Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #56: Civic

Patch the Punk’s twenty-year-old Honda Civic finally conked out, and the repair bill totaled $1,729.47.  He had to borrow the money from his father, who expected him to pay back every penny with interest.  Sure.  Patch vows to leave town for good, maybe move to the West Coast and start his dream job: product tester at a marijuana dispensary, nyuk nyuk nyuk.

Yuck.  He can’t even afford cough syrup from the dollar store, much less enough gas to drive around the block.  But if he liked country music, he would probably still live in poverty.  And have much worse taste.

Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews

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It Nearly Killed Him!

Three boys sit together during lunch, in the cafetorium (combination cafeteria and auditorium) at Center Township Elementary School, Monaca, PA, Wednesday, October 28, 1975:

Douglas: “Here’s a good joke.  So this kid named Johnny goes home and says, he says, uh, ‘Mom!  Mom!  I was walking past the Giant Eagle, just minding my own business,’ he says, ‘just minding my business, when I saw this kid get hit by a car, on the butt!’  Ha ha.  And the kid’s mom, uh, Johnny’s mom?  Yeah, Johnny’s mom says, she says ‘No, Johnny—rectum.’  And Johnny, ha ha. Johnny says ‘Rectum?  It nearly killed him!’  Ha ha ha!”

No one else laughs.

Tommy: “Man, you suck at tellin’ jokes!”

Douglas: “I thought I did a good job.”

Tommy: “Then you’re a fag.  Who cares about all that Giant Eagle stuff?  Get to the point: ‘Mom!  I saw a kid get hit by a car, on the butt!’  No, say ‘ass’ instead—that’s funnier.”

Douglas: “My mom won’t let me swear.”

Tommy: “Then you’ll never be funny.”

Ricky: “Doug-ass.”

Douglas: “Shut up, fatso.”

Ricky: “Say ‘ass,’ Doug-ass.”

Douglas: “Shut up.”

Tommy: “Say ‘ass,’ or you’re a fag and you can’t sit here no more.”

Douglas says nothing.

Tommy: “Say it.  Say ‘ass.’ ”

Ricky: “Say it, fag.”

Tommy: “His mommy won’t let him.”

Ricky: “She’s a fag.”

Douglas, very loudly: “Ass!  Ass!  Ass!  Ass!”  Background conversation stops.  “ASS ASS ASS ASS ASS SHIT!”

Applause and cheers from the other students, including Tommy.  A teacher, Mr. Mullen, walks toward the table.

Mr. Mullen, to the cafetorium: “All right, everyone, knock it off.”  To Douglas: “Could you come with me, young man?”

Douglas, trying not to look frightened: “No!  You’re a FAG!”

Mr. Mullen grabs Douglas by the arm.

Douglas, as the teacher drags him away: “SHIT!  SHIT SHIT SHIT!”

The other students watch them leave the cafetorium.

Tommy: “What a loser.”

Ricky: “Yeah.  He coulda said ‘balls,’ too.”

Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews

Flash Fiction (a Hundred Words or Fewer) #55: Omar’s O-Face

My favorite website, Pornhole, has gone too far this time.  Their newest video, Omar’s O-Face, features an Ilhan Omar lookalike (complete with hijab) getting gangbanged by a bunch of Israelis.  I thought I’d find the video unintentionally funny, but the anti-Muslim and anti-Semitic content made me drink not one but two bottles of Neckbeard, that artisanal lager aimed at Millennials (and at Gen-Xers like me who try to fuck Millennials).  By watching this crap, do I collaborate with the Trumpists, or do I demonstrate my cultural iconoclasm, or both?  Should I even return to that halcyon age of apolitical vegetating?

Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews

revised April 24, 2019

Harvey Wallbanger (Part One)

Hallowe’en Spooktacular Party, at Gary and Elaine Dow’s house in Center Township, PA, Friday, October 31, 1975:

Costumed invitees cram the living room.  A mixtape (to use an anachronistic word) plays on the stereo’s cassette deck; the exceedingly mellow song “Those Summer Nights” by San Jose’s biggest musical artist, Benjamin Plum, nears its chorus as Donna—wearing a headband, peasant blouse, fringed leather vest, bell-bottom jeans, and sandals—spots an uncostumed guy exiting from the kitchen.  Glass in hand, she barges toward him, threading past a princess and a cowboy and a blowdried Dracula, electric guitar creeping along, Plum asserting in a reedy voice that “Those summer nights that brought us passion / Will never, ever go out of fashion.”

“Chuck Roland?” she asks.

“The one and only,” Chuck replies, holding a drink himself.

“I’m Donna Henningsen.  Milo’s mother?”

“Oh.  Right.”

“Tell your son to quit beating him up.”

“Tell your son to quit grabbing my son’s ass.”

“You believe that story?”

“Hey, your son is half Greek, so—”

She tosses the contents of her glass at Chuck, punctuated by the background tune’s somnolent saxophone-and-piano bridge.

“Now look what you made me do—waste a perfectly good whiskey,” she says reprovingly.

“You know,” he says, wiping off his face with his sleeve, “you’re lucky you have a great pair of tits.”

“Thanks.  I’ll tell your wife you said that.  Where is she?”

“At home.  She didn’t feel good.  You ever try a Harvey Wallbanger?”

“A what?”

“A Harvey Wallbanger?  Orange juice, vodka, and some Eyetalian liqueur called Gallyanno?”

“No.”

“You should.  I’m having one now.”  Chuck holds up his glass.

“Hooray.  The next time your brat attacks my son, I’m calling the police.”

“Yeah, yeah.”  Plum’s song fades out.  “So I can make you one here, if you want.  A Harvey Wallbanger.”

“Fuck off.”  Another lifeless, piano-heavy track, one Donna’s never heard before, commences.

“Aw, you hurt my feelings.”  He walks away a bit jauntily.

Copyright © 2019 by David V. Matthews