“But the cops always pick him up at Barbie’s,” objected Shadow.
“Got to get cracking.” Viddi turned away from Shadow abruptly.
Beardy took Shadow aside and placed his index finger over his shoulder. “Take it easy on Viddi. Rollo was an ace safecracker before he devoted himself to the potato juice. Could’ve amounted to something.”
“Word is this Mambo dude’s been pulverizing boxing bags,” injected Joe.
“What is ‘pulverize’?” queried Scuzzy.
“Two of his sparring partners are sucking eggs in Hoboken.” Joe looked Scuzzy in the eye as he spoke.
“Not to fret. Like Joe Louis, I see something.” Viddi pointed to his eye as he gave Joe the famous Viddi wink. “Scuzzy’ll take him to the woodshed.”
“Man, ten minutes to showtime,” exclaimed Hulk.
At this, the boys darted out. Viddi ran straight into Joe, tearing the bottle of Alabama Mama from his grasp. “Thanks for the water, Joe.”
“Hold on a dadgum—”
“I’m on the beam.” Viddi was out the door before Joe could utter another syllable.
With Viddi sunglassed and chapeau’d proudly by his side, Scuzzy strode into The Banana Ballroom with his newfound YMCU championship belt, which consisted of a weightlifter’s belt sprinkled with glitter and adorned with tenuously glued-on Diet Pepsi tabs, antique French postcards of questionable taste, fifty-cent imitation Red Army medals, and, inexplicably, Elvis Presley and ABBA cards hooked on with safety pins.
“…making his professional debut from the People’s Independent Democracy of Saal-Am-A-Bu, Mambo le Primitif,” clamored Morty Buffet, the ring announcer. “In the opposite corner, the YMCU supermiddleweight champion of the world, the uncontested, undefeated, unmolested Bucharest Brawler Dimitri ‘Scuzzy’ Sciatscu.”
“Viddi, what exactly does a cutman do?” queried Beardy.
“Moral support, mostly. Hotter than hell in August here,” added Viddi, taking a swig from the bottle generously supplied by Joe.
“Where’s helmet? I’m Olympic boxer,” complained Scuzzy.
“Welcome to the U.S. of A., land of the hard-asses,” snapped Beardy.
“Yeah, this ain’t Ruministan, bub,” explicated Hulk.
Going nose-to-nose, Viddi crouched in front of Scuzzy, looking his protégé square in the eye. “First, do a bit of the Ali shuffle, then take a few on the kisser to lull him into complacency.”
“Who is Ali? What is complacency?”
“Next give him a Reykjavik roundhouse, coupled with a haymaker.”
“What is haymaker?”
“Then some love taps, eine kleine Schubster. You with me?”
“No.”
“Before the bell tolls, go south of the border when the cyclops is winking at the rubes.”
“No border. No have green card.”
“Seconds out,” bellowed Referee Thorndigger.
Referee Emil Thorndigger, tough as nails, old as the hills of Kilimanjaro, and brooker of no nonsense, motioned the two warriors forward to face off. As he stepped between the two fighters, Thorndigger found himself facing a smiling Viddi. “Get back to your corner.”
With his one eye, Thorndigger glared at each boxer as hard as a Quaker at a brewery. “Your show, not mine, so don’t make me rain on your parade. Keep it clean and defend yourselves at all times. May your God be with you.” As the bell chimed the first round, Mambo cannonballed out of his corner with all the fury of hell, whereas Scuzzy lumbered to the center of the ring as if taking out the garbage against his will. Within three seconds, the Bucharest Brawler was splayed across the canvas. Bopping up and down, Viddi held on to the ropes, shouting lofty encouragements to his fighter. “Get up, you bum. We got the farm riding on you here.” At the count of nine, Scuzzy stood up, uncoiling languidly as Mambo gazed in awe upon the rising Lazarus and Thorndigger tried to ascertain whether the fighter was in a coma or simply not overly interested in the matter at hand.
“You okay?”
“Okeydoke, let’s hit a road,” replied Scuzzy.
For the rest of the round, Mambo kept Scuzzy at the end of his left jab but did not commit to a power punch as the Bucharest Brawler’s eyes were clear as a Quaker’s rap sheet. Little did Mambo look forward to sampling Scuzzy’s punches if his fists proved as hard as his jaw. At the bell, Scuzzy dribbled down onto his stool, more exhausted than injured.
