Semi cross-eyed, money hungry entrepreneur/Life-long friend of Rizzo
There was no reason for Boodles to have settled for Some Old Dude. She wasn’t desperate or that ugly by any means. She had nice slender features with full breasts and an extremely round, voluptuous ass that always seemed to be winking at you. Facially, however, her black eyes were criss crossed to a disturbing degree and her crooked teeth took up a great portion of her white face when she smiled, and she smiled a lot. But her long, black, silky hair helped make up for those shortcomings. She was a bright, outgoing, aspiring accountant who was one hundred percent Spanish-Catholic; or so her immediate ancestor’s wanted everyone to believe. The fact was, her birth-giver’s birth-givers were right off the boat from Córdoba, which is home to the most famous Jewish quarter in all of Spain, and while their story could be absolutely true, to know Boodles and her love for money, one would have to wonder if maybe someone in her lineage didn’t give in for the taste of some kosher Hebrew sausage at one point or another.
Attractive, chunky German-Italian girl that Mahdakis admires from afar
Mahdakis walked a few blocks to Cannoli Spitzer’s. Cannoli was a short, stout, natural blonde German who, also because of her female-birth-giver’s Italian descent, looked perfectly tanned year round. Along with this contrastingly bizarre look, had one of the prettiest faces Mahdakis had ever seen. Her brown eyes habitually hypnotized him into arousing daydream states. And when her back was turned, and he couldn’t stare at her face, he would stare at her long, silky smooth hair, which led down to the crevasse of her cute chunky ass.
She was laid out suggestively on a lounge chair with sun lotion glistening off her skin, making herself as inviting as possible. Cannoli’s boyfriend, Jack, was now two years removed and, being only human, she longed for affection in one way, shape or form. She thought of Mahdakis. He was nearby and it tickled her the way he looked at her body. He tried to be subtle about it but she always caught him checking her out. Not many other guys did, so she secretly savored it. Outwardly however, she always gave him the ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ routine.
Hank ‘Captain H’ Megedagik
Cherokee/African-American gang leader/Life-long associate of Mahdakis
“Nice shirt,” said Mahdakis, observing the shirt, which Captain H oddly made into a belly shirt. “A little tight there isn’t it, Hank? I mean, that can’t be good for the digestion.”
“Show it while you got it. Ain’t that right Mahdakis, my boy?” Captain H said, putting his very muscular arm around Mahdakis and leading him away from the group for a moment. He whispered in his ear, almost romantically, “You and me go way back, Mahdakis.”
Indeed the two went back as far as grade school. Hank Megedagik was a bully then and was apparently working towards a life of crime and hard time now. He was medium height and very muscular. He was a fifty-fifty mix of African-American and Cherokee Indian. Most everyone, however, just assumed that he was either black or a mixed Italian. He had crazy black eyes that not even a mother would trust. He was a psychotic criminal who praised Jesus but gave little value to human life. Captain H would rationalize his evil doings by telling people his sinning on a daily basis was part of God’s plan. “If there were no sinning in the world, then our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ would have died in vain. I’d hate for that to have been the case.”
Sex was a power play for Captain H. It rarely mattered to him if his dick was in some hot young juicy vagina, or up some old man’s ass. Coming was coming, and he loved to come on anyone he felt was beneath him, which, in his own mind, was most everyone.
In short, he wasn’t the kind of person most people would want to find sitting next to in a Ferris wheel chair during a power outage. But if you stayed on his good side, he could be a very good person to have in your corner if something or someone was threatening you. In that sense, he was like a pit-bull, very loyal to his loved ones but, forget to feed him and he’ll eat you in one bite without a thought.
Dakota’s boyfriend who is doing time in a juvenile correctional facility
Preppy African-American girl/Secret love of Mahdakis
Charlotte Cummings was a thin, average looking, girl with coffee colored skin and long curly black hair. She had an eye with a slight stigmatism, a crooked jaw line, poor caked-on make-up, and very average, yet perky little breasts. She had a perfectly heavenly ass on its own, but one that was most definitely meant for someone else’s body frame. She wore conservative blouses and loose fitting pants to conceal this package.
With Charlotte, it never felt like cheating because it never felt like love. It always felt like what it was supposed to be in the first place; an overpowering, unadulterated hunger for flesh with a genuine sadistic regard towards dignity that would spiral itself into an uncontrollable feeding frenzy of self-respect and warm body fluids; otherwise known as hot, throbbing lust.
She never played hard to get and she would never make him pay his way to the almighty pussy. Most of the time she was the one who would pay, if need be, as she had quite the weekly allowance allotted to her. Even then, she knew to limit it to the simplicities of a bottle of vodka, a joint or a slice of pie. She respected his pride in and out of the bed. She was the All-American whore next door. She was one thousand Penthouse Forum stories rolled into one rapturous page-turning novel. She was an unsuspecting, upper-class nymphomaniac who knew how to scratch an itch.
Good intentioned, coke-addicted metal head/Bass Player for Check Engine
Copper Tom had straight, greasy looking, shoulder length hair that was the same color of his ape-like copper face and he wore the same thing everyday yet it, and he, were always clean; slightly torn denim jeans with bandanas tied all over them, studded wrist bands and belts, and a heavy metal concert t-shirt covered by a black leather flyer jacket. On any given day you could see him strutting down the streets like this, carrying a gigantic size boom-box and single-handedly plummeting the property values with each step he took.
He was always up on the latest Heavy Metal and insisted on playing it through his giant boom-box for everyone, whether it was good or not. Even by the B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. standards, this was considered immature and annoying. Ironically, it was the very thing that drew the crowd to him back in Junior High School. But Copper Tom seemed to stay right there in Junior High School as everyone else moved on, and to accentuate this, when everyone got their licenses and eventual cars, he was never in them with them, but always seen walking around town. His one-dimensional view of the world bored people and there was nothing, and no one, that Copper Tom took seriously. He would never be there if you needed him, and most likely there when you had no use for him. The world was a big joke to him. If Cop had serious aspirations, he kept them well hidden, perhaps in one of the twenty pockets of his leather jacket, along with the little bags of cocaine that he called life.
Pock’s sexy younger sister
Dakota Wells was a skinny, very sexy, quiet brunette girl with long wavy hair and legs to die for which ran up to the most spectacular ass Mahdakis had ever had the pleasure of meeting. She liked to show it off by wearing Daisy Duke cut-off jeans with loose fitting tank tops that revealed little. Very little; and no one was more aware of this fact than Dakota. It was her least favorite attribute. With so much importance being emphasized on a woman’s breast, she felt very insecure with what she had to offer. So insecure that she felt the frequent need to prove her womanliness to many a man who would take interest. Presently, however, she was madly in love with Carl Scungilli, a sixteen year old who was currently doing time in a juvenile correctional facility for breaking and entering with a separate charge of possession still pending.
Blonde haired, good-natured stoner friend
Floyd was a burner who also lived in Little Italy with his mother, a few blocks farther down from Cannoli Spitzer. He had long, vivid blonde hair and eye-blinding white skin with a red scar going diagonally across his nose. He told everybody that he dropped out of school a year earlier to write a heavy metal rock opera on his electric guitar. He locked himself away in his bedroom for months and nobody saw very much of him until he started coming out lately. You could imagine everyone’s surprise when they learned that he had yet to write the intro. The truth of the matter was, Floyd Baxter had just returned from a small stint in a juvenile correctional center; the same correctional center where Dakota’s heartthrob, Carl, still was. Carl and Floyd were best of friends. While working on his writing for the metal-opera, Floyd was narked-out by a good friend who was, in all reality, a turncoat moonlighting for the Norford Narcotics Squad.
