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The Buck Chronicles part 7
Buck will come back as the main character it just takes a while...
Joe finds himself in a drum circle. A newspaper, rolled up and filled with weed, tobacco, salvia and laced with tons of Xanax hangs from his cracked and dry lips. Joe has no recollection of how he had come to be in this state of being.
“SHAAAAAMMMMZAIIIIIII.” An African guy with dreadlocks shouts.
The circle starts to drum very deeply, steadily building up to something.
Joe realizes he’s wearing a necklace made of bones and upon his head a crown of some sort, adorned with various exotic feathers, precious stones and big wads of, what appears to be, Greek money stuffed into it.
The drumming becomes more intense. It rises and Joe sees from the corner of his eye two naked girls and one naked man dancing like wild Navahos. Their faces are painted with yellow dots and streaks of what looks like blood under their cheeks.
“What the hell?” Joe says to himself, aghast. The drumming intensifies once more and it builds to a crescendo where the sounds of hands on drums become like bees stinging freight trains, thundering in Joes ears like an explosion.
Everyone looks at Joe. The African guy with Dreadlocks shouts, “SHAAAAAMZAIII!”
Joe sits with his mouth open wide, eyes dazed. He see’s a red headed girl wearing a smiley face t-shirt. A knife is placed in his hand and a chicken is placed on a stone slab before him.
Joe just looks at the knife. Nobody says anything.
Finally, the girl with the smiley face t-shirt says. “Do it.”
Joe lights a cigarette that somehow seems to have found its way into his hand. “Do what?” He puts on his aviator sunglasses. “Are we near the highway?”
The African guy stands up and throws a handful of pink feathers into the air. “Sacrifice!” he shouts. The feathers rain down like rose petals, twirling through the night air and circling the crackling fire.
A glint of understanding enters Joes head. “Oh. Sacrifice the chicken.”
“SHAAAAAMZAAAAAAIII!” The African guy shouts.
“Who are we sacrificing it to?” Joe asks, clutching the frantic chicken by the neck.
The red headed girl inched closer to Joe . “Hershebiva, the god of life.” She whispers into his ear.
Joe takes a drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke slowly through his nostrils. “What about the chicken?” He asks. “What about the chickens life?”
“Who gives a shit about chickens?” She says.
Joe thumbs his chin, pondering. “Hmmm…”
“C’mo-” before the girl can finish her word Joe cuts off the chickens head. “Ok.” He says in the very moment the chicken dies. “I mean, like…chickens die every day…right?”
“Yeah.” The girl says. “More than that even.”
Susan walked out the wilderness near the ice cream shop on Stevens and Aztec ave. He smelled of honey and fine oils, leaving a certain musk wherever he went that drove the ladies wild and left the men confused and vaguely hostile, though still in awe of the majesty with which he presented himself.
“Look at that Gaylord.” A man on a trash truck yelled.
As he walked the animals followed Susan. At first it was mild, limited to a few caged animals pining lovingly when he came near, but it grown into a full on traveling circus of common New England tree and forest life.
Susan chilled with the lambs in the nights and hustled the horses through the day, fashioning elaborate mustaches for the goats and cats. Throwing Frisbees that hundreds of dogs would compete for. Susan knew somebody from the city ordinances department would arrive soon, so he just worked on his inner thigh endurance.
“There is a new and fucking exciting happening thing comin at you from the minds behind “The Bee Bop Sheropp!”, and the “Salty Slam flex”. The TV is Blaring.
Roger looks up from his comfortable resting place, adorned he is with little yellow and orange one piece pajamas with one footie sticking out. The low level intensity of early day time TV stabbed at his sleep until he had to get out of bed.
“It’s the Youth System Durex Tri Glico Cleanando program.”
A picture of a taut, sexy young woman appeared on the screen opposite a dumpy, nasty skinned old skank “That was me, Before I found Youth Cleanando. It really works.”
“Using our state of the art sacrificial virgins, plus hyper dermatological pagan magic theories as well as dark spells called from the deep and old ways, and combining this with modern day cosmetic surgery techniques, We’re able to achieve things that are well,” The toned, tan and square jawed man that had been saying this looks into the camera. “Fantastic” .
The screen becomes blue and contact information is presented.
Roger licked his massive lips and automatically took down the number. He had three dill pickles on a plate and he was lining it with other things to start his pre breakfast meal.
He flipped himself off the bed and flung open his robe launching his naked, hairy gargantuan flaps of meat and muscle towards the shower room, and while reaching for the knob the door opened up and Roger was carried by his own inertia into a slip slide that put his left gonad in direct site of the towel loupe hanging at belt level next to the toilet. Whacking his soft and precious nut against the uncaring towel loupe sent Roger into an immediate deep depression and as he fall backwards, to his possible spine crushing, neck breaking end, he saw that it was Susan who had opened the door. Susan was as shocked as Roger and like everything was in slow motion, he avoided Rogers chaos bringing form by jumping sideways and through the carnage in a daredevil flip.
Joe is sitting alone, confused, unable to differentiate reality from hallucination. He’s cross legged and covered in feathers. Words drawn in some sort of fluorescent green paint are spelled out all over his body. The words are foreign, he doesn’t know what they mean. He remembers flashes of red hair, the smell of fire and blood. “What the hell?” He says, brushing muffin crumbs from his body as he stands up. A leaflet that says ‘Welcome to Boston’ in bright yellow cursive letters is on the ground.
He is alone. It is cold, it is dark. He thinks he’s in some kind of tunnel. “I think I’m in some kind of…tunnel.” He says out loud to nobody. He begins to walk.
Joe tries to remember how he got to this place. Nothing registers. He trudges through slime and mud and black ooze. The smell is horrible. Like a Zombie poopin in a dumpster. “God damn.” Joe says. He vomits.
Joe realizes that the smell he’s smelling is in fact shit. He see’s a ladder.
“Oh shit.” Joe says. He realizes he is in a sewer. He climbs the ladder, wondering how the fuck he ended up in a sewer, covered in feathers and painted with weird words. He reaches the top and he pushes the sewer lid as hard as he can. It’s very heavy but he manages to open up his world to the city. Joe climbs out and dusts himself off. People walk by, nobody looks at him. A sedan pulls up next to him.
---Tyrone was talking to the girl at the Wal-mart check out line.
“Sup Rachel?” He asked, smiling. “When you getting’ off work?”
The girl scanned the beer Tyrone had purchased with his fake I.D. “I don’t know who the hell you are.” She said. “Twelve fifty.”
Marc shouted at Tyrone from an aisle to the right. “Ha, you suck.” He said.
“No, you suck.” Tyrone lashed back, laughing.
“Do you want a bag?” The girl asked.
Marc shouts. “Are you seriously going to sell him that beer? Look at that I.D.” He starts to walk towards the exit. “That’s his brother. It’s actually his step-brother. They look nothing alike. Does little Tyrone here, really look like he’s 29 years old?”
The girl smiled wanely. “Bye.” She said.
Tyrone staggered towards the exit himself. “Bam!” He yelled taking off at a sprint.
“Let’s get drunk!” Marc yells.
Tyrone opens a beer as he’s running, taking out of the box and gulping it as he runs. “Hell yeah.” Tyrone yells. They get in the car and continue to drink and drive their way towards Boston.