special forces training immediately kick in and I survey the room: a family of grossly overweight mid-westerners shoveling food into their maws at eight o’clock; four semi-transients sitting at the counter at twelve o-clock; and, a Mexican family (or small tribe) with an indeterminate number of kids sitting in a booth at four o’clock. It all seems too easy. A sixteen year old gum-smacking hostess in a greasy uniform seats us in a corner booth next to the bathroom.
Breakfast went uneventfully, with Fez Monkey ordering “hervos runcheros,” Eggs ordering a ham and cheese sandwich (dry), and Bobo ordering a short-stack of flapjacks, sausages, corn bread, four eggs over easy, sourbread toast, apple pie, grits, home-fries, crispy bacon, a Denver omelet and orange juice. Saki had a cup of steamed white rice.
As we finished and were walking out of the joint, I asked if anyone wanted to drive.
“I’ll drive,” said Eggs
“Great! We need to stop off and get gas first, then we can press on,” I said.
We all settled back into the car and Eggs pulled out onto the main road.
“There’s a gas station! There’s a gas station. There’s a gas station!” yelled Fez Monkey, pointing to the gas station directly to our right (the only gas station within sight, I might add).
So Eggs turned into the station and pulled up to a pump. I sighed and absently said that I would go in and buy some more ice for the cooler and would be right back. I entered the Quick-E-Mart, taking my time, meandering about, picking out the ice and listening to the muzac, humming a Christian-rock tune to myself.
When I stepped out of the Quick-E-Mart I immediately knew that we were in trouble: Eggs was behind the wheel and had finished filling up. I watched in horror as he tried to move our car out of an impossible situation -- he was completely boxed in, with all the filling islands occupied and cars waiting behind each pump three deep. Like some kind of slow-motion train wreck, I watched Eggs pop the transmission into drive and bump the car in front of him. I could see through the windows that he was getting flustered as he quickly shifted into reverse and immediately hit the car behind him. The drivers of both cars were getting out of their cars as Eggs continued trying to shift from drive to reverse. Fez Monkey, Bobo and Saki looked like they were frozen in their seat as the drivers came to Eggs’ door. The driver of the front car was a pudgy good-ol’ boy, but the driver of the rear car was an Af-Am with an afro about two feet high, wearing baggy clothes and obviously fancied himself a gangsta’. He was followed by a three of his “posse” and looked like they were going to pull Eggs’ teeth out through his anus. They shoved the pudgy good-ol’ boy out of the way, opened Eggs’ door and started pulling him out of the car.
Now if you know Eggs, you know that he has issues -- and one of the biggies is being touched. When they laid hands on him, I knew we were all in trouble. As they pulled him out, he started screaming a long, high-pitched wail, jumping at the closest gansta’ while clawing at his face like some kind of a deranged, rabid orangutan. This took HIM down while also serving the dual purpose of further enraging the other three ganstas. One of them kicked Eggs in the back, knocking off his yarmulke, sending his long, brown payes flaying in the desert breeze and dropping him to the ground like a dead mule. They then proceeded to kick Eggs energetically.
I was beginning to think that things were getting a bit out of control when I saw Fez Monkey jump out of the passenger side of the car waving his arms and walking up to the Af-Am’s. For some reason he was now wearing a red Kangol cap turned to the side, a gold tooth, long baggy shorts, an oversized Raider jersey and white Adidas low-tops. The Af-Ams took a break from their workout long enough to watch Fez Monkey crip-walk up to them.
“Yo yo yo, wut up, cuz?” started Fez Monkey.
But this conversation was quickly severed by the large fist of the closest Af-Am as he slammed it directly into Fez Monkey’s mouth with impressive resolve. The Af-Am’s then resumed their workout on both Eggs AND Fez Monkey who were offering little resistance from fetal positions. I now reasoned that things had maybe gone a bit too far.