Stocky, dim-witted, good-willed, Irish-Italian meathead/Roadie for Check Engine
Frank Slate was a nice, gentle, Irish-Italian meathead who was one of the few who kept the dark hair atop his head of meat, short. He did so, not only because he liked it that way, but because it’s what his parents told him to do. He was a homeboy in that regard. He respected his parent’s wishes and loved them dearly, unlike the rest of the group, who found these feelings curiously grotesque. He wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree either; in fact, he was born with a permanent quizzical expression on his face, as if he were just asked to name the capitol of Zimbabwe. He was funny and easygoing but, because of his size, nobody poked fun at any of his shortcomings. Frank Slate was six foot tall and built like a brick shithouse.
Free-spirited, eccentric, gypsy/Mahdakis’s true love
Jezebel took a slow pensive drag of her cigarette and blew it up at his face nonchalantly, “Hello stranger,” she said, uncrossing her legs very slowly while exhaling She had a very sleazy sex appeal to her with a very well endowed yet, slim figure to back it all up. She had shagged reddish-brown hair, very dark brown eyes and freckly skin with a witch’s profile. She smelled great and spoke with worldly, self-educated confidence. She intrigued him in an intimidating kind of way. Then, with her big nose in the air, she held her hand out like royalty for him. “You are?”
“Mahdakis,” he said bowing down, “at your service.”
Jezebel Crowley had come from a decent family with decent birth-givers. Her male-birth-giver was taken away from her at the age of five. Cancer. Over the years, Jezebel hardened herself towards the world in many ways yet, in other ways, she was very giving. She always tried to encourage others (or maybe just convince herself) that if we loved one another unconditionally, we could live in a world of peaceful accord. She really didn’t believe this philosophy as much as she wanted to believe in this philosophy. She was a rebel with borrowed causes. Causes she believed in, far from short of dying for, causes that she could only be bothered with for six-month durations.
Due to her skeptic nature and distrust in humanity, she was not easily fooled but oddly enough had a very soft and submissive side to her when it came to her men. This, more than likely, was the result of being a male-birth-giverless daughter.
Runaway musician from The Mountains, trying to make it in Delaware
She loved his look immediately; from the black leather cabby hat on top of his long sandy blonde hair to the black engineering boots he wore on his feet. Everything in between was fine, too; the blue jean vest he wore shirtless, revealing firm, hairless pecs; a leather-studded belt and wristbands, the mysterious bandana around the left thigh, and his thick sideburns and mustache. Yes, Angelica knight dug all that, but now she was digging him without all of that on. She blew a few black strands of hair out of her face and said nonchalantly, “Take off your clothes. Show some respect when you eat.” She marveled at his tight ass as he stood up and stripped for her. “Nice, now go back to work” she said, watching him go back down on all fours while putting distance between her knees and placing her hand gently on the back of his head. He began continued on with his submissive act with a degree of apprehension. “C’mon,” she slapped the side of his head and laughed, “that’s a pussy, not an ice cream cone.” Then, with both hands locked around the back of his head, pushed his mouth deep up and into her, “Now get in there and mop up.”
Mahdakis was returning a favor owed to her from the previous week, and unfortunately, unbeknown to either of them, would be the last time they saw each other for several years, as Mahdakis was beginning to weave himself a dangerous pattern; a pattern of letting friends down at the last minute in their time of greatest need. He was developing a knack lately, of vanishing into thin air at crucial peaks of a friendship.
It wasn’t as if he were a bad-hearted person intentionally; but for a young runaway musician struggling to make it big in the city, there is a very fine line between unabashed independence and blatant insensitivity. Mahdakis lived both of those worlds to their fullest.
Things would have been a lot different if he had stopped, just once, to think about others around him and their feelings. He would have done right by them if he had thought to do right by them. But he didn’t. So here he was, hell bent on setting himself on a one-way coarse towards exploring a strange new world of horrifically entertaining new people that he would relent to calling friends. Friends that would feed off his brain and hence, linger in his mind for decades to come like a boisterous, obese, uninvited dinner guest; friends that would indubitably stick in his heart like a poisoned arrow for the rest of his natural life; friends that would liberate him from the determined highways of sacred adolescent dreams and parade him atop the float of celebratory disillusionment through the narrow winding roads of side splitting nightmares, to the lust-filled lanes of Frankenstein cupids, to the pride-suffocated boulevards and snake-charmed avenues of rotten brotherly love to, alas, the dead end street of inane carnival self-destruction known now as The B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. Chronicles.
Nymphomaniac voluptuous brunette with humongous tits
Nicki took her shirt off and let the bra fall on the floor, then stood in the doorway topless. She wasn’t exactly fat, but she was far from thin. She was a short brunette girl perfectly shaped green cat eyes and slightly darkish skin, like bohemian or Italian. Some might consider her a little too heavy, but others, like Mahdakis, would use the word playful and…..full figured. Her tits were huge, and her body was un-toned, but well curved. She was hefty but in an extremely sexual way. Nicki Tater was a nymphomaniac, or just loved having sex with anyone she could.
He walked over to her and put his right hand under her chin and his left hand on her right breast. Nicki stretched her neck and gave him a long passionate kiss then whispered, “There’s nothing hotter than fucking your best friends girlfriend from behind after she’s sucked your dick and let you come on her face.”
“You don’t say?”
Lead guitarist for the F.A.G.G. metal band, Bogus Anxiety
Nigel Noodles now had very long wavy brown hair with some curls and blonde streaks. He was a very good-looking youngster; tall, slim and fit, and the girls were crazy about him. He also played guitar like no one’s business. In fact, Mahdakis had never heard anyone play guitar as flawlessly as he did. Yet he presented himself as a ditsy, carefree, forgetful, fun-loving puppy dog only out to please. But only two things in that description are accurate; he was a dog of sorts, and he was out to please…. himself. He was indeed ditsy in a way, but very calculating and callous in others. He came from a wealthy family of professional musicians, so making minimum wage the rest of his life was not on the radar. He was also extremely superficial. Looks and beauty were all that mattered to him; be it in regards to himself, or someone else…..looks were the key to survival and getting ahead in this world. Looks opened doors. If you looked good, you were worthy of conversation with him, if not, well…so be it. And on any day that he didn’t look good and something went wrong in his world, it was because he left the house too hastily and didn’t take time to fluff his hair.
Pablo él Dente
Dark Spanish/Italian Harley Davidson/Chevy fanatic
Pablo él Dente was a Spanish-Italian, beer-drinkin’, Hell raisin’ redneck originally from the back woods of Connecticut. He was obsessed with Harley’s and Chevy cars.
He was usually good for an ear bending. If nothing else, and always had some beer or Jack Daniels lying around, and right about now, Rizzo could use a slug of beer and a good rap session. She had been visiting Pablo off and on all summer, but even more so since after the Happyfunland incident. He listened well and liked to snort a line of coke every now and again, but never did more than he needed. Except for the Jack Daniels and beer, Pablo él Dente was rather disciplined when it came to indulgence. He only did as much as needed and never anymore after that. The group could learn a lot from him if they wanted to, but they didn’t.
