Welcome to DU!
The truly grassroots left-of-center political community where regular people, not algorithms, drive the discussions and set the standards.
Join the community:
Create a free account
Support DU (and get rid of ads!):
Become a Star Member
Latest Breaking News
General Discussion
The DU Lounge
All Forums
Issue Forums
Culture Forums
Alliance Forums
Region Forums
Support Forums
Help & Search
C'mon Fuckin' Guy: A DU Lounge Novella (Encore Performance; Happy 15,000 y'all)
Prologue--Lakeshore Boulevard
Gary’s only conscious memory of his father wasn’t what one might expect, and it certainly wasn’t something one would find in the family photo album.
Three year old Gary had woken up in the middle of the night from a rather disconcerting nightmare. Clutching his teddy bear, Gary tiptoed down the hallway of his parents’ three bedroom home in Markham, a comfortably middle class suburb of Toronto. A bluish hue of light—most likely from a television—danced underneath the door of his parent’s bedroom, flickering and alternating in intensity from the various images on the screen. Gary reached up to the rubber capped door knob and turned it ever so slowly. He didn’t want to scare his parents, after all.
“Mommy—,” Gary started, and then abruptly stopped.
Gary saw his father, barebacked and bare-assed, pouncing on the bed, his mother beneath him. He stopped, and turned his head behind him, as one might expect an owl to do. “Gary, go to bed!” his father shouted.
Gary, who as a toddler obviously never had the benefit of sexual education classes, turned around, screamed and raced back down the hallway to his bedroom. Daddy was hurting Mommy, Gary thought as he hid underneath the Toronto Maple Leafs bedspread on his bed, and softly wept.
The next day, Phillip Switling left his wife Carole and his two sons Gary and Steven, never to be seen by any of them again.
That memory of seeing his father in bed with his was the only time in Gary’s life that he ever thought of him as “Daddy.” After the eviction from the Markham home and the reluctant move to the one room apartment on Lakeshore Boulevard (right above the Happy Beaver nightclub), after his mother replaced her former love of Phil with a new love of shots of whiskey and bottles of Molson Dry, after his brother Steven became entangled in the grasp of the deadly Lakeshore Stranglaz gang, Gary’s father became “that guy.” And as things progressed from bad to worse, even the moniker “that guy” failed to do the old man justice.
When the last speck of dirt fell on Carole Switling’s grave, when Gary left the jailhouse from visiting his brother who was awaiting trial on charges of armed robbery and pit bull trafficking, Gary’s father ceased to be just “that guy” anymore. Gary’s father was now “that fuckin’ guy.”
Next: Chapter One: On his way to court in a suit and a tie
29 replies
= new reply since forum marked as read
= new reply since forum marked as read
Last edited Fri Jan 25, 2013, 03:46 PM - Edit history (2)
Chapter One—On his way to court in a suit and a tie
Gary stepped out of his 2004 Mini Cooper and took a long stare at the stately Ontario Superior Courthouse in front of him. The cold winter wind blew mercilessly against Gary’s bald head. Gary wore a second hand beige suit he bought from a local thrift store, with a dark plain tie around his neck. It only cost him $30, but it was the fanciest piece of clothing that he owned. He had to look good today. His brother Stevie—long since convicted by the court of the robbery and pit bull trafficking charges—faced sentencing this day. As Stevie’s only living relative (other than the fuckin’ guy), it would be Gary’s task to plead the Court for mercy.
Gary had a complicated relationship with Stevie. On the one hand, he eschewed the life that Stevie had chosen for himself amongst the Lakeshore Stranglaz, his no good friends Dontelle and Big Al, all the thug running, and how he would always seem to be found in the alleyway getting drunk and high. But on the other hand, as Stevie’s older brother, Gary felt a familial responsibility towards him, as flawed as he might be. Stevie didn’t drive Mom to drink herself to death, Gary thought. That fuckin’ guy did. It was always a matter of justification for Gary, the good son who worked an honest job handling tables at the local Olive Garden.
