“Ah one, – ah two, – ah one-two-three__” ………..and with one ugly clamorous bang, the atmosphere in the room filled instantaneously with mutinous intentions, sustained only by the revolutionary cheers of an apocalyptic, ear shattering, mind warping noise that only desperate, rebellious, teenage angst could be held accountable. It was a lawn mower plowing through gravel. It was a thousand baking sheets smacking the concrete in unison. It was a sodomy fiesta of rabid dogs and mangy alley cats. It was the aforementioned and more, woven together in unrelenting cataclysmic resonance providing an audible kaleidoscope of impossible concentration.
The beauty of it was that none of the four adolescents responsible for the deafening atrocity heard it that way.
Pock, the first adolescent responsible for the atrocity, was a good drummer, and while his drums were new, he had yet to afford new cymbals. The ones he had were ten years old and rusty. They made the sound of broken glass.
Pock was not getting laid either, nor would he ever. He was hideous from head to toe. A person could lose a small item in just one of his many face holes. That is, if they weren’t filled with grease from the curls of his dirty black hair. Pock was the victim of Severe Crater Face Syndrome. His real name hadn’t mattered since he was twelve and that was a good thing because most never knew it in the first place, and the others had long since forgotten. Most likely, he had never been laid before either. All the better for him, thought Mahdakis, at least the poor bastard didn’t know what he was missing.
It wasn’t as though he didn’t have his chances, however. Amazingly enough, Pock was just down right picky; and that along with being shockingly gruesome, greatly narrowed the chances of fornication. White John witnessed this ‘picky-ness’ first-hand over a year ago when he and Pock worked at a local car-wash on weekends in order to make extra drug money.
She was a tall, thin, brunette in her early twenties, with model like features and a brilliant smile. She was driving a purple Lincoln Town Car and eyeballing Pock as she bent over in front of him to show off her perfectly shaped ass and her humongous nicely tanned breasts, which were popping out of her tight shirt.
“I think she’s smitten.”
“She’s who?”
“This one, right here. The one who’s car we’re drying.”
“Oh yeah? What the fuck kind of name is Mitten?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Damn. What the fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?”
“The hot piece of ass driving this Town Car,” whispered White John.
“You tank she wonz sunin’ ta do wit me? Sheet,” Pock slapped the wet towel against the fender of the car, “I don’t thinks so, mane. And if she do, den what kind ah person is she? Look at me, ya’all. What kinda self-respectin person would have anyten ta do wit da likes a me, huh?”
“I don’t know. I guess one that wants to do you.”
“Well any bitch who wants ta fuck me gotta have her fuckin’ head zamined. Sheet mane, how easy ya’ll tink I am, n’ways? And stupid! Ya’all gotta watch out fer a momma like dat, cuz if she’s crazy-nuff tuh fuck me, den she’s crazy-nuff tuh keel ya too, or rob ya blind,” Pock said while examining a booger he had just yanked from his nose. “Gots my pride, ya know. I mean, why duh fuck would I wants tuh submit myself to an unrespect’ble, self-loathen woman like dat?”
“What kind of woman do you want?”
“Duh woman I wants is one who’s gots better taste in men and a bit more class den duh likes uh dis twisted piece a sheet, here. And ya knows what? Doze women ain’t havin’ nuttin’ ta do wit me! And dat dare is my cry’terya. Ya’all just seened me ex-cise it, now.”
White John stood dumbfounded, “So, if a woman desires you then she isn’t good enough for you because she has bad taste in men, but the women you desire think you’re a scum-bag piece of shit, right?”
“No needs tuh get all personal like dat, but yeah.”
“So how do you ever expect to hook up with someone?”
“Money, mane.”
“Yeah, well if you had money, you could pick whoever you wanted.”
“And I sure as hell wouldn’t pick someone who liked me!”
“But the one’s that you would pick would hate you and only be after your money.”
“Dats right. And dat dare is suntin’ dat I can respect. I cant ‘spect no woman who’s all keen on me and whatnot,” Pock said, swallowing something. “Could you?”
“Keen on you, or keen on me?”
“Me, Azhoe! Who duh fuck ya’ll think I’m talkin’ bout, n’wayz?”
“Yeah, well okay, you got a valid point there.”
“Dang straight.”
“AAHHH!!” White John yelled as the woman in the Town Car drove over his foot and out onto the main road. “CUNT!” he yelled, and threw a tub of Turtle Wax at the back of her car, which, by now was speeding up the Post Road. “Damn man, now my foot’s gonna swell up and turn purple!”
“Ain’t nuttin’. Be better in few days.”
“I had a date tonight, dude. You know, some of us go on those things…..you remember them? Dates?
“So? What’s duh problem? Ya can’t go cuz ya hurt yer feetzies?
“I can, but I was really looking forward to wearing my open end clogs tonight.”
“Mane, what duh fuck is wrong wit you?”
“They’re Ugglebos’!”
“Whogaboo’s?”
“Classics, made in Sweden! Don’t you know anything?”
“Sorry mane, I aint’ up on the art of bein a faig, n’all.”
“Well from the sounds of things, you might want to start looking into it.”
“Sheet,” Pock chuckled as he pulled another something out of his other nostril.
Another car pulled up to be hand dried. White John looked at Pock, still rubbing his foot “Ya think rich girls take it up the ass?”
“Oh mane, do they! Dat’s all day do. Up dee ass all duh time. Day have to. Dats why dare rich,” Pock snapped the wet towel against the fender. “‘Speciallys if day nose wats good for ‘em.”
“Excuse me, where can I put this?” asked the owner of the car, showing three dollars.
“Oh, the tip box is right over there, sir,” pointed White John to an empty space where there once was a wooden box with money in it. “Oh my God,” White John exclaimed, “the tip box is gone!”
“Here I’ll takes dat fer ya, sir,” Pock offered, and took the burden off the man’s hands.
“It was there a minute ago.”
“Johnny, are you sure?” yelled the owner of the car wash, running out of the office.
“Yes sir. I even made a note in my head, as it’s the end of the day, and we’re getting ready to split the tips soon.”
“So it was there for the last customer?”
“Yes sir. That is why I was looking at it because there was this really hot babe next to it in a…..ah, shit.”
“In what, Johnny, what was she driving?”
Pock shook his head from side to side and chuckled, “Told ya so, mane. Told ya so.”
© 2011, 2014 Mark Rogers
Driftwood
(Book I)
The B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. Chronicles 
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