Greasy, unkempt, curly haired Texas-rooted drummer for Check Engine
If there were an opposite of Dakota, it would be her ‘twin’, Pock. Pock was a wiry stoner with greasy black curly hair and eyes as black as coal. His skin was dark and dirty and his face riddled with pockmarks; thus, the nickname, so Mahdakis assumed. He spoke in a deep lazy voice and with a slight southern drawl. This was the dead give away to everyone that perhaps he was adopted or from another part of the family somewhere down south, maybe even a visitor from another planet. No one ever dare ask since their Italian mother always referred to them as ‘twins’. Pock moved without haste and never seemed too concerned with the concept of time. He made people around him want to poke him with a stick every so often, just to make sure he was still alive.
Hyperactive stoner super-hero and brother of Mahdakis/Roadie for Check engine
Pumpkinhead was strikingly good looking with long black hair and intense black eyes with a very fair and smooth complexion. He had a very good athletic shape but on the thin side, like a gymnast. Unfortunately, he had a long neck and a heavy head, giving him the profile of a giraffe when he walked.
He had developed a passion for exercise and an overwhelming appreciation for the human body. He was studying Kung Fu and other various forms of the Martial Arts and was studying to be a super-hero when he grew up.
He and his brother, Mahdakis, had adopted a new ritual for summer vacation; a ritual of waking up with no motivation or purpose whatsoever but to get stoned on the back patio and listen to mind-corrupting heavy metal music.
The morning would begin with Mahdakis pedaling his ten-speed over to East River to cop some of that fine nigger-weed. By the time Mahdakis got back home, Pumpkinhead would have the patio all set up for a late-morning of heavenly weed smoking; Brunch – B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. style. The speakers to the expensive stereo system were dragged outside; lounge chairs unfolded, and incense burning. Pumpkinhead took these sessions as seriously as Catholics take a baptism, unlike Mahdakis who did this only as a way to kill the annoying time that this marvelous thing called life had allotted him.
“So you still wanna be a super-hero when you get out of high school?”
“Yeah, I was thinking of disguising myself as a mild mannered bathroom attendant at a gym or a fitness club.”
“I think that’s a good idea. I hear a lot of evil-doers network through fitness clubs.”
Abused Runaway from South Dakota
Myra ‘Rizzo’ Rizaado
Purple-haired, white-skinned Japanese girl/Mahdakis’s girlfriend sometimes
The minute he saw her, he knew he had to have her. She was the epitome of cool. She wore a strategically ripped concert shirt with skintight jeans. She had a feather earring and sported spiked leather wristbands. Myra Rizaado was simply irresistible with her shoulder length purple tone hair falling casually over her happy round Asian face. Her skin, whiter than most Caucasians, gave her an ultra bizarre look that turned him on even more. She was an oddity; a musical style that could not be categorized; a rubber ducky waiting to be squeezed. The best part was, she was helplessly handcuffed to the railing of The Wall. There was no one around as classes were in session. Mahdakis had an uncontrollable urge to lunge at her and rip that concert shirt right off of her body. “You’re in handcuffs.”
“You’re observant,” she said coolly. “You must be one of the smart kids.”
“Do you want me to let you out?”
“Yes, unless……unless you’re going to rape me.”
“Mm, no. I’m not going to rape you.”
“Why not?” she aksed with anger.
“do you want me to?”
“I don’t know, but if you do you’ll go straight to Hell as soon as you die. The good lord sees everything so, take heed.”
“Are you religious?”
“Why? Are you into kinky role-playing, or something?”
“I could be, but, I mean, it just sounded like you were a big God fanatic.”
“I don’t believe in God at all………………But he believes in me and that’s what counts!”
“You’re a really fucked-up person, aren’t you?”
“You can thank my Japanese-Catholic male-birth-giver and my Irish-Jehovah’s Witness female-birth-giver for the mess that stands before you.”
Singer/guitarist for the F.A.G.G. metal band, Bogus Anxiety
The house smelt like a pizzeria or a bakery….both; and with good reason. Slappy Joe was one hundred Italian and raised by right-off-the-boat old school Italians. Slappy Joe answered the door wearing a short ripped up t-shirt that barely reached the top of his hairy, dark belly, which proudly protruded over a pair of zebra print sweat pants. He had semi-long curly black hair with gel in it and was holding a large hunk of Italian bread in his hand which, judging by his round cheeks, he had just taken a bite out of, “Hey man….Bruschetta?”
“Nah man, I’m Mahdakis….the bass player.”
“Ha-ha! That’s funny, dude. C’mon upstairs and have some mon-e-gaut. Mom’s in the kitchen.”
“What the fuck did he just say?” Mahdakis whispered.
“Be damned if I know,” Sleaze Rock said twirling the back of his hair with his index finger.
Drummer for the F.A.G.G. metal band, Bogus Anxiety
Sleaze Rock was a young slim, seventeen year old with short wavy blonde hair. And regardless of his Pinocchio nose, did quite well with the girls. Not so much because of his wit and charm, although he did possess a degree of charm, but mostly because he had a knack of beating something into the ground and wearing people down with an acutely exasperating persistence that more often than not made a person succumb to him more so out of exhaustion than sincere consent or agreement. The idea being to give in to his demands in desperate hopes that he would simply shut up and go away once they complied.
Mahdakis was being given the same treatment, as Sleaze Rock stood at the door babbling on and on, “Dude, we’ll help you carry your amp, throw it in Elijah’s car and be on our way. C’mon, times a wastin’.”
“I told you over the phone I wasn’t interested.”
Elijah looked at Sleaze Rock with speculation. “I thought you said he was all excited about it and everything?”
Sleaze Rock began twirling the back of his short hair with his pointy finger, a habit he did when he was nervous or in the middle of a lie, and said, “No…that’s not true at all. Hey man, I thought you said you’d try out if we learned some heavier stuff, and we did!”
“But I didn’t.”
“I thought you did.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Sorry. My fault. But here we are, so you wanna come, or what?”
Neurotic chain smoking, computer geek, drug-user/One of Mahdakis’s best friends
Snowy was ‘the older crazed guy next door’ who always seemed to have an endless supply of drugs and didn’t mind sharing them (most likely the reason he was allowed to be part of the group in the first place). He was a neurotic basket case with a grim outlook and an even bleaker future who constantly shook all over like an epileptic having a mild seizure and was never without a cigarette in his mouth. Never. If there weren’t words coming out his mouth then there was smoke. Sometimes both. And the pattern for the most part, was this: speak-(inhale)-speak-(exhale). Shake-shake-shake, speak-(inhale)-speak-(exhale). Shake-shake-shake. He was dark in complexion; perhaps Irish\Italian or slightly Bohemian. His hair was sprayed. It was a very bad gothic\new wave hair-do in which his hair, natural curly, protruded straight out from his forehead like the bill of a baseball cap, or a diving board.
At the moment, Snowy was busying himself with selecting some music. “Here let’s put on some Joy Division.” Snowy tried to put on the record but was shaking too much to line the hole up properly with the spindle, “Oh wait!” (exhale) “You gotta meet my friend, Harvey!” Snowy opened the closet door. Mahdakis half expected him to pull out a fresh corpse but instead was pleasantly surprised when Snowy slammed a red, three and a half foot bong on the floor in the middle of the room and said, “This is Harvey.” (inhale-exhale) “Harvey Mind-Banger.” Shake-shake-shake. “Here,” said snowy tossing Mahdakis a bag of herb, “Pack it up.” The bowl of the bong was the size of an espresso cup. Mark dumped the entire contents of the bag into it as Snowy went about his struggles putting on some music.
