(note: i will not use caps from here on, because i'm lazy. deal.)
12/22/98 (day 1): woke up. worked for the man. finalized plans to retrieve mr. x from the airport that evening. got screwed over by nj transit's lovely bus service again, subcontracted by the infernal tct transit company, neptune, nj. arrived at home, finally. met with my contact to retrieve mr. x from newark international airport, home of freaks, junkies, and overpriced bar drinks. rode up in the freezing cold, living much as cheech and chong would to make up for the lack of a cd player in the car. dirty bastards on the local radio stations couldn't even oblige us by playing some foreigner. the nerve.
arrived at newark airport, and walked in. mr. x's flight had dropped off the schedule, even though it was supposed to have landed 10 minutes before we got there. after some investigation, as well as a failed attempt to get an airline employee to speak english, we discovered that the flight was delayed 90 minutes. during this time, "the associate" proceeded to drink overpriced bar drinks, and i made lewd comments about everyone in the airport. worst comment: "alright, who left the vibrator on?" about some poor, pathetic guy in a wheelchair. if i weren't already going to hell, that woulda clinched it in a heartbeat.
10:30pm. mr.x arrives, talking to a stunning (ok, mediocre) young lady from his flight. we almost got her and her grandmother to take the three of us on, but they wanted more money. the drive home, more cheech and chong-like behavior, and then "the associate", mild-mannered in his old age, left us to our own devices. later in the week, we would discover that the transmission on our getaway vehicle died on "the associate's" ride home. guess we got it stoned or something.
immediately, mr. x and i looked for our first target. we were originally going to take over a lowlife bar around the corner, but decided against it due to lack of attendance, opting instead on our limousine driver's suggestion to attend services at a place called "fantasie's" in a nearby village. on the ride there, the driver reminded us that "it's all pink on the inside", and wished us luck in our pursuits.
we arrive at fantasie's, to the view of seven maids-a-milking. well, that's bullshit, actually. there were only three broads-a-stripping, but what the hell, it was late. i noticed that one of the bill collectors was a familiar face from the last time i attended services, to visit with pr0n legend ron jeremy. used the name julia. well put together. really lucky we didn't decide to kick her boyfriend's ass before we left and drag her to our hovel, caveman-style. raar.
watched female-type gyrations until closing. highlight being the privilege of watching women shake it to "lick my salty chocolate balls" by isaac hayes. uh-huh. walked over to the diner, that months earlier i had complained about, as there's a diner a half-mile up the road. hindsight has shown me that god put that diner there so we would have food within walking distance of the titty bar. thanks, god. ate food, drank coffee, watched some little mexican dude kick this drunk guy's ass in front of a lot of state troopers who didn't give a shit, and went home. killed a little of the remaining time awake with "the day the laughter died part 2" by andrew dice clay. highly recommended.
12/23/98 (day 2): what a damned washout. at least business was good. next...
12/24/98 (day 3): the beginning of good times in earnest. well, after the work was done, anyway. jesus, you consumer types are a bunch of goddamned vampires. was pleasantly informed that mr. x had procured a top-secret urban assault vehicle for the remainder of his business trip, the "red piece of shit 5000". this worked for me. our first stop was a slow one, to a mediocre bar in the town of kevinsmithburg, where it was decided that i'd take a more active role in the karmic development of an attractive young lady i ran into there. that was for another night, however, so we moved on quickly, returning to the scene of tuesday's crime...
fantasie's. whoda thunk that a bunch of girls dressed as santa'd be so interested in taking? as i said hello to an old war buddy (1985, central nj. we were in the 137th webelos together), i sat in for tonight's passivities. not as much to look at tonight, even with greater broad volume per square inch. there was one who had this look on her face that'd make mother theresa use a strap-on dildo on a wart hog. what a woman. i hope she was really as calculatingly evil as she looked. be a shame to see talent like that go to waste.
further into the night, a new dancer takes the stage, and mr. x perks up. "damn it, i know that face." as she makes her rounds, she comes over to our section of the bar, and utters mr.x's REAL NAME! we cannot allow her to live. actually, just to make life that much more dangerous, we did, but not before procuring a phone number from the double agent. she had gone through a lot of trouble to entice mr. x after all, citing a crush on him that dated back to high school, and having breast enlargements done. she didn't have to go through all that trouble for him, but it was a nice gesture.
skipped the diner after church. went home, fried brain on video games, passed the hell out.
