Stealthily, the psychologist opens the Cadillac’s door, slides into the driver’s seat, and turns the keys in the ignition.
“Oh, hell no,” says the golfer.
Yipes! He’s really big. He did not look this enormous when he was pumping gas. He did not look so African American.
The African American golfer drags the psychologist out of the Cadillac and punches him in the ear.
“Please stop hurting me.”
Knee to the stomach.
“If you had any compassion, you would stop hurting me.”
Elbow to the jaw.
“Stop hurting me and give me your car.”
Picked up and slammed into concrete.
“I need your car so I can save a troubled patient of mine and I can’t pay for a taxi because said patient stole my wallet, plus if I kill…I mean subdue him, maybe I can get his estate to…I mean get him to pay the astronomical bills he owes me so I can use the money to buy my wife bling so she won’t leave me.”
The African American golfer stops pummeling Harold to express confusion.
Still upside down, the psychologist says, “Bling? Don’t you know bling? It’s the jewelry you people like to wear.”
“My people! My people! My people!” the African American says, getting in Harold’s upside down face. He moves his head away, frowns. “How culturally insensitive of you.”
33 - Rico Slade XXXII: Blood on the Asphalt
Rico Slade crashes Harold Schwartzman’s station wagon into the back of a tanker truck. The car is totaled but Rico Slade is unhurt, except for a small tear in his jacket.
He kicks out the door, backflips onto the expressway, lands on his feet, and raises his arms towards the sky. “Damn you, Baron Mayhem! I loved that jacket!”
The station wagon explodes.
Rico puts his arms down, kisses the tear, frowns at a traffic jam ahead.
Traffic jams are Rico Slade’s kryptonite, because he is very impatient.
Also, he has the attention span of well-fed piranha. Mix traffic jams with Slade’s attention span and his propensity for commandeering vehicles and you get an excuse for many of the stunts that occur in the Rico Slade series.
The sound of a horn hits the action hero in the chest. But it’s not just any horn—it’s the sound of a car with a sinus infection trying to breathe out of its left headlight. Or at least what a Hollywood sound guy thought a car with a sinus infection would sound like.
Yeah, it’s pretty stupid, but it’s used to identify the appearance of the monster truck known as Deviated Septum, which is always around when Rico Slade gets into a spectacular fender-bender.
Rico Slade heads towards Deviated Septum, climbing a Porsche and stomping over its roof with his zebra-skinned boots, leaving imprints of his size twenty-two feet. When he makes it to the hood of the car, the driver leans out the window and says, “Get the fuck off my car!”
“You’ve got a filthy mouth,” Rico Slade says. “I’m gonna wash it out with my foot.” With a single, continuous kick, he shatters the car windshield and puts his foot in the driver’s mouth, then waits a few minutes until the driver chokes to death.
He stretches his leg and walks over to the next car. He does this again and again. There are no further complaints. Soon, he reaches Deviated Septum.
The driver—wearing a jumpsuit, fake seventies mustache, and a beer drinking helmet—says, “Well, I’ll be! Fancy meeting you here, Rico.”
But this is what Lincoln Hawk always says. And their meeting is never a coincidence.
Rico Slade high-fives Lincoln, and the driver vacates his seat. He is perfectly fine being stuck on an expressway without a vehicle, because it is part of the script.
Rico Slade gets in the monster truck, pounds down on the gas, and makes the traffic his bitch.
34 - Chip Johnson Temporarily Regains His Sanity to Find Himself Bruised, Bloodied, and
Crawling on Top of a Car
Shit.
35 - Harold Schwartzman Violates Traffic Laws
“What you gotta do,” says the African American golfer, “is trick your lady into thinking you’re gonna leave her, not the other way around.”
Harold Schwartzman shaves his chest as he rides in the passenger seat of the African American’s Cadillac. The African American golfer overcame his disapproval of Harold’s cultural insensitivity when the psychologist offered him a percentage of the money he will make off Chip Johnson. This also overcame the African American golfer’s aversion to having Harold ride in his car.
The African American golfer makes a right onto Rhinoplasty Boulevard, and they are now six miles away from George’s apartment. “Tell her you love golf,” he says. “You’re leaving her for golf. Nah, that’s stupid. How about your barbecue is all out of flames? I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. So your barbecue grill is all out of flames and it’s up to her to light the spark, or else you’re out the door. Off to another lady whose got enough propane to light your fire and cook up some tasty burgers. What do you think?”
Harold does not respond. He has not listened to one word. He often enters into a state of deep concentration when shaving.
Police sirens and flashing lights.
“Shiiiit.” He pulls over.
A police officer gets out of a squad car, face resembling mutton. He puts on a Stratton hat and marches over to the Cadillac like an Imperial Stormtrooper. He takes off the hat. “License and registration.”
The African American golfer is displeased. “What for? I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
The police officer makes an angry face. “License and registration.”
“Just tell me what I did wrong, man.”
“You better watch your tone, silky.”
“Did you pull me over cause…” He clenches his fist. “Because I’m a golfing enthusiast?”
“Sir, I pulled you over because the man next to you was shaving his chest while you were driving.”