A frazzled pint-sized, hairy Italian from Jersey/Mahdakis’s best friend
Mahdakis was in between classes outside the glass hallway, when all of a sudden, he was approached by what he was sure was hard-core evidence of the missing link. The beast in question had long black frizzed-out hair with sideburns that looked like wads of pubic hair glued to its face and set way back in that face were two eyeballs as black as coal that spun in circles; its left one spun counter-clockwise and the right one clockwise. It looked as frazzled as a gang-rape victim.
“How ya dewin’,” it said extending a furry hand, “I’m Tony Ravioli – from Jersey.” Tony Ravioli had funny body language when he spoke. When he talked, his head bounced up and down like a bobble head for several seconds after he finished his sentences. This motion along with the circling black eyes made talking to him for any duration of time a very nauseating experience.“You got a butt?” -Bobble-bobble-bobble
Lifelong, peace-loving friend of Mahdakis’s/Plays keys & sings for Check Engine
Violet-Basia Sinclair was a 1960’s throwback of Northern Italian descent. She wore beads around her neck, dead flowers in her hair, moccasins on her gangrene feet and a dirty Indian print shawl covering up a fairly well endowed upper torso. She was the spitting image of the Mona Lisa if the Mona Lisa were stoned off her ass. Who knows? Perhaps the Mona Lisa was stoned off her ass; just look at that painting.
Tommy ‘White Tom’ Gladbags
Life-long transvestite friend of Mahdakis/Lead guitar player for Check Engine
Tommy Gladbags, or as Mahdakis and Hank ‘Captain H’ Megedagik used to call him in elementary school, ‘White Tom’, was as white as a bar of soap with thin, blonde, hair and buckteeth that would make a beaver laugh. He was lanky and about 5′-11” but because of the way he hunched over, appeared more like 5′-4”. His eyes were always half shut, giving him a sleepy/creepy-Chinese look. People wondered about his sexuality from time to time.
White Tom’s sexual expeditions were a mystery, as well. No one knew what he was up to once he left for the evening, or where he was headed. He never said and no one cared enough to ask. He never had a girlfriend that anyone had met. Chances are, if White Tom was getting laid, the woman most likely had a penis, or a strap-on, or both.
Mahdakis could see the assortment of dresses, mini-skirts and stockings White Tom had hanging in his locker. “Why do you wear that stuff, anyway?” he asked, as White Tom began slipping into some stockings.
“Oh dude, it’s a turn on for the girls.”
“They like the thought of getting their pussy eaten by another chick.”
“You sure about that?”
“Oh yeah. I think it makes them feel more comfortable and a little less conspicuous. Maybe even more powerful because they’ve been accepted and are being appreciated greatly by one of their own, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“I know what you’re saying. Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Trust me. I do this every week.”
“But they know you’re a dude, right?”
“I think so,” Tom paused to think it through, “yeah. Yeah, I’m pretty sure.
Preppy, rich African-American boyfriend of Charlotte Cummings
He was African-American yes, but he was just as much a snob as anyone you might meet in say…..oh, I don’t know…..Greenwich, CT. perhaps? He had a firm athletic build and sported a nice clean haircut. His polo shirt and pleated Khakis were always well-pressed, never once lending hint to wrinkle. He walked with his head and nose held high. Someday he and Charlotte were to bne married; it had been determined by both their parents when they were eight. “That is just ludicrous, Alexander, and you darned well better admit to recognizing the correlation between that rubbish you just spewed and how our people were forced into slavery, endured rapes, beatings, and were left with little provisions and no rights because the blind mass majority thought it justified. And why? Because the free-thinkers who were leading this country at the time, were bad free-thinkers who fed the immoral majority so much patriotic propaganda that no one dare challenge their word for fear of losing local credibility and or their land because when the Big-Brother-Free-Thinkers would retaliate, it was never lightly.”
“Oh bother, Charlotte. I know darned-tootin’ well the dreadful past of our ancestry! Am I not allowed a little space to be facetious?
Gothic punk girl/Mahdakis’s closest female friend
Nothing solidifies a friendship like oral sex.
Mahdakis was busy laying down the foundations of his friendship with Angelica Knight as he lay his well-toned body on top of her midriff, giving her naked white belly soft tentative kisses. Once tired of that, Angelica Knight grabbed his long sandy blonde hair in her left fist and held him there and while staring into his eyes, she undid her black jeans with the other hand, “I think you owe me something, buddy.”
Mahdakis was powerless to do anything more than stare back up into her translucent steel-blue eyes and smile. She was right. It was payback time. “Oh, yeah.” Off to work he went. All in all a pretty valiant effort considering it was his first time performing this particular act as a willing participant. The fact that she was of his own generation made it soundly unique to him as well.
Angelica blew a few black strands of her short new wave haircut out of her face and said nonchalantly, “Take off your clothes. Show some respect.”
Overly polite, well-educated drug dealer friend to all, resides at NYU
He was neatly dressed in tight jeans with an African Dashiki-hippie shirt thrown over him. He presented himself intelligently passive, yet with a dash of effeminate flamboyancy. He had a well-groomed afro and extended a hug as he opened the door, “Hey, babies! You must be Mahdakis and friends.”
Mahdakis hugged him back reluctantly and introduced everyone, “Yeah, this is my best friend, Tony.”
“Sorry,” Tony stepped back, “I can’t do the hug thing. I have to drive later.”
“Funny guy.” Black Tom extended his hand, “Well how do you do? I’m Black Tom.” They shook hands and Black Tom’s sight fell behind Tony, “And you are?”
The room was burning with incense, littered with heat lamps, beads, peace symbols, plants, and a Futon sleeper in the corner. “Have a seat.” Pock immediately plopped himself down on one of the three beanbag chairs on the floor.
Tall, fat T.D. Head/Friend of Jezebel’s, who is very hot for her
“HEY!! WHAT THE FUCK’S UP, MAN!?” Charlie Moonglow’s tall, wide frame stood in the entrance of the doorway yelling as Tony and Mahdakis approached it. He was young but large and boisterous, and laughed aloud after saying anything he thought to be funny. He spoke with intense excitement, and listened to others with just the same interest, his eyes wide with genuine curiosity. He also had a nervous, or possibly excitable, habit of jerking his head to the side while hastily whisking his four chubby fingers through his short straw colored hair, which was already beginning to recede, as if the hair were hanging in front of his eyes and he couldn’t see. – ‘Jerk & Whisk’. Mahdakis found it comical because his hair was so short that it didn’t even hit his eyebrows, let alone be in his face. But Charlie liked to jerk his head sideways and flip it out of the way anyway, – ‘Jerk & Whisk’ Maybe he thought he was preventing it from eventually getting into his eye later. – ‘Jerk & Whisk’ Or, maybe he had long hair once upon a time and developed the habit then. Whatever, it really wasn’t important, just one of those human tics that bugged the shit out of Mahdakis. – ‘Jerk & Whisk’ “So what’s goin’ on, dudes?” Charlie Moonglow said, noticing the beer bottle in Tony’s hand. “HEY! YOU’RE NOT GONNA SMASH THAT OVER MY HEAD ARE YA? HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!”
“I wasn’t planning on it. Why, do you want me to?” – Bobble-bobble-bobble
“HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!” ‘Jerk & Whisk’ Charlie Moonglow put his hand on Mahdakis’s shoulder, “No. But this guy did a few months back! HE SMASHED A FULL BOTTLE OF BEER RIGHT OVER MY HEAD. HA-HA-HA-HA! LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF AN OLD CLINT EASTWOOD MOVIE!” – ‘‘Jerk & Whisk’ “Remember those spaghetti westerns?”