“Where’s the cutman?” roared Viddi.
“I’m the cutman,” drawled Beardy, brandishing the corkscrew on his Swiss Army knife.
“He’ll never walk again,” some ringside wisenheimer cracked.
“Cut his eyelid,” commanded Viddi.
“But no hit in eye,” remonstrated Scuzzy.
As he announced his new strategy, Viddi poured liberally from the bottle of Alabama Mama down Scuzzy’s throat. “Okay, you gotta gimp the geezer. Go whorehouse on him. Then go roughhouse. Go whorehouse again, then go to town on him with the world and his wife watching.”
“I go to town with wife?”
“Go old school on him.”
“We go to school?”
“Remember what Abe Lincoln said,” injected Beardy. “We shall fight them bitches. We shall never surrender.”
“You have to Jones him. Then give him a kisser-upper. Throw in a little Archie Moore. Once you’re done Mongoosing, use love taps.”
“I bring no taps.”
“And try catching him with a Hail Mary. Then it’s bedtime for Bonzo.”
“I pray?”
Referee Thorndigger caught a faint but mysterious whiff as he passed Scuzzy’s corner. “You whooping it up between rounds?”
After all the Alabama Mama, Scuzzy plodded out of his corner wobblier than he went in. This time, Mambo came out with a straight right, catching the YMCU champion flush. The primitive one went southpaw, laying thunderous right hooks on Scuzzy, snapping his neck back each time. Not to a cheering corner did the Bucharest Brawler return.
“I said left, left, left,” crowed Viddi. “How difficult is that for a Communist to understand?”
“I go left, left all the time and he hit me.”
“No, no, to my left. First you Obi-Wan Kenobi the bum, then go south on him when sourpuss isn’t giving you a gander—and throw in a little thumb for good measure,” exclaimed Viddi before darting to the middle of the ring.
Viddi stood himself in front of Referee Thorndigger, halting the popular march of Pixie the card girl to the bitter disappointment of the whole auditorium. “I wish to file an objection. On deep background,” added Viddi as the crowd remonstrated with abandon.
“Get back to your corner before I DQ your drunken heinie,” thundered Referee Thorndigger.
“I’m claiming unfair distraction in breach of the letter and spirit of the Queensberry Rules and the Tammany Hall Regulations of Fistic Fighting.”
“Stop your yappin’ and get back to your corner, pronto.”
“The ringading’s shaking her tush at my guy much more than she’s sashaying for the house fighter. That’s dirty pool.”
“Never mind her tush. Get out of my ring.”
Distraught, Pixie returned to her seat only to find Mercy Beaucoup firmly in place between Trixie and Lulu claiming to be a model scout from Nouvelle Vouge.
“Why you piss off referee, Viddo?” For the first time, Scuzzy seemed to be taking an interest in the proceedings as Rhino spilled more Alabama Mama down his gob.
“Psychological warfare, my friend. Boxing’s a battle of minds,” quoth Viddi, pointing to his forehead as he liberated the bottle from Rhino and partook of it unstintingly.
For the last three rounds, Mambo le Primitif had pounded his opponent with every fiber in his body and then some. Yet he had never witnessed boxing tactics as exhibited in this match and grown more and more apprehensive, mindful of stories of boxers from strange lands resorting to hemlocked gloves and breathing garlic into their adversary’s eyes.
As Mambo pau
sed for the briefest of flashes to appraise Scuzzy’s Lithuanian defense pose, popular at the Prussian Kriegsakademie in 1805, the Bucharest Brawler appeared to melt down into the canvas before emerging again with a nuclear left uppercut, leaving Mambo suspended in air for a twinkling. Once landed, Mambo—who had never tasted the canvas—adopted the peekaboo stance while Scuzzy proceeded to pummel him into the corner.
Before he could scarcely walk, Viddi’s grandmother Amma Hia (who upon a time spent her entire lottery winnings on stock in the Hindenburg) taught him the Nordic adage, “You can’t fool the country pumpkin.” He was not raised to be taken in by such threadbare shenanigans just as his careful study of the manly art of self-defense was about to bear fruit. Immune to the transparent posturing of Mambo and his handlers, Viddi shot to the ringside table. “I demand this travesty be paused for deliberations.”
Bert Yulson, the New York boxing commissioner, thought he recognized the rather obstreperous gentleman with the funny hat from somewhere.