Actually, Harold is still shaving his chest. The African American golfer notices this for the first time. “Oh, hell no.”
“Sir, driving while transporting a shaving passenger is a traffic offense. But I’m going to let you off with a warning. If you can get him to stop.”
36 - Chip Johnson’s Blood Loss Makes Motorists Uncomfortable
It is unsettling to watch an injured man on an expressway as he tries to call an ambulance on a puke green cell phone that has been crushed beyond recognition while his blood pours down upon the mangled plastic. “Hello? Hello? I think I’ve been in a car accident? What’s wrong with me? Hello?”
He realizes the condition of his phone, limps over to a Lamborghini. The teenager behind the wheel rolls up her window.
“Can I borrow your phone?”
She bobs her head to music that he cannot hear, pretending he is not bleeding, that he does not exist.
“Can I borrow your phone?”
He bangs on the window, leaving bloody handprints. Spreading the bloody handprints until they are globs.
“Can I borrow your phone?”
He gives up. Goes over to the next car. And the next car. And the next. Same problem, different reaction each time: hysterical laughter, taking the kids and abandoning the car, screaming, punching in face, “Find your ass a payphone, chump,” poor medical advice, general unhelpfulness.
He lies down on the blacktop, in the space between a luxury sports car and a luxury sports car, and waits for the traffic to subside.
Somebody would have helped him if they knew he was Hollywood action star, Chip Johnson. Male pattern baldness has its disadvantages. Wearing sweatpants, a windbreaker, and flip flops has its disadvantages. Why has the parking lot of Super Saver Electronics suddenly transformed into an expressway? And why does he feel like he has slaughtered a cast of thousands?
37 - Harold Schwartzman Gives a Speech That Is Heartfelt and Sentimental
The police officer is gone and the African American golfer is threatening Harold S
chwartzman with bodily harm. “I’ll cut you,” he says, waving the psychologist’s Bic razor in his face. “Any more bullshit and I’ll cut you.”
Harold Schwartzman tries to hide his fear. “Are you threatening me with my Bic razor?”
The African American golfer pauses his waving to engage in a facial expression representing deep inner thought. Thirty seconds pass and he goes back to waving the razor.
Harold’s cell phone rings. It is his wife’s personal ringtone, the chorus to “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang.”
“Can you give me a minute?” he asks.
Again, the African American stops waving the razor, because he is a courteous individual.
The psychologist opens his phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, cunt cheese. I’m at Dot’s Diner. Got my bling?”
“Honey, it’s culturally insensitive to call it that.”
The African American golfer grimaces.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I—”
“Whatever. I don’t give a fuck. So about my bling?”
“I’ll have it soon.”
“Soon? Fuck that! Your penis is the size of an amoeba.”
“What?”
“I’m tired of waiting. Gonna pork everyone eating Reubens. Gonna pork everyone eating Reubens right now.
She hangs up.
Harold Schwartzman’s eyes get watery. He tries to call her back, but it goes straight to “Hello, you’ve reached Miriam Schwartzman. Leave a message if you want, but I probably won’t call back. Peace!”
The African American golfer watches a grown man cry. “C-c-can y-you d-d-d-rive m-m-m-m-m-me to D-D-Dot’s?
“Man, I feel for you ‘cause I used to cry when I was a baby and shit, but Dot’s is way across town. And no offense, but I want your weepy ass out of my Caddy.”
“Can’t you cut me a break?” he says, then glimpses the razor in the man’s hand and reconsiders his words. “I mean…help me out here. My wife is about to gangbang everyone eating Reuben sandwiches at Dot’s and we have to stop her!”
“Damn, Dot’s makes really good Reubens. But why is this my conundrum?”
“Conundrum? What does that mean?”
“An intricate and difficult problem.”
“Listen,” Harold says, then he gives a twenty minute speech about his wife that is heartfelt and sentimental.
Tears gush down the African American golfer’s cheeks as he starts the car.
38 - Rico Slade Gives Chip Johnson a Pep Talk
Chip Johnson wishes his stunt double were around. Buck Huncke would enjoy getting his back cooked on the blacktop while his pain receptors shrieked at his brain. Chip Johnson is not enjoying this, but he would enjoy Buck Huncke enjoying this.
The owner of the luxury sports car he is lying in front of gets out, shakes his fist. A symphony of car horns burst through Chip’s ear canals. The traffic has waned slightly.
With each blast of sound, Chip’s agony intensifies.
Some asshole who really likes The Dukes of Hazard pounds on his horn and it plays a tune from “Dixie” and Chip Johnson gets a blast of the worst pain he has ever experienced. It feels like he has just given birth to a fully grown man. It feels like the fully grown man exited Chip’s body through his left nasal passage. It is no surprise that he feels this way. Because a full grown man has actually exited Chip’s body through his nasal passage, a man wearing a leopard skin jacket and a pair of sunglasses he never takes off. A man who maintains a giant pompadour.
“Listen up, wimp. You gotta believe in yourself. Believe you can pick yourself off the ground and kick some freakin’ ass. Hell yeah! The whole world is counting on you.”
“I can’t do it, Rico Slade.”
