ArtsAutosBooksBusinessEducationEntertainmentFamilyFashionFoodGamesGenderHealthHolidaysHomeHubPagesPersonal FinancePetsPoliticsReligionSportsTechnologyTravel
  • »
  • Books, Literature, and Writing»
  • Literature

The Buck Chronicles Pt. 2

Updated on April 4, 2011

The Saga continues

Hot Blooded by foreigner played softly from an old beaten down radio-cassette player lying near a pile of crumpled clothes in a dirty bedroom with no windows. Buck turned on his side as he lay sleeping. His massive form was resting on a deflated snow tube padded with crunchy blue towels. The smell of alcohol, vinegar, and sawdust permeated, seeped from every surface. The stench was so overwhelming it almost seemed to exist within the walls as a living thing might inhabit a cave dwelling or rabbit hole. With out the stink the room would not be the same room, and the question of whether the room itself could indeed exist at all with out the smell, or the smell without such a room to produce it, could baffle the mind for an eternity. Buck couldn’t smell it anymore. He had created and indeed fine tuned it over the years, dulling his own nostrils to its power.

Buck had a quarter empty glass of tequila lying half tipped over against his immense belly. So deep was his drunken sleep that no such trifling thing as a swig of spilt liquor would raise him, attesting indeed to a sleep of some powerful depth, as Buck was not a wasting man when it came to alcohol.

It was so dark in that room. 12 o’clock in the afternoon, but every shade was drawn. It was the weekend and Buck always slept in on weekends. Suddenly his eyes flipped open and for just a moment he stopped breathing. He jumped up and threw on his silk robe with the Japanese dragon print emblazoned on the back. Not bothering to put on his shoes he ran groggily, staggering really towards his front door and flung open the entrance. In one continuous motion he scooped up a dodgeball from the grass did a front roll landing on his knees and let the ball go flying through the air, zeroing in on a slender figure riding on a Huffy bike. The ball connected with tremendous force sending the figure flying off the bike into a collapsed heap on the pavement.

“Boom!” Buck shouted, raising his colossal hands to the air. “I knew it was you Derwangler, I just woke up and I knew you were nearby.” He skipped over to Derwangler’s battered and bruised body and began thrusting his ass into Derwangler’s face in a rhythmic motion. “Yeah!” He shouted with each thrust. “Yeeeee-aaah!”

He continued this for a satisfactory amount of time and then out of breath he sighed contentedly. “Awesome.” He said to himself, shaking his head. “Whew… man… I’m beat.”

He walked inside as Derwangler slowly got to his feet, and without looking back went inside drank a whole bottle of Mr. Boston rum in two gulps and passed out on the floor.

Love Shack by the b 52’s played very quietly on the crappy radio and someone had turned on a David Lynch movie.


Buck wakes in a kiddy pool that somebody had turned on its side, so his back is on both the plastic of the pool and the cold frosted grass of somebody’s side yard. He curses but it becomes a burp and he staggers his way to his feet, rocking from side to side as he shrugs off the pool and makes a beeline for the paved road.

“Have to…work tomorrow.” He says to himself. He groans and feels the pain in his head all at once, bending at the waist at the very thought. “Oh…god…” He says.
A truck goes by, speeding, the driver hopped up on crystal meth, and it creates a blur of vibration and noise as it jets over the road.

Buck stops, vomits, wipes his head of cold sweat. He doesn’t know which direction he should be heading, not sure if it’s worth it to go home and change or just show up at the school, drenched in beer vapors, grime and a hint of urine. “Fuck it.” He decides and the problem disappears lifting a heavy load from his back. A car goes by, but stops and reverses. Inside a woman, young maybe 20 rolls down her window.

“You need a ride mister?” She asks. Buck isn’t sure if this is real, a young woman stopping in the middle of the night to offer a ride to a disheveled man who outweighs her by about 250 pounds, but he accepts it and steps forward. “Yes.” He says. “Yes I do.”

She smiles showing her straight white teeth. She’s very attractive, brunette, slim ,good smile. “Get in.” She says.

Now their driving and Buck has blacked out at least twice and in an incoherent sort of way, has directed this woman to drop him off at The Middle School.

“Really?” She asks. “It’s…the middle of the night.”