Afro-headed, Irish-Italian stoner neighbor of Mahdakis and Pumpkinhead
Short, curvy, quiet, girlfriend of Curly’s
Felicity Feulgude a was short, quiet, tan voluptuous little piece of ass girlfriend. She was a bit younger than they were, barely out of high school. She was part of the up and coming F.A.G.G. Metal generation and had the tall hair and protruding, supple breasts to prove it.
Felicity Feulgude had a reputation for getting around, but so what. Perhaps the reputation wasn’t true, and if it was, who really cared? It was about supply and demand. There was a demand for getting laid and perhaps she was helping by supplying it, and if the reputation was true, she wasn’t selling herself or doing any backseat bartering. She liked sex and that was that, she wasn’t going to play games or hard to get. Perhaps Felicity was just lucky enough to know what an orgasm was way before others did…if they ever did.
Young curly headed offbeat outcast/Angelica’s younger brother
Because Goiter did not adhere to the cardinal rule about tripping, and carelessly took a hit when he was feeling down and insecure, his lanky frame now sat alone on top of The Rock. His oily hands running nervously through the curly nest atop his scalp while his deeply set, untrusting, dark eyes darted every which way. He was wallowing in a state of self-pity and deep depression while little groups of excited people conversed amongst themselves all around him. Pumpkinhead and Floyd approached him, “Dude, you okay?”
Goiter looked up at Pumpkinhead and said, “I’m a loser, man. A fuckin’ loser.”
“So everything’s normal then,” Floyd said.
“Thanks man. See? Everyone thinks I’m a fuckin’ loser.”
Floyd put his arm around him and was about to give some words of encouragement when Pumpkinhead blurted out, “Yes, you are! And you always will be for as long as you think you exist. No one’s ever going to think any more of you than you think of yourself, and if you view yourself as an asshole, and you obviously do, then everyone will see you as one. Alternatively, if you view yourself as a cool guy with some purpose and promise, people will think you’re a cool guy with something going on.”
Goiter threw his cigarette on the ground in anger, “Fuckin’ great! So now you think I’m an asshole!”
“No, not now….always.”
“Fuck you, dickhead.”
“Hey man, let’s get wise here, buddy. What other choice do I, or anyone else for that matter, have but to think you’re an asshole? You present yourself as one on a daily basis and leave us with no other choice. Now, deep down inside, I know you have more to offer; but until you start nurturing that side of you and letting it flourish, you’ll be nothing more than an instrument of laughter.”
Cannoli Spitzer’s redheaded, life-long boyfriend out in Nevada
Jack Carrot was a lean, clean-cut, six-foot tall red head who carried himself with the confidence of a five-time champion quarterback and, who’s face looked like it was ready to crack a joke at any minute, or laugh at someone else’s. He seemed to be the kind of guy who held everyone as an equal and showed respect for them, no matter who they were. Mahdakis understood now why Cannoli missed him so, and why she basically shrugged off any advances Mahdakis ever made towards her as child’s play. The only question was, why was he with her? Oh well, not his business; love is love and that’s that. Although, being the pervert that he was, he could not help but try to envision the two of them having intercourse.
Scraggly blonde hair boyfriend of Boodles DiNero
Jason Miller, Boodles’ new boyfriend, was a tall thin Norwegian with long scraggly blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He was from the other side of town, meaning that he had lived amongst them his whole life and nobody knew who the hell he was.
He was a nice, very open, friendly sort who felt comfortable around Boodles’s friends and, in an attempt to win them over, he decided to throw a party on a weekend that his birth-givers would be away at their time-share down in Florida.
By nine O’clock, there were two-hundred, forty-four-and-a-half people in, and around, the house of Jason Miller. The cops were soon to show up for sure, as the neighboring homes had people pouring onto their lawns. Mahdakis thought it best to start playing immediately after having arrived.
Carl’s tough big-breasted, no-nonsense, whiskey drinking sister
Snowy ran over in absolute panic, waving his hands and whispering, “Shhh, shhh, shut the fuck up you dumb cunts; shut up!” Snowy’s face was abruptly met with an open hand slap. “OW!”
“Not the C-word!” Kim demanded. “I hate the fucking C-word!”
“Goddamn it! All I was trying to say was…”
“I don’t care!” Kim backhanded him again.
“Ow!! Cut the shit!”
“Whatever it is, say it without the C-word. Got it?”
“Okay. Calm down there, Hulk Hogan.”
“That’s Mrs. Hulk Hogan!” Kim Scungilli, while not a picture-perfect model, was still one of the most sought after young women in the group. Aside from her delightfully abnormal, humongous breasts, which were attached to a thick but well muscularly toned body, and most likely one of the reasons she was amongst the most sought after, she was also blessed with good Irish genes that gave her extraordinary soft white skin, that contoured onto her head to form one of the most beautiful, irresistible faces; impossible to look away from. Her hair was the same color as her brothers, shoulder length brown, but clean and well cared for. The paradox of her beauty was the rough, boisterous, sailor-talking, persona that came with it. Kim never conceded to the ‘girlie’ way of living; in fact, the word was she didn’t even own a dress. She was one of the guys and could, and often would, drink most of them under the table on any given night. But the fact remained that she was still a woman, and very often, like now, found herself in a position to have to remind someone about it.
Naked guy at The Rock
Snowy stood at The Rock, quiet as he witnessed a new stranger approaching. Tony followed Snowy’s eyes to the top of the dirt path as an extremely obese man, probably in his mid thirties, walked confidently towards them and stopped right in between them. The overweight man with dark hair then stuck his fists into the sides of his hips, his elbows nearly touching Snowy and Tony, and surveyed the sunset.
“Nice night for a swim, huh?” he said.
“Sure is,” said Tony unsure.
Snowy remained silent, puffing away and exchanging questioning glances with Tony.
“Alright then,” the man said, and began unbuttoning his shirt, “let’s do this.” With that, the man stripped completely down in front of the two, leaving nothing for the imagination. His body was completely covered with hair except for his ass, which was smooth and bare as a baby’s. It was the oddest thing; it was as if he were wearing a pair of chaps.
High school kid Jezebel has an unhealthy admiration for
Thin, blonde-haired headbanger/Good friends of Kim and Sally
Polly Waggle was a beautifully big-nosed, short, thin sinister little devil with long blonde hair who talked like a truck driver and loved to laugh; “Okay, me too,” Polly smiled. “So why is being a cocksucker, or a twat-licker, a bad thing? I love it when someone eats me out. Why do we say it about people we hate, huh? Why is calling someone a cocksucker a bad thing when we all love it when someone swallows our come?”
Hard-nosed hippie ginger girl/Friend of Jezebel Crowley
Sally was a ginger; a full figured red head with freckles and a wide white Irish face with shit brown eyes. There was nothing attractive about her, but nothing all that terrible either. while she wasn’t by any means fat or large, she was a big boned girl with a decent freckly chest who carried herself well and could have been some sort of pin up model back the late nineteen forties; the kind that look voluptuously delicious in a one piece bathing suit, but down right hideous in a bikini.
She too, was an obsessive fan of the psychedelic band, The Thankfully Deceased, and wore extreme hippie garments to prove it. She was presently sporting a headband with a peace logo on it, under her long orange hair; her beaded earrings hung three inches below her ears and she was wearing a wool shawl with psychedelic print.