“Shut up, fag! Do you believe in God? Government? Hot chicks? The puddle of blood you’re floating in?”
“I guess so.”
“If you believe in that shit, you’ve got no choice but to believe in yourself.”
“I believe in myself!” Chip tries to stand, fails. “I believe in myself, but I can’t get up.”
Rico Slade scowls, says, “This is gonna hurt you more than it’s gonna hurt me,” pulls down Chip’s pants and underwear, flips him over, and sodomizes him with his head. Then, the action hero inserts his entire body inside Chip’s digestive system.
The actor squeals.
His windbreaker turns into a leopard skin jacket. His sweatpants turn into leather bondage pants. His flip flops turn into steel-toed, zebra-skinned boots. His fanny pack turns into a badass headband. Sunglasses appear on his face. A pompadour sprouts out of his shiny scalp.
39 - Rico Slade XXXIII: Expressway to Hell
Nu metal blasts through the stratosphere.
“Fuck yeah!”
Rico Slade takes a rocket launcher out of his pants. “Oh, there it is.”
He aims his weapon at the traffic ahead, calls Baron Mayhem on a phone that has inexplicably appeared in his hand. “Hey there, Baron. Running a little late. Sorry. Traffic was a bitch.” He pulls the trigger. The luxurious sports cars disintegrate into flames. And he walks through the ruins with an erection that’s almost as big as his rocket launcher.
40 - Truck Stop Gangbang 12
Harold Schwartzman’s wife is faking an orgasm. She must be faking an orgasm, because she has never had an orgasm before. She swore to me! the psychologist thinks as he walks through Dot’s Diner, towards her screams of pleasure.
He opens the door to the men’s bathroom and pushes through a few nude men. They are flabby and middle-aged, and Harold is disgusted, even though he is also flabby and middle-aged. The room is filled beyond capacity with flabby, middle-aged men, and they are all eating Reuben Sandwiches.
The air is suffocating. There is no space to breathe. Too much flesh.
Through the steam, Harold sees his wife. Truckers penetrate her in every hole. Hard penises rub against every point of friction on her body. Nine men violate her at the same time. They chew on sandwiches as they thrust their hips.
Harold is devastated. “Miriam!”
She does not respond. The nine men remove their sexual organs and move out of her vicinity. Nine more take their place and pump and eat and chew and swallow.
The psychologist rushes forward, clotheslining every gangbanger that gets in his way.
Upon reaching his wife, he tries to tear off her partners, but they are too delighted by her orifices and folds to be affected by his slaps and hair pulling.
“Miriam!”
She takes a penis out of her mouth. “What do you want, testicle breath? I’m busy.” She moans, pushes one of her partners away, and squirts vaginal fluid all over the floor.
“How could you do this to our marriage?”
She grabs another man by the buttocks and forces him inside her. “It’s all about the bling, honey. And the cock. You don’t give me what I need, so I came here to get what I deserve.”
“How can I give you what you need? By the looks of this spectacle, you would only be happy with a monster freak with multiple penises.”
She cackles, then deep throats a gigantic sexual organ.
“Please stop doing this to me, Miriam! I don’t know what I’ll do if it goes on for any longer.”
She stops deep throating. “I don’t know what your problem is, Harry. I’m not doing anything to you. I’m doing lots of things to lots of different people, but none of them are you. Now will you get out of here? You’re ruining my concentration.”
“But—”
“You’d leave if you really loved me.”
Should he leave? He really loves her, but this doesn’t make any sense. How could leaving prove he really loved her?
“I love you, Miriam, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stand by you and go over to that corner over there and stop ruining your concentration. Our marriage is the most important thing in the world to me and I just want you to be happy.” He walks towards the corner. The men clear out
of his path.
“Awww, honey, that’s so sweet.” She smacks a man on the back of his head and he vacates her vagina.
“Want a turn?” she asks.
41 - Baron Mayhem’s Shame
George does not know that the best way to remove a semen stain is to rinse the stain in cold water, apply a generous amount of stain remover, and then wash it out in either cold or hot water. And because of this, he has been trying to remove the same stain for the last hour and has neglected the rest of his messy apartment.
The phone rings. He answers, “Hello.”
Chip says, “Yo, scumbag. I’m down the street. Will be over in a couple of minutes to give you the pounding of a lifetime.”
“That sounds wonderful, but can you give me a couple of hours? I’m still not,” he glances around his apartment, “ready for you.”
“Nah. I’m comin’, comin’ right now. Comin’ for you, Mayhem.”
Terrified the condition of his apartment will blow his chances with Chip, George drops the phone, then runs out the door and down the street.
42 - Rico Slade XXXIV: Garbage Day!
Rico Slade shows up at Baron Mayhem’s secret fortress to discover the front door unlocked. Slade can’t believe this crap, so he closes the door and kicks it down—just demolishes it—with his steel-toed boot. Because that’s the way Rico Slade does things. He can’t tolerate this “unlocked nonsense.”
He notices the mess.
Chip Johnson’s phobia gives him a sharp pain in the chest.
“What the crap?” he says, as he falls and hits his head on the tile floor.
Rico Slade Will Fucking Kill You Page 5
