Saturday May 11, 1996
Bill and I pick up Brad, driving the 67 Dart 4-door. Gather up Pabst and fried chicken sucking down the first beers of the morning on the way to get Brad.
Driving with a Pabst in one hand, fried chicken in the other.
One hand holding the Pabst and the steering wheel, the other greasy mitt shoving the fried chicken into our damn pie-holes the Pabst spilling out of our mouths and washing bits of chicken like little crumbs of mobile homes parked in a flood zone down our faces to pool in our lap.
Itís now and grab Brad. Get out of Frisco. Reach the on-ramp to cockfighting destiny. Brad eyeballs a Mustang with a license plate frame that reads "My other ride is your wife." A great omen that sets the tone for the trip. We kill the first 12-pack tossing the empties out the window as we roll.
Brad, "like Hansel and Gretel but different". Donít wanna risk an open container ticket instead we just get the finger from straight laced woman passing us. Run out of beers by the time weíre in Hayward and stop at a Safeway to reload. Brad shits, and Bill grabs a jar of mayo to slather on the rear tires to see what happens.
Smoking back tire, leaving a trail of burnt blackened mayo. Bill loses control as we whip around the first turn. The rear end starts to pass us with a mind of its own to kiss some parked cars. Bill whips it back into line, straightens out, and we make our escape hanging a right into traffic forcing a construction equipment laden semi-truck to a hard stop to avoid crushing the Dart.
Try to hit 100 but can only make 95 before traffic forces a slow-down, but itís time to piss. Roll into gas station to see Sons of California biker gang. Decide not to tell them that Harleys are for fags, little girls, and other guys with mustaches. Debate knocking over one by accident, shrugging off damage with, "oh I'm sure itís insured."
Bathroom is destroyed -- shit everywhere, puddle of piss deep enough to drown a rat, pair of woman's underwear. Scald myself opening hot radiator cap to add desperately needed water to radiator.
Brad tries to pick up chick buying Marlboro reds in the hard pack who gives us wrong directions to Modesto, but Brad knows they're wrong as she talks.
We want a picture of woman flipping us off, so Brad and Bill try to get someone anyone to flip us off. Brad swerves at cars, flipping off random people, Bill says, "from now only fuck with people with mustaches, they deserve it."
Pass the last beer to Mexican landscapers in the next lane and lock up brakes coming off freeway. Itís the off-ramp to Riverbank. Nowhere town Central California.
Can smell pesticide from the fields. Slide to a stop so Bill can lick pesticide poisoned ground, run over a sign, and pull onto road in front of semi who nearly drives over us. Pass CHP station laughing. Bill wants to eat poison pesticide grape leaf, swerve back off road. Another sliding stop. Clouds of dust, canít see out windows as dust bowl passes.
Run the next stop sign just because. Slide to a stop at next one. Brad's mad no one will wave back to him.
Stop light takes too long, Brad throws car in park, Bill and Brad hop out doors open and piss at light staring back at cars staring at them. Sudden realization rolls over, out of beer, one case between three of us.
Get Alex cockfighter. His dad laughs, "good luck at the chicken fights!" Get Alex's partner Jake, and another 12-pack. We drive around, drink up that 12-pack, and get another. Bill and Brad try to get people in the quickie mart to flip ëem off, but no luck. They are asked to leave the store though.
Brad keeps swerving off road nearly hitting phone poles, but our lives wonít be ended today.
Pick up cock to fight. Bill goads 4-pound bird into a fight and trips over water bowl as bird attacks. On hands and knees, bird pecks his head. Too drunk to fight off rooster and tries to roll away. Bird continuing attack. Bill loses to our cock, good sign for the fight.
Driving around with chicken in a crate looking for Larry to cockfight. We pass a taco truck and stop. Bill borrows $10 from me to buy us a couple tacos. Itíll be the first food in hours and Iím pretty drunk and want something in my belly to soak up some of the booze. Bill stuffs one into his mouth, and scatters mine on the windshield. Iím too drunk to think about getting out, he hops back in the car and we continue driving.
More beer, time spent wandering in that bored drunken aimless state that's as much of growing up as jerking off knowing that there's nothing better to do. The contentment from knowing your life is wasted, thereís no great purpose to it, and drunken aimless roaming is exactly what you should be doing. Whether you cure cancer or drink eleven beers behind the wheel of an automobile, whatís the difference? The freedom from knowing there ainít nothing to lose. Not nothing left, never nothing.
Cruising down rural roads, drunken haze, going the wrong way. Brad decides to get some air, climbs out window onto roof. Bill wants in on the fun and joins him, only standing up to surf. Jake slams on brakes. Weíre all laughing as Bill, Brad slide down roof, windshield, across hood onto street. Swerve into field to avoid running over Bill.
Go to flip bitch, Jake cuts through freshly plowed field, and car gets stuck. We start to dig out and Bill, then Brad, decide to get us out by flooring it. Car digs itself in deeper until car rests on frame. Try to dig out, too drunk, too much sun. Try to flag down cars.
Truck with Mexican family moving tries to pull us out. Tied rope to bumper, it breaks twice. Man tells us heíll come back once he unloads truck.
El Camino stops, Hispanic guy offers use of car phone to call for help. Larry called says heíll try to find us, but we donít know where we are. Later to find out weíre miles from where we should be. Guy drives off. Alex, Jake "fucking Mexicans. It was nice he let us use his phone, but fuck him, heís Mexican."