“My fighter’s shoelace is practically undone and the referee ain’t doing a blessed thing about it,” complained Viddi.
“I don’t see anything wrong with his shoelace.” Mr. Yulson was as calm as Bournemouth in winter.
“It’s coming apart any minute. That bum’s playing possum, just waiting for my guy to slip on his own shoelace.”
Mambo had yet to respond to the last three overhead rights from Scuzzy as the crowd clamored for the fight to be stopped when Viddi, seeing through their pathetic ruse, jumped over the ropes as Referee Thorndigger was just about to step in.
“I demand my guy be allowed to tie his shoelace,” roared Viddi as every soul in the auditorium rose in protest to his intervention.
“Are you out of what passes for your mind?” growled Referee Thorndigger in disbelief.
“But I make Mambo kaput,” objected Scuzzy.
A ruckus broke out, the scope of which was unheard of in the annals of the noble art of self-defense. The ensuing melee lasted almost fifteen minutes, with the crowd in attendance throwing everything not bolted to the floor into the ring while Viddi argued with Referee Thorndigger and Referee Thorndigger argued with the boxing commission and the boxing commission argued with Viddi whether Scuzzy should be disqualified for Viddi’s stepping in as Viddi tugged at Referee Thorndigger’s sleeve expounding the letter and spirit of the Queensberry rules and those of the Ukrainian Athletic Association to which the U.S. was a signatory member since the 1896 Athens Olympics while Beardy emptied the last dregs of Alabama Mama, no longer having to share the murderous mead with Viddi.
Before starting the fight once again, Referee Thorndigger gave Scuzzy a long, harder-than-granite look and grumbled, “Whatever you’re paying this guy, it’s too much.” Without further ado Scuzzy resumed his biffing of Mambo.
“Too bad Mambo doesn’t have the presence of mind to employ the same tactic I did,” Mercy Beaucoup muttered rather loudly, already making quite an impression on the ring girls.
“You fought the Hungarian?” squeaked Pixie. “What happened?” echoed Trixie.
“All I say is, good thing it was stopped,” answered Mercy Beaucoup, his shiner lending credence to the grandeur of his statement.
“Ooooo,” cooed Pixie and Trixie in saucy unison.
As the bell rang for the last time, Mambo was held up by his tribal dignity alone while Referee Thorndigger’s scowl betrayed his concern.
Alas, the last of the Alabama Mama had somewhat diminished Viddi’s and Beardy’s professional acumen. “Stop the bleeding,” commanded Viddi, stepping with force on Scuzzy’s toe. As the boxer howled like a Steppenwolf, desperate to extricate his foot from under his trainer’s heel, Viddi rose to the occasion. “Hurry up. Can’t you see he’s in pain?”
Beardy, wasting no time, missed the miniscule drop of blood on the champion’s nostril by an inch with his Q-Tip, sinking it right into Scuzzy’s left eye.
As the buzzing pain shot through bone and marrow, Scuzzy rocketed off his stool, oblivious to Viddi’s foot on his own, plummeting facefirst onto the canvas.
“You okay, comrade?” inqueried Viddi, snarling at Beardy before Scuzzy could answer. “You broke his beak, you muttonhead.” Viddi brandished the empty Alabama Mama bottle at his cutman-in-training. “You KO’d our guy, you dumb beatnik. Gimme that smelling salt.”
“Eh, strictly speaking…” Beardy looked around, furtively.
“We have but one recourse,” slurred Viddi, pointing to Scuzzy’s snoot.
“Is always this way?” Prompted by some avatistic sense of caution, Scuzzy covered his nose with his glove.
In the opposite corner, Referee Thorndigger took a hurried peek at Mambo’s mangled face and shook his head as the sullen cornermen administered to the scars of defeat covering his proud visage.
“No two ways about it. We’re seeing this thing through.” Viddi grabbed Scuzzy’s nose with both hands. “One day you’ll thank me for this,” reassured Viddi as he began realigning Scuzzy’s nozzle.
“What’s up with Scooter?” asked Referee Thorndigger as Scuzzy tried desperately to extricate his nose from Viddi’s grasp.
“He’s just excited to be in America.” Viddi’s response was drowned by the cracking of Scuzzy’s nose.