12/25/98 (day 4): christmas friggin' day. the first christmas in my life that i've responded to "it's christmas, your presents are out here!" with "go to hell, i'm sleeping." growing old sucks. eventually, i woke up, and staggered out to recieve my dowry. santa apparently decided that i was a good little boy this year, and brought me a stack of european black metal cd's, and planet of the apes movies. damn right. began "the first annual scott crawford's black metal christmas". later, dealt with relatives. briefly. watched as one of them was cheered on bombing iraqi civilians. ah, the power of sega genesis.
contacted mr. x. made plans to make an early visit to the x family christmas party. the party started out as a mild-mannered yuppie holocaust, but slowly, methodically, became a boozed-up, drug-addled massacre. i could just about walk when i took control of the red piece of shit 5000 for a drive to the pub. luckily, mr.x's sister was semi-able, and off we went.
not much eventful in the works for this night. one notable piece of news: one of my ex-girlfriends had gotten married. eureka, another psychopath out of the dating pool! =) went home, passed out.
12/26/98 (day 5): the day after. again, you consumer types are a bunch of goddamned vampires. highlight of work was a customer, gleefully describing his experience with the playstation game "knockout kings": 'man, i was droppin' niggas wit' butterbean...'
anyway...tonight was the night of one of the bigger planned rendevous' of the vacation, as mr. x and i met up with bass and barshay from the union city bureau. again, cheech and chong were casting their grim specter of influence over the preceedings. advice to pc owners: pick up "hot wheels stunt track driver".
our initial flight plans for this night were to visit the scab replacement for the old shithouse, and then to head across town to commune with the lesbians. some peripheral mention of "goth chicks" was also made late in the plans. hit rendevous points 1 and 2 on schedule. regrettably, rendevous point #2 was a bust, as our sisters refused to acknowledge our lesbianity. frigid bitches.
so the plan shifted to the afore-mentioned "goth chicks". 2 blocks away was a place where some of the city's more mediocre specimens often convened, so we went. bass and barshay, not normally accustomed to such surroundings, took some coaxing, even once inside. the place in question was it's usual mediocre self, but that didn't keep me from movin' it on the floor.there was one exception to the rule of mediocrity, a supremely beautiful specimen of feminine rage in a dress with a slit up the side. if you're reading this, child, come home. your uncle misses you. danced with her or near her (whether she liked it or NOT!) for a good part of my evening, and watched as the others slowly assimilated with the locals. to quote barshay: "i was dancing to siouxsie with relatively little irony."
on the way back to the union city barracks, stopped at grey's papaya, and as i was indulging in $.50 hot dog-like bliss, i got the worst headache i've ever had in my life, accompanied by numbness in my right fingertips. i swear, if that girl at the club gave me a stroke, she better throw herself at my feet, stat.
12/27/98 (day 6): after the trip back home, and sleeping off the headache as much as possible, it was decided that a final, blazing run at mediocrity had to be made by mr. x and myself before he went south and re-assumed his duties as mayor of jacksonville, fl*. after all, we had forgotten to blow up the building near the union city barracks that was blocking their skyline view. only one thing could make up for this oversight, and we found it by way of a voice on the other end of a phone that coined my motto for 1999:
"we show you good time."
without going into detail here, i'd like to give a special shoutout to "mimi", a woman known only as "i...manager", and the rest of the girls on the fifth floor, for all of their hospitality.
as we were at the parking garage shortly after the zenith of the week, we did make one small slip-up of classified information. the attendant asked us what the car looked like, and we responded "it's a red piece of shit". he laughed, and responded "i know RIGHT where it is." sonuvabitch better not be working for the commies, or we'll get 'em.
the ride home was a warm, refreshing blur of smoke, grey's papaya, white castle, and "hello nasty", a perfect end to a week of derelict activity. and with that, i wish whoever isn't in the middle of writing sheryl hate mail for printing this a happy new year, and remind everyone to remember, "it's all pink on the inside."
Scott Crawford can still be reached at sdcrawford@earthlink.net.
*Editor's note:
Scott's only kidding!
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