We cross street to sleep in shade, Alex Jake smoke a joint. Bill tries to dig out, drops face down to bake drunkenly in sun, too tired. No more beer to provide sustenance.
A farmer pulls up to laugh and fuck with us, "you boys must be on some kinda drugs to try to drive in a freshly plowed field. Hell, even if I was drunk, I wouldnít try that." "yeah, we're stuck, can you give us a hand?" "I ainít gonna talk to you if youíre just gonna sit there. Stand up and come over here if you got something to say."
Jake walks over and the farmer does what farmers do: fuck with you toying with you knowing that you need help, knowing heís gonna help, but making you sweat it out, getting one up on the city boys. Bill says, "go on, beat it fucker" but the sodbuster donít hear him and we get Bill to shut up. "I dunno. That little car of yours is liable to drag my 2 ton dually into the field, then weíll both be stuck."
Finally says, okay, I reckon I can give it a shot. Hops out, pulls out chain from bed and hooks up car. Pulls us out in about 3 seconds. Laughs, unhooks and drives off.
Bill wonít ride in car, "fuck you, Iíll race you" and runs off down street. Finally talk him into car, we drive off, continuing our aimless wandering. Weíd sat in the field over 2 hours.
We stop at a house for directions, Brad, "Hey, do you know where the freeway is?" and without waiting for an answer, "fuck you, you stupid motherfuckers" and drives off.
We go to a 7-11, Alex calls Larry to get directions for the 3rd time, Bill and I go in, I buy a Gatorade to have a non-alcoholic drink for once that day. I was getting worried that even with all the beers I had, I hadnít pissed in hours. Nine hours without pissing even after I had a bottle of Gatorade.
I come out and stand there drinking. Alex tells me to get in the car, that those Mexicans Brad had yelled at had driven up and might come back to kick our asses. I figure Brad deserved what he got and stand there drinking my Gatorade. Finally I go in and tell Bill we should probably leave, he doesnít want to either. Both Jake and Alex try to talk Bill into leaving before we had to fight. Bill figures itís worth an ass-kicking to watch Brad get his ass whooped. He goes back in, wanders around, buys a hoagie and eats it outside waiting. Finally he figures hell with the waiting, and we get in the car, more driving, another call to Larry and finally to his house to fight cocks.
Our cock is half dead from the heat and endless driving, but Larryís cock wasnít in good health neither.
Itís us, Larry, a 40-year-old guy living on SSI since his hip operation, and some other guy about 21 with 3 girls. One was his girlfriend and the others were her little sister and friend.
Alex straps the gaff on our cock, and Larry sets up his. About 4 inches long and curved, the gaffs are like mini-icepicks. "Ready, pit ëem" and ours attacks, jumping in the air, flapping itís wings, landing on Larryís, scoring first blood, sticking a gaff in it and pecking his head bloody. Once the gaff is stuck in, time is called and the birds separated to give the other a chance.
In a couple of short rounds, Larryís donít stand up no more. It falls once he lets it go, but it still fights. Blood drips from its head as ours attacks. The fight is evened out as ours spears itís own head, forcing out its own eye, blinding it on one side.
The fight continues with both birds doing about the same. A lot of pecking and little spearing, so thereís no kill, the fight is dragged out. About 30, maybe 40 minutes, the fight continues with Brad constantly yelling "pit ëem" to no one in particular and laughing to himself.
Sometimes the birds get a second wind and attack in a feather flying furry, but usually they just lay on top of each other pecking the otherís head bloody. Our has blood dripping from its mouth, but I couldnít tell if it was bleeding itself or if it was blood from the other bird.
Normally a fight to the death, this was just a race to see which bird would die before the other. Ours was wheezing from a hole in its lung. After around 45 minutes of this we decide to just call it a draw and the five dollar bet is returned.
Itís now dark, weíve been drinking for 8 hours, maybe 9, and Brad's demanding food, so we say so long to Larry and hit the road.
Jake wants to see the Modesto big-city hookers or go out to Waterford to party. Keeps repeating, "Waterford bitches are easy. Theyíll suck your dick in Waterford. This one hot little bitch is half-Mexican half-white, she wants me. Fuck her and ignore her."
We roll into Modesto to took for the hookers and weíre still drinking and driving.
At a stop light, Brad following standard operating procedure drops a beer can out the window, Jake drops a beer bottle out the window on the other side. Light turns green, I give it some gas and am still accelerating past 45-50 mph when a police van that had been the car behind us at the light pulls along side us on the right and gets on the speaker, "HEY! The speed limit here is 35. And put on your seatbelts!" I tell Brad to yell out weíre wearing lap belts, he does and the cop drives off. I take the next turn and we split.
Weíd all been drinking all day, and there was a bloody cock more dead than alive in a crate on the front seat that I was resting my arm on. Brad, Jake and Alex all had open beers. Alex and Jake were underage, and there was cockfighting tools in the car. If the cop had bothered to pull us over, weíd a spent the weekend in Modesto City Jail.
Thereís more driving and we finally take Jake and Alex home, without going to Waterford to do us a couple of them easy Waterford bitches. I drive home, Brad and Bill both sleep. Me sleep now.
Copywrite and all that crud, by me Dave uh... "Smith" 1996-1999