I was going to intercede with my considerable ombudsperson skills when the tides of fate quickly changed: unbeknownst to everyone, Saki had stealthily crawled into the driver’s seat of the car and as the pudgy good-ol’ boy had decided that his fender was undamaged and had just pulled out of the gas station, Saki jammed the car into reverse and floored the accelerator, running over three of the Af Am’s like speed bumps and sending the fourth running for cover. I took this opportunity to drag Eggs and Wigger Fez Monkey by their collars to the sidewalk. Saki saw my move and roared the car up to us, where he reached back, opening the back door and I threw Eggs and the Wigger into the back seat. Saki then slid over to the passenger seat and I jumped behind the wheel, flooring it. We were peeling down the driveway of the gas station when our back window disappeared into a million pieces and I realized that we were being shot at. I looked into the rear view mirror and saw the fourth Brother-man waving a gun in the air, hopping from one foot to the other and yelling something unintelligible into the air behind us.
As the gas station quickly disappearing behind us, I yelled into the back seat: “Is anybody hit!? is anybody hit!?”
Saki turned around in his seat and quickly assessed the situation. He looked at me and shook his head, sitting down wearily. We were now back on the I15 and were moving along at a very respectable clip when I smelled something strangely reminiscent of effluent from the back.
What’s that smell? I asked.
I looked over at Saki who was holding his little yellow nose and pointing his thumb toward the back. I looked again through the rear view and espied Bobo, who was looking sheepishly back at me with a large smile:
I shat myself, he said, as he reached down into the back of his pants, then pulling his hand out and smelling his fingers.
Smells like butter, he said.
I sighed and figured that at least without the rear window the smell wouldn’t be so bad.
As the skyline of Vegas eventually emerged on the horizon I turned to Saki:
“Have you ever been to Vegas before, little Saki?” I asked.
“Hai!” he smiled.
“Are you ready for OUR Vegas experience, my little yellow friend?”
“Hai!” he smiled.
“Alright! We’re almost there, so time to get excited! I said.”
“Hai!” he smiled.
A couple of miles further on I started to smell a suspect odor emanating from the back seat.
Saki, is that smell what I think it is? I asked.
“Hai!” he smiled.
“How is everybody back there, Saki”.
“High!” he smiled.
I surveyed the back seat and saw Eggs passed out with his eyes open, staring vacantly at the ceiling of the car with a thin stream of smoke leaking out of his mouth; Bobo was still absently smelling his brown fingers while staring straight ahead with eyes so bloodshot that they looked like lean balls of bacon rolling in his head. Finally, I saw Fez Monkey who was now wearing a red, green, orange and black, knitted “Rasta” hat with long black “dreadlocks” poking out from underneath the hat. He was also now wearing a “Ja Love” t-shirt with shorts. He was holding a HUGE Bob Marley joint and was busily sucking on the end. I looked at Saki: “When did Fez Monkey become a Rasta’?” I asked.
Saki just shrugged.
Now I had no great burning desire to spend the next ten years in the Clark County prison because of these punks, so I dropped the hammer, deciding that the quicker we arrived at our hotel, the better.
We quickly pulled into the valet parking lane of the Paris casino, where I turned the keys over to a young Latino who slowly surveyed the car with mouth agape as he tore off a parking stub. I hadn’t even considered the state of our vehicle until I noticed what the valet was looking at: the car was (of course) covered with dead bugs, missing the entire rear window, had at least four more bullet holes that I hadn’t even noticed before, and had the rear fender practically hanging off where we had run over the three Brother-men at the gas station.
Deciding to take the offensive on this one, I belligerently turned on the valet, grabbing him by his thin lapels, yelling: “Make sure you take care of my car this time! … See all this shit?! All this happened last time I parked here!”
“Si! Si, seņor!” whined the valet. As he quickly climbed into the car and drove off.
We all picked up our bags and were beginning to walk toward the entrance when I heard something akin to three large bags of potatoes falling. As I turned to question the hub-bub, I felt the cold, hard metal of a gun barrel jammed behind my ear and the Af-Am’s voice hissing in my ear: “Thought you bad, huh, fools? Well we got you now, don’t we muthu’ fucku’!”
What ever will happen to our young adventurers? …
Will Bobo get to wash his fingers?
Will Eggs ever see the high Holy Days?
Will Fez Monkey get to masturbate again?
Will Duende get to his Bible study convention?
Will Saki EVER get away from these losers?
Stay tuned.
Recommended:
Yes
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Epinions.com ID:
Fez_Monkey
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 - Top 1000 |
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Member: Fez Monkey
Location: Somewhere west of Ellay, near a beach
Reviews written: 110
Trusted by: 138 members
About Me:
Me? I'm just a lawnmower, you can tell me by the way I walk.
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