With the blood from his cleft schnozzle spouting profusely all over the canvas, the Bucharest Brawler sprinted in wild pursuit of Viddi around the ring, peppering him with expletives seldom heard even in the roughest nautical haunts of the Rumanian capital.
Before Thorndigger waved the match off, Mambo had long left the ring, pronouncing his professional integrity compromised.
A postfight medical examination of YMCU champion Dimitri Sciatscu, the Bucharest Brawler, revealed the most formidable amount of illegal substances found in any athlete in recorded history—absinthe, tequila, Norwegian wormwood liquor, PCP, peyote juice, lighter fluid, motor oil, juniper sapling juice, nitroglycerine, liberal doses of Danish Jolly Cola, barnyard cocaine, Grand Marnier, Old Spice, and six substances yet to be identified. The Katzenjammer Twins contemplated instituting legal proceedings against the New York State Boxing Commission for divulging the secret ingredients of their new concoction, patent pending in Uruguay and all three Baltic States.
Dimitri Sciatscu was never seen or heard from in the United States of America again. Rumor has it he became a gymnastics instructor in his native village of Timisobiurest and left for a holiday resort in southeastern Bulgaria every time a local boxing match was announced.
Wallace Beerbauer, head of security at The Banana Ballroom, was issued strict orders to shoot Viddi on sight should he ever show his face within a ten-block radius of the establishment.
Thus ended the only match in boxing history where a fighter was disqualified for attempting to strangle his own trainer in the middle of the ring with a championship belt that has yet to be claimed by anyone in the muddled world of leather and glory.
A Flood of Mexican Porn Star Tits
Justin Porter
When Dad paid for art school, they never said anything about career possibilities. Not for a fine arts degree at least. Although, if they had, I’m sure it wouldn’t have included drawing a giant Mexican force-feeding his giant cock to a drawing of a chick with giant tits.
Maybe I should explain.
I had to run away to Mexico. Drug charge, too pretty for jail, blah, blah. I’m far from my father’s hard-knocks upbringing.
“I brought myself up with these two hands. I fought tooth and fucking nail, every day, for the shit you take for granted!”
Whatever, Dad. It all amounts to having to draw cartoon rape and giant cock. For pesos no less.
It sucks.
Well, not for me directly, but for this one drawing I’m doing? Well, all I can say is I hope this girl’s colon is double-jointed.
When I got caught with some drugs—to be specific: two hundred vics, 150 percs, a shitload of reds, and a handful of whites (or at least what looked like whites), half
kilo of smack, bundled and ready to go, and a half pound of weed—I got caught with a dealer friend of mine’s entire inventory. Noah’s ark for the drug addict. I know it sounds unbelievable, but it’s actually pretty simple.
“Hey, can I leave this here for a couple days?”
“Sure, man.”
Just like that, I’m fucked. Well, there might be more to it than that, but you get the picture.
So now I’m in Mexico City. Drawing giant Mexican cock. Which is great. Hey, fuck you. At least I’m making money off my artisticness, or something.
Now, I don’t know what the stereotype is for the great people of Mexico. The Irish and the Asians are supposed to be tiny. Black people are rumored to be huge—it’s part of the reason I fled to Mexico. In jail I’m sure I would have ended life as a condom.
So, what’s the common misconception? Because most of the Mexican women I’ve seen are pretty small. If all the guys down here are walking around with that shit hanging between their legs, then I just feel bad.
Inadequate, but bad.
So I got arrested, somebody was looking for the drug dealer, but they found me. It didn’t help my case that I had looked in the bag, and by looked I mean rifled through it and taken two of fucking everything. What a great weekend. I mean, I don’t remember shit, but it must have been great.
I threw a huge party. I invited everybody. I parceled out the contents of the bag.
I did not, however, invite la policia. Somebody else must have.
“No, Officer, I am not a drug ‘dealer.’ I gave all those drugs away for free! They weren’t even mine!”
Nope. Nope, I’m drawing Mexican cock and violent rape cartoons and living in Mexico City.
When I got down here, I had no prospects. So with that and a pocket of money (courtesy of Dad), I ended up in a bar.
Crossing the border wasn’t a problem. My court date wasn’t for a few months and Dad’s attorney convinced everyone I wasn’t a flight risk. He was there when Dad sent me off. In fact we both got envelopes. His was fatter by far, and he echoed my father’s sentiments with a grunt of assent.
Sex, Thugs, and Rock & Roll Page 4