Sally was from a home riddled in domestic abuse. She learned not to trust men early on, and she was positive that Mahdakis had all the sure fire symptoms of an abuser.
Short, crazy, African-American, stolen gun dealer and bookie for Captain H
Without his afro, Squid stood only four-foot three; with it, four-foot seven. He grew up near the Norford Housing Projects and took special classes in school for children with learning disabilities. One of his neighbors back then was Mahdakis, and while they never saw each other at school, they were inseparable outside of it for a good couple of years.
The first time either of them got drunk was during the summer before fifth grade. They were hanging around the apartment of Mahdakis’s female-birth-giver; a rundown three story on a dead end road that, because it ended at their back porch, also doubled as a driveway. They played on dirt mounds and grass-depleted patches of yard along the busy roadside littered with split two-by-fours, nails, broken glass, animal remains, soiled clothes, syringes and condoms.
Carefree afro-headed Irish dude/Jezebel’s side dish
Yogi was an interesting person to talk to. He could manage to put himself into many different conversations by knowing a little bit about everything, yet not a lot about anything.
He was a very likable person and a neat dresser. His T-shirts, tucked into his bell-bottom jeans to show off a wide leather belt, were always freshly washed and ironed. The shirts were tight to his freckly skin and sometimes possessed glass studs sewn in them, forming various shapes. He was an Irish boy with a brown Afro that could nest a family of blue jays comfortably. Cannoli Spitzer once stuck a wooden ruler on top of his head while he was passed out, his hair measured ten and three-quarters of an inch all the way around. He liked to wear humungous, colorful Elton-John type sunglasses which added an even more comedic element to his look. Yogi McNugget was very secure with himself.
The way he talked was interesting too, pausing before or after any part of a sentence he wished to accentuate. “Hey man,” Yogi said extending his hand for the stupid-secret-handshake, “What’s…………up?”
“Not too much,” said Copper Tom. “I got a job caddying in Old Norford.”
“Ya know, I love……………..golf.”
“Get the fuck out a here.”
“No…………seriously. The last time I played I was……….…. two-under-par. I like to get out and play……… whenever I can.”
Copper Tom said enthusiastically, “Well I’m good for a double birdie every now and again myself. What’s your handicap?”
“I haven’t……….….figured out…………how-to-figure-that out.”
Delicious looking Black-Italian girl/good friend of Pumpkinhead’s
Aside from being an aspiring talent agent or a production assistant, Yolanda Zambrano was the most stunning Black-Italian girl in all of Delaware. She was coffee colored with a beautifully shaped ass that could fit into the palm of your hand, and had the modest complimentary tits to match. She walked with the confidence of a state senator, her long black hair swaying to and fro when she did. It was difficult to think about anything else other than wanting to fuck the hell out of her when she was near.
Tall thin Norwegian, fruit-fanatic, right hand man of Captain H
A brand new Black Mercedes Benz made its way up over the hill, hopped onto the sidewalk, and began chasing the three chefs like helpless animals. Captain H, who was driving it, pinned one of the white-coats between the front bumper and a telephone poll. Rad jumped out through the windows of the car. He was a slim intimidating six foot eight Norwegian blonde, picked a four-buy-four up off the ground and slammed the second chef’s face with it, moving his nose precisely ninety degrees as he fell to the ground unconscious. He then began to calmly enjoy a ripe peach he had just pulled out of his pocket.
Short, freckly Irish/Italian Henchman for Captain H
The gang piled out onto the abandoned street and swarmed the truck like vultures. Muffin Man, a short, red, freckly, Irish wise guy, cold cocked the salesman with his elbow and yanked the keys out of the ignition. He then ripped the remainder of the woman’s clothes off while holding a knife to her gut and tossed them into the street, “Tonight’s your lucky night, sweetie.”
Curly haired Irish safecracker and lock picker/Works for Captain H
Rob Burry was an A-typical dark-haired, brown-eyed, all American Mutt from Dearborn Michigan, where his father, an attorney, and his older sister both still lived.
For all the years Rob Burry had lived in Norford, Delaware and been a part of Captain H’s crew, no one knew this about him. The story he told was that he was from Baltimore. His parents having died in a car accident at a young age, he was raised in a foster home, which he ran away from as soon as he was old enough. As a young boy, Rob gravitated towards puzzles and games, he was a master at the Rubik’s Cube (look it up), and had a sense of adventure to go along with it. Rob knew his destiny after seeing the movie, Thief, in which James Caan and several others plan an elaborate and successful bank heist. They manage to dig a tunnel under the bank and sneak in that way, avoiding cameras, alarms, and other surveillance equipment. With them was a top-notch safecracker who made it all happen.
He started with picking locked doors and worked his way up. He became decent at what he did and needless to say, was in demand. He enjoyed stealing, but he hated it when he found out that he had stolen something of sentimental value from someone. He wished that people would keep their sentimental jewelry in a separate box marked SENTIMENTAL so he and other thieves with a conscience would know better. But then he surmised that everyone would keep all of their jewelry in that one box and that wouldn’t be fair either.
Rad’s hot, rich, cheerleader girlfriend
She was a tall, thin, brunette in her late teens, with a perfectly shaped ass and humongous, nicely tanned breasts, popping out of her tight shirt. While she was a Norford High Cheerleader, she possessed the persona and guts of Bonnie Parker. She was driving the purple getaway car with much assurance and wearing a wry grin. While it would have been welcome, Lori didn’t dress overly skimpy or slutty. She didn’t need to. She put the ass in class. One look at her and any man knew what was going on under however many layers of clothes she was wearing. She was that good, and confidence was her middle name.
Rad, who was the only one who ever got the better of her, was giving her a scornful look from the middle of the front seat as she drove. He leaned into her, and away from Captain H, who was to his right. He whispered, “Why are you here? I don’t like you being involved with shit like this, you know that.”
“I didn’t know I had a choice.”
Gary ‘from Deephole’ Novac
Nemesis of Captain H, who deals across the bridge in NJ
Informant for the Norford Police Dept.
Dark, handsome, Italian friend and new henchman for Captain H
Bobby Bobo, another one of Captain H’s ruffians, was the first to address them, “Ladies. How are we doing this fine evening?” Bobby Bobo was a dark and handsome Italian. Chicks loved him and he knew it, which could explain the constant look of serenity and the permanent smile on his face; a smile that never vanished or altered even when he was kicking the shit our of someone or arguing with you. It was down right condescending.
Older brother of Sleaze Rock, drug dealer and muscle for Captain H
Sham Rock was one of the craziest looking motherfuckers on the planet. He was a white, half-Irish, half-German, five foot nine monster that bulged with muscle from head to toe. That in itself was not the crazy thing; the craziness was in the eyes. He had steel color eyes that each looked in a different direction. To classify them as ‘lazy eyes’ would be inaccurate as they were anything but. They were wide, bulging eyes that never blinked. If you didn’t know better, and strangers didn’t, you’d think he was undergoing shock treatment at the precise moment. And in between those crazy shock-riddled eyes was an unusually perfectly round Santa Clause nose. The reddish-brown afro on top of his head was not the oddest thing either, but his lips definitely were. He had big full lips like inner tubes and when he wasn’t talking, his lower lip extended out and up, over the top of his mouth, as if he were trying to eat his face.
High School guidance counselor
Perverted, child-molesting birth-giver of Nicki Tater
“Do you ever think about my ass?” she asked him, her voice slurring from too much drink.
