Jack Hall

February, 1993

Scumboy Gets a Head

Nasty Nina needed a buzz so bad that she almost considered going straight. She abstractly reviewed her options while vigorously self-administering a vaginal dose of organic beta-carotene:

The regular success of the third proposal, and the fact that the scuz child always seemed too shy (or too drunk) to actually ask for his fair payment, swayed Nina's decision, and she expertly tossed her slightly moldy partner to its accustomed spot on the unkempt floor of her borrowed boudoir. Being the eternal optimist that she was, Nina shuddered--chilled to the core--over the thought of actually having to take the reproductive member of a boy-man that was filthy enough to be declared a public health hazard into her already-infected oral cavity. "But if push came to shove..." she mused enroute to her puny vehicle (which was gained through acts of sexual congress that are illegal, immoral and fairly expensive in most civilized countries).

Scumboy had a full house; the joint was rockin' and the joints weren't stoppin'. A guitar amplifier was hooked to a turntable and stuck outside, blasting defiantly at crouched neighbors--as if daring them not to appreciate the night's ambience. Drinkin' Jim and Frybrain were mal-odiously instructing all within a far earshot to "Have a knock-down, drag-out, rock and roll party IN THE STREET!", illustrating the last phrase by pointing at the stained pavement beneath their feet and jumping violently in place.

The wet bar (consisting of a dingy Coleman cooler that contained a fruit and Kool-Aid mish-mash whose most active ingredient was several bottles of the cheapest gut-shit in all of proud Mexico) was studiously attended by a young man clad merely in bluish jeans and a soiled T-shirt with stiff patches that stuck out at various angles. All those desiring to imbibe the noxious libation were sized up scrupulously by the genial host and their beverages were dispensed in strict accordance to their total contributions--financial and otherwise, past and present--to the unofficial guild of revelry known as the Dead Boys. Full members were awarded the largest shares with generous helpings of the slimy, mingled pulps of unrecognizable fruits (any wishing to know the material components of the sludge in the bottoms of their cups were subjected to a rambling discourse over: a possible history of "jungle juice;" some hygienic advantages of using a cooler for the containment of the heinous potion as opposed to a garbage can; and Young Master Scumboy's theories concerning whether or not the twenty-three mescal worms which were blended with the grapefruit could be tasted). Recent arrivals--most notably those without cash or dope--were grudgingly doled out minuscule portions of the top-floating scum and malevolently advised not to quaff imprudently, as their next tastes would most likely arrive after the fiery pits of Hell were quenched.

The cul-de-sac in front of Jolly Saint Basan's Home for Wayward Boys and Girls was filled to overflowing and resembled a used car lot. Fifty or sixty wasteoids were ambling to and fro with no apparent destination--their brains blasted by potent mixtures of the many various chemicals available for sale or barter from nearby, unscrupulous black-marketeers. These entrepreneurs rated their products in degrees of excremental quality: good shit, great shit and fuckin' incredible shit. Prices rose in direct correlation to the category of descriptive adjective--fuckin' incredible shit cost a fuckin' incredible price and those who lacked the requisite amount of viable currency hung around like jackals, ready to pounce upon any unclaimed morsels. These vermin were not only tolerated by the erstwhile Amerikan dream merchants, but covertly encouraged--more dope lost by the customers invariably meant more sales for the dealers, thus confirming Amerika's most honored business precept: "Give not a sucker an even break."

Scumboy, upon reaching his desired level of alcohol intoxication--abandoned his post and went in search of some rumored truly excellent shit. The irresponsibility of this act disturbed the affable host not in the least, as he had stashed enough straight booze to fuel another--more intimate--party. Locating his quarry was not a problem; all that was necessary was to discover the whereabouts of the largest gaggle of maggots. After pinpointing their position, Scumboy dispatched a messenger to summon this week's most "trusted" pharmaceutical broker.

The crowd parted and from its gut strode a true giant among his peers. He was known as Viking and his fundamental claim to fame was that he was taller than the Boy of Scum by a head and possessed fully twice his bulk. Scumboy was not in the least daunted by the titanic proportions of the thirty-nine-year-old kid who stood before him; he was a boy with a mission and, like the hero in some fantastic quest, the one, true leader of the Dead Boys stuck to his ultimate purpose: the business of haggling, bribing, cajoling, scamming and any other tactics short of physical violence (although this was also possible) so that he could copiously sample the Viking's wares without honest remuneration.