“Uh-huh.” Buck nods numbly. “It’s cool. Don’t worry about it.”

“Its…3 in the morning.”

Buck sighs. “I work there. I’m…the Principal.” He lies.

“Ok.” She says. “If that’s what you want.”

Sitting, still very drunk outside the back entrance, where trucks drop off food, paper, pencils and so on, Buck smokes a crumpled Parliament cigarette and holds a wet washcloth that he took from a sink in the loading area against his head.

“What the fuck?” He says out loud.
…The Tv Blares… The president is on television and he has aviator sunglasses on and he’s smoking a cigarette. “Hey, listen” he says to the group of reporters shoving microphones in his face. “Get out of my face.” He flicks his cigarette sending the ash on one of the reporters heads.
“This is my house.” He says. “So…get the fuck out.”…

400 people died in a fire yesterday that started when a refrigerator exploded due to a manufacturing error…Former teen runaway and prostitute is running for mayor of Cleveland and seems to be winning. “I also might have cancer.” She says to a crowd of reporters. “Not sure, could be, could not be.” She is very brave…

…A high school student is expelled for wearing a t shirt that featured a picture of a giant penis with arms and legs, sporting a swastika necklace and holding a gun to the head of a wounded homeless sea otter who has a severe case of body dysmorphia. His parents are suing the school district for a bajillion dollars. “…Where did he even get that shirt…”

…Scientists have announced that there are no such things as pickles…
It’s day and its sunny but it’s cold and even though the birds shouldn’t be back from the south yet, the sounds of belabored squawking and full throated chirps can be heard quietly from all around. Joe and Marc are sitting on opposite sides of a see saw in a school playground. Marc was drunk and tripping on blotter acid, Joe more or less in the same condition and they were playing catch with a big brown paper joint.

“Stop me if you have heard this.” Marc says. Joe looked at him and for a moment the blue sky framing his blonde hair made him look like some kind of twisted caricature of a drunken angel.

“O.K” Joe said.

Ok,” Marc says. He suddenly cracks up laughing and bends slightly at the waist.

“Ok, ok…” Marc says, having pulled himself together. “Theres this chick right and she’s got, like, long blonde hair. And she cuts it off to buy this dude a pocket watch and uh…” A long pause where Marc scratches his chin and retches slightly, almost puking from the dry gin and Coors beer.

Joe puts his eyes on his hands and pushes against them. The sudden flush of colors stuns him and he has to pull away. The beauty of the dead tree’s, the stark contrast with the sky and the gold of the sun it all makes him feel slightly elevated, as if he wasn’t on the see saw, stoned, in a children’s playground, but actually really far, far away.

“Oh yeah.” Marc says. “So she sells her hair. Ok, like, part 2. The dude sold his pocket watch to buy her some combs for her hair.” He stops as if he’s delivered the punch line. He busts over laughing.

Joe blinks and giggles a little.

Flash forward and Marcs on the phone crying in jags yelling. “I love you” he screams. His hair is flying out in strands like pieces of straw. “I love you and you don’t give a shit.”

A kid that Joe knows finally comes to meet up with them, as per prior arrangement, and he stops next to Joe and watches Marc. Marc is on the ground, on his back kicking up like a new born baby. “Just don’t forget about me. What? No I’m not wasted. No, you are a fucking bitch. I love you, I love you…”

The Kid, Tyrone, short, chubby, half black and possessing blindingly white teeth, tilts his head slightly. “Who’s he talking to?” he asks.

Joe shrugs. “Like, I think…his dentist? I dunno…”

“His dentist?” Tyrone asks, skeptically.

“Yeah…” Joe says. “His dentist or maybe…some ski instructor.”

“Sounds like an ex-girlfriend or something.” Tyrone says.

Joe shifts his weight slightly. “…Could be…” He inhales on a joint. “I’m pretty sure it’s …I mean he was talking about how much he …gloves her…so…”

“Glove?” Tyrone asks, scrunching his face. “Are you sure he didn’t say Love?

Joe pursed his lips slightly. “Love would make more sense.” He said.

“Yeah.” Tyrone agrees.

“But he said glove.”


To be continued... Although I doubt anyone is actually reading these...


    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    No comments yet.