Of course he had, many times. All the boys did. She was pretty enough; nothing spectacular but definitely far from ugly and pretty damn good for being in her mid to late thirties. She had dirty blonde hair, nicely tanned skin and a nice chest, which she always showed off by wearing very little around the house, and keeping her bedroom door opened when she changed. There were very few boys who hadn’t, at least once, helped her ‘zip up’ her dress behind closed doors, and the rumors were out there to prove it. “We should have turned off over there,” he noted.
“You’re not going home yet. I got something for you at my house first, and then I’ll give you a ride home. Promise.”
Boodles raspy-voiced Spaniard female-birth-giver
Mrs. DiNero was a street smart, tough Spaniard woman with a loud raspy voice who could chain smoke Snowy McPeet under the table on any given day. She loved to laugh, gossip, and enjoy a nice glass of wine. She loved her kids and she loved all her kids’ friends…eventually. But she knew something was amuck when all of the guys immediately left on foot, the moment they arrived, to presumably go and get some more beer they….‘forgot’. Her suspicions grew even more after the guys had been gone for well over an hour. “Anyone gonna go look for them, or do you idiots just not care that much?” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“I’m sure they’re alright,” Boodles said with a pretentious smile. “They’re probably gawking at the women on the Avenue.”
(exhale) “Women, my ass!” Mrs. DiNero said. “Those things on the Avenue are outright little whores, if you ask me.” (inhale-exhale) “What’s the matter Cannoli? Where’s Jack, anywayz?” She heard the police scanner in the kitchen making a lot of noise. There was much more chatter on it than usual. She and her husband had personal ties to the NPD, so they liked to always know what was going on. She poked her head in and gave a listen for a few minutes. “Shhh!!! Some serious stuff is going down at Purchase Shore! Listen!” By the time Mrs. DiNero turned around, her daughter and Cannoli Spitzer were gone, and only Nicki, Violet-Basia and Rizzo remained in the living room, sucking down beers. Mrs. DiNero looked at them with piercing eyes, “Is that where everyone is? They’d better not be! I said, is that where everyone is!?”
Rizzo’s paranoid, Irish, Jehovah’s Witness female-birth-giver
Frank Slate’s male-birth-giver
Frank Slate’s female-birth-giver
Jezebel’s patient, sarcastic female-birth-giver
As well as being big boned, Mrs. Crowley was a very tall woman, and could often display an intimidating demeanor about her. She looked down at him with an exhausted look and pointed gently in his face, “Mawdakis,” which is how she pronounced his name in her thick New England accent, “what I want, is for you to get it together and stawt thinking about growing up a little. I know you love my female-offspring, but I want the best for her. So go out there and be the best. Otherwise, you’re useless to me. I would say, I don’t know what she sees in you, but then again, I don’t know what you see in her. You’re both useless. And I don’t think the two of you together are helping each other; I think it’s a hindrance. Do you know what that means?”
Vice-Principal of the high school in The Mountains
Fake-male-birth-giver of Mahdakis & Pumpkinhead
Kenneth ‘Commissioner’ Stromboli
Middle aged Head of Norford Police
Dim-witted, Irish speaking police sergeant
Fat, disgusting, obnoxiously rude black police sergeant
Calm, good-hearted Italian police sergeant
Straightforward sensible, no nonsense white police sergeant
Young, lean, energetic black rookie cop
Joe the Cop
Asshole ‘tough guy wannabe’ detective
Jack’s plump coke-headed whore
Creepy homosexual who picks up Mahdakis hitchhiking
Voyeuristic Pedophile guard of Charlotte’s private neighborhood
Elizabeth ‘Liz’ Raynor
Tony’s new psychotic play thing from Camden, NJ
Gary the Bus Driver
Sally’s hippie boyfriend
Flaky, Thankfully Deceased head\Customer of Rob Burry’s
Family friend of Mahdakis’s who looked after him when he was younger
Mahdakis’ 10th grade teacher from The Mountains
Mrs. Blitzer was a thirty-eight year old, average looking woman of Irish and French-Canadian decent, with short dark hair and eyes to match. She was thin, almost boney, but Mahdakis dug her for some reason. Maybe it was the sculpted cheekbones or the sporadic freckles on her stained-piano-key colored skin. Her breasts were small, small enough so that as she leaned over, like now, her bra hung low enough to expose a dark nipple. Yet Mahdakis found them very perky and inviting.
He was so mesmerized with the beauty of his tenth grade teachers’ freckly breasts, that he hadn’t noticed the abhorrent look she was now giving him as she caught him leering his perverted eyes until her arms flew up and smacked her chest, thus closing up the viewing area. She spoke at him viciously, “Can I help you?”
There was no denying it. He had been caught red-handed. Any lie would just make matters worse and only add insult to injury. He thought the truth would be better, and maybe even more shocking. He liked to shock so he confessed earnestly, “I was checking you out. I’m sorry, I think you’re kind of hot,” he shrugged. “Sue me.”
As mad as Karen Blitzer was on the outside, she couldn’t help but be sincerely tickled on the inside by his flattering honesty. She did not get this kind of attention at home. Her traveling husband was always away and when he wasn’t, he ignored her sexually. Karen Blitzer could’ve just reached out and hugged him, but she was a trained teacher and prepared for these moments….so she thought.
Tattooed biker-type mechanic that works with Mahdakis at Ebenezer’s Auto
Some Other Old Dude
26-year-old loser biker boyfriend that Jezebel dates for a brief time
Serial Killer and Child Molester
Park ranger in upstate NY of questionable sexuality
Queer, dimwitted sidekick to Ranger Rob
Some Old Dude
30-year-old boyfriend of teenage Boodles DiNero
Former dick-sucking drug customer of Jersey mafia
Jock wannabe and steroid dealer for Gary ‘from Deephole’ Novac
Tony and Mahdakis’s English Teacher
The new school year brought many things. Promise was not one of them, unless your idea of promise was performing extreme, sloppy oral sex on an aging and confused English teacher.
Her name was Tori Seidel but she may as well have been named, Plain Jane. She was a white woman in her upper twenties, possibly mid-thirties, but definitely looking more like forty, with straight long brown frizzy hair. Her eyes were set wide apart and she was about five foot nine with very decent size breasts that sagged. She would have been in her upper teens fifteen years ago when women started burning their bras. It would seem that she never bought a new one after destroying the old ones. She was a novice, at best, for a teacher. While her knowledge was probably great, her communication skills and ability to engage a classroom were sub-par at best.
Well-educated female groupie of Bogus Anxiety/Best friends with Misty Schneider
Bobby Jo Purebread
Friend of Raven’s from Louisiana
Sexy F.A.G.G. Metal chic
Bogus Anxiety’s Manager
Young balding lead singer for a F.A.G.G. metal band Mahdakis joins
F.A.G.G. Metal head/Nigel’s best friend and roadie
“It’s a joke, bro,” a tall deep-voiced kid with long blonde hair said, while holding an overfilled cup of beer. “A fuckin’ joke. I think you should talk to him first though and then get rid of him if he doesn’t change. Who knows? Maybe he can change and be more of an integral part of your band, but I’ll tell you what…even if his singing style changes,” the tall blonde guy gulped down some beer which ran down the side of his face, “that hair of his won’t. For Christ’s sake, I can see my reflection in his forehead! I think you should get rid of him because he’ll be going bald soon and more important than anything, is hair! If you don’t have hair, you don’t have it. So it’s all for naught. I say get rid of him or make him wear a wig. He’ll find work later in a wedding band, or a barber shop quartet, and eventually forget all about this failed experiment.”