The Viking strategically took full advantage of this opportunity to vociferously relay some of his many, tragic tales of deceit, double-dealing and righteous vengeance. Curiously, the central theme of every epic yarn seemed to be the proud Viking's virtuous struggle against those who would unjustly deprive him of his livelihood and, thereby, his freedom. Scumboy, however, was not to be deviated from his final goal. In a belated effort to salvage the rapidly diminishing bit of inner peace possessed by his tormented psyche, Viking acquiesced presenting Scumboy with a High Times centerfold bud that would awe even a Ray-gunite with its natural beauty, in exchange for a solemn vow to aid and assist, in any way possible, the distribution of Viking's shit for an indefinite period of time not in excess of two or three weeks. In all truth, the young, scummy, party veteran probably would have completed this task anyway, in return for what he could spirit from his customers' purchases (this time-honored tradition is quaintly known as "pinching" and should be expected by all who score through middlemen).

Within fifteen minutes, Scumboy managed to secure an additional four buds of good weed and a few dimes of coke. Then, he went in search of a little seclusion so that he could enjoy his drugs with his best friend. When he entered the house, he encountered wall-to-wall people and was forced to sidle to the only place that was sure to be devoid of boisterous revelers: his room.

The smell of Scumboy's inner sanctum was almost a cubist rendition of the dark side of the olfactory sense; many levels of evil fragrance could be detected simultaneously. From sharp, piercing stinks to dull, thudding stenches, a full spectrum of things malodorous was represented. If persons of scientific bent were to attempt to identify and catalog this library of reeks, they would soon be compelled to add the smell of their own vomit to their compendia.

Upon reaching his den, Scumboy first noticed a light that shined from under the door. After he held his ear to the cheap, thin portal for a few seconds, he heard a faint scurrying. Certain that he had finally apprehended the person or persons responsible for the chronic disappearance of his stash (and being a drunk man of short temperament), this warped progeny of white-bread Amerika burst his own aperture asunder and bellowed mightily, "Who's fucking with my shit!!!" Thinking fast, the Nasty one dropped to the floor in a fetal position covered her head and sobbed, "I was only looking for some rubbers." Still seething with righteous rage, the Boy of Scum shouted, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU NEED RUBBERS FOR!!" Nina's only possible reply was, "I came over here tonight to do you that favor I promised you."

This simple declaration effectively checked the Scumboy's wrath and he became suddenly aware of his surroundings. He turned and saw that his entry resembled one of those pictures of the idiots trying to cram as many dorks into a phone booth as possible, especially in two aspects: none dared to cross the invisible boundary where the demolished door once stood; and all eyes were turned towards the same point--the rapidly developing psycho-drama within the confines of the proud Dead Boy's squalid hovel.

The whimpering, scared, scarred, thirty-seven-year-old girl-child looked hesitantly up and observed the silent crowd with a dawning hope; if she played this game correctly, she might not only leave with her abused epidermis intact, she might even get out of there still owing fellatio. Gambling that the Scumboy's inner bashfulness would again conquer his libido, Nina said, "If we can get a rubber and some privacy, I'll do you good..." licking her lips in what she envisioned was a seductive manner.

The filthy, repulsive ruler-of-all-he-surveyed took a moment to do some of the most complex reasoning he had ever attempted. A dim, wavering specter of a scheme came climbing up through the viscous haze of his self-ruined mentality and he coarsely informed Nina that, not only would she perform the act in question, she would consummate this covenant without benefit of either prophylactics or seclusion. The naughty one's eyes widened incredulously at this worst-case realization of one of her many, deepest fears and she vehemently refused to subject herself to such dire, public humiliation. The scuz-child just smiled and brandished an almost-large cigarette. "I'll give you a joint," he said evilly, while loudly unzipping his trousers. Nasty Nina was forced to prioritize between her need for self-respect and her craving for dope. As is usual in the hominid species, her baser instincts held out (besides, her mental self-portrait was rendered in shades of shit, piss and clap pus); she moved closer to the night's meal.