The tall blonde doing the talking was Nigel’s best friend, Girlie-Boy DiNardo, an extremely effeminate looking F.A.G.G. Metal purist who was also rather foreboding because of his extreme height and build. He could easily have been a tight end for the Pittsburgh Steelers, if the NFL were to allow player to wear eyeliner, blush and twenty bracelets on each arm. He grew up in East Lake with Curly, who presently slid out of the drivers window and yelled across the roof of his car, “Hey dickhead, you comin’, or are ya gonna hang with these sissy faggots all night?”
Shady owner of recording studio who allegedly deals to children
Pretty-boy lead singer and bass player for the F.A.G.G. metal band, Open Fly
Slappy Joe’s annoyingly possessive girlfriend.
Pretty-boy drummer and coke-addict for the F.A.G.G. metal band, Open Fly
Dark Italian,/Best friend of Slappys/Roadie for the band
Good looking female groupie of Bogus Anxiety/Best friends with Misty Schneider
Long-haired, lanky drum roadie for Bogus Anxiety
Snowy’s make-believe girlfriend that no one ever sees
The much-hated husband of Tony’s female-birth-giver
Jezebel’s older Punk rock influenced skinhead brother
Folded laundry victim and adulteress, employed by Norford Savings and Trust
Older gay brother of Mahdakis
Jersey girlfriend of Tony’s
Best Mountain friend of Mahdakis’s
Except for his face, Crazy Davy was a hairy motherfucker with short wavy hair that was naturally greasy. The other part of him that was as black as his hair was his eyes, which were set deep, and in contrast with his bright white skin. The only saving grace, if you want to call it that, was that he was rather unkempt and dirty, so his skin wasn’t as white as it could’ve been.
Crazy Davy had dropped out of school in the ninth grade. His female-birth-giver died and he needed to help his male-birth-giver take care of the house. He had no problem with the idea of quitting school and getting a full time job, since education was more or less a foreign language to him. The only thing he got out of high school besides detentions, suspensions, girl rejections, and failing report cards were the skills of carpentry, welding, automotive repairs, and other shop classes.
A bad influence of a friend for Mahdakis up in The Mountains
Donny Dormante was a juvenile delinquent with an enormous bubble ass that was attached to an otherwise attractively fit body. He was white with dark features and the son of two faithful Jehovah’s Witnesses. Facially, he resembled Humphrey Bogart. But because he was always stoned, he looked like Humphrey Bogart with Down Syndrome. The Mountain Girls were crazy about him. Go figure. He had just walked out of JayD’s Liquor Store, which was next door to JayD’s Hardware, and four doors down from JayD’s Barber Shop and a quarter of a mile from the future JayD’s Auto Service Station. Don Dormante was only seventeen but the storeowners who sold booze up in The Mountains had adopted the ‘Don’t ask, Don’t tell’ policy, long before the military.
At the same moment, a dusty red 1966 Ford pickup came to a slow stop in front of the store and Mahdakis sprung out of the squeaky passenger door, “Thanks for the ride Mr. H. I appreciate it.” He slammed the door behind him and the truck pulled off kicking up dust down Main Street.
“Ridin’ round wit’ ole man Hitchcock, are ya?” Donny was teasing, “Heh-heh, I’ll bet he’d like to fuck you in the ass. How would ya feel ‘bout them apples?”
German girl who stole the heart of Mahdakis forever
On his first day of school in The Mountains, Mahdakis was greeted by the most awesome vision of beauty he would ever know. Her name was Gigi. She was German with the softest white skin contrasted by the most awesomely dark hair and bluest of eyes ever seen to man – or boy. Eyes that were protected by the coolest looking prescription glasses Mahdakis had seen. She was one of the first kids to wear transitional glasses, a pioneer if you will, and a cool yellow headband wrapped around her head and under her hair that seemed to say, “I’m game if you are.”
Gigi was Type-A. “Hi,” was the magic word she said to Mahdakis right before class. He said “Hi” back. But more importantly to him, was the discovery of what a hard-on was for. He was only in the fifth grade and, while he held many doctor sessions with Violet-Basia and others back in Delaware, he never realized the significance of what it was supposed to do. Seeing Gigi in her tight little blue jeans made him understand.
First true love of Mahdakis’s from The Mountains
It was summer in The Mountains. He and Heather had been at the beach all day attempting to kiss underwater. Afterwards, she drove him back home. When they got there, they discovered his birth-giver had left for the evening. Heather found his waterbed and jumped on it wearing only a slight, white, still wet bathing suit that left nothing to the imagination. After a moment, she lay on her back going through the motions of making a snow-angel. She was stunning. Irish to the core; to say she was the prettiest girl in school would be unfair as Mahdakis believed her to be the prettiest woman he had ever known and thought she looked absolutely delectable lying there with her strawberry-blonde hair curling down past her freckled shoulders. Her steel-blue eyes beckoning him. She wanted him to take her. She knew not of sex yet, but was ready for a lesson. Unfortunately for them both, he wasn’t. Mahdakis didn’t know how to make the moves, even when given a flashing green light.
Childhood ‘girl’ friend from The Mountains
Dorky Mountain poet and former friend of Mahdakis that he accidentally murders
Mahdakis stopped his head from revolving just long enough to hear the sound of someone humming the melody to ‘Rock And Roll All Nite’. As they approached the turn of the bend, they saw that it was Roger Daniels. He was all alone perched on a rock, writing. He was alone a lot. He was a self-proclaimed poet/writer with an annoying stutter and bad acne, who possessed outrageously bizarre philosophical ideas on how to save the planet from ourselves. He was a thinker, and that in itself was enough to isolate anyone from The Mountain People, let alone a hideous appearance.
One day Donny and Mahdakis started a fight with him that they’d never be able to finish.
When Mahdakis finally came to, he was groggy and could barely walk straight, “What happened?”
Donny looked at him, “We got a problem.”
“You saved my life.”
“That’s good. Isn’t it?
“Well…..yeah, but….. you sort of killed Roger to do it.”
Slutty Mountain girl/Neighbor of Roger Daniels
Dee Dee McGinty
Barbie & Dale
Bemused Utterly Repugnant Nation Of Useless Tainted Souls™
A large culturally and financially diverse suburbanite city in northern Delaware (home to the B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S.)
City that borders to the east of Norford, known for its high crime rate.
One who was part of the baby-making process; in most cases there is one female and one male (Mother/Father type)
One who was NOT part of the baby-making process, but is now married to one of the original birth-givers (step type)
Original Birthplace of Mahdakis and Roger Daniels, far north of Delaware
A large rock in a quiet wooded area alongside the Christina River where the B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. congregate and hang out with one another
Regionally popular coffee and donut shop
A not-so-well-maintained beach on the Delaware River that many of the B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. drive to and hold nighttime parties
Regionally popular Irish hamburger chain with great French fries
(Female-Aspirant Guy Group) – A wave of heavy metal during this time that saw men dressing up like women and playing bubble gum-type of rock n roll
(Female-Aspirant Guy Groupie) A person who follows and dresses up like F.A.G.G. Metal Stars
Well-respected psychedelic, blues/rock/ band that spawned from the San Francisco scene.
Any individual who follows the Thankfully Deceased around and listens to their music (hippie type)