Inside the cheerless courtroom decked out in dated wood paneling, Gary saw Stevie sit emotionless at the defendant’s table. “All rise,” announced the bailiff, and the people in the courtroom, the mindless drones they were, silently obliged. “The matter of the People vs. Steven Switling shall now come to order.”
The “People”, Gary thought cynically, The “People” are shit. That’s how I feel. This godforsaken country of his had taken his mother’s life, his brother’s liberty, and was the home of the taint of humanity, that being the fuckin’ guy. Other than giving the world Rush and fried ham masquerading itself as bacon, what good was Canada, really?
On the stand, Gary tried his best to outline his brother’s difficult upbringing to the judge. He went on and on about the fuckin’ guy; unfortunately not using that term, and it pained Gary to utter the words “father.” He teared up recalling his last conversation with his mother--dying of cirrhosis of the liver, her decaying voice box causing her to have sickly breath smelling much like a muskrat would--when she said, “Gary, whatever you do, watch after your brother, even though I couldn’t.”
It was all for naught. “This court rules the defendant is to be remanded to the Ontario Department of Corrections for a period of no less than 18 months,” the presiding judge callously ordered, and then banged his gavel to bring the proceedings to a close. Shit, Gary thought, My brother’s in the can, and won’t get out until next July. Fate had wagged its bony middle finger in Gary’s face yet again. As Stevie was ushered out of the courtroom, Gary mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.” Stevie just shook his head slowly. It would be the last time Gary would see his brother alive.
Gary walked out of the courthouse that dreary afternoon a defeated man. As he stepped out of the place and into the cold air, with snow flurries falling, he threw his arms out and looked up at the slate gray sky. Chalk another one up to the fuckin’ guy, Gary rued, and walked slowly back to his car.
Next: Chapter Two: Into the Garden of the Olives
Chapter Two—Into the Garden of the Olives
Stevie Switling took a fearless attitude with him to the lockup. With his right cheek emblazoned with a large tattoo of the letters “L” and “S”, Stevie vowed to be a dedicated soldier of the Lakeshore Stranglaz during his eighteen month stay at Neal Peart Provincial Institution in desolate Northern Ontario. At one point, Stevie was heard threatening another inmate and screaming, “I’ll throw my hands around your neck, and then I’ll wrap them around! And it will be months before your body’s actually found!”
Unfortunately, Neal Peart served as something of a microcosm of Canada’s burgeoning gang wars. While the Lakeshore Stranglaz had its share of representatives in the general population, so too did the Stranglaz’s major rival, the Narwhals. The Narwhals long controlled much of Canada’s Arctic areas, but only recently began to make inroads in the Toronto metropolitan area, which had been in the exclusive control of the Stranglaz for over a decade. Imprisoned at Neal Peart at the same time as Stevie was Walt Star, a longtime captain of the Narwhals.
Star knew his target. Killing an upper level Stragla like Stevie would ensure Star would remain in the high ranks of the Narwhals once he got out. One afternoon as inmates were leaving the mess hall after a quite subpar dinner of cornflake crusted chicken, Star was able to bribe a guard so that he would be standing directly behind Stevie in the line back to the prison dorm.
Just as the line began to move, Star pulled out a shiv that he had fashioned from an old chicken bone and plunged it into Stevie’s back. As Stevie yelped in pain, Star shouted, “Narwhals! Fuck yeah!”
Stevie fell to the ground, gasping for air. The last thing Stevie saw in his 36 years of wasted life was Walt Star standing over him with a bloody shiv. “Ain’t no hooves on this bitch,” a wild-eyed Star said with a chuckle just before the guards pulled him away from the fracas.
* * * *
“Where the hell’s my breadsticks?” the irate customer shouted at Gary.
“Sir, I’m sorry—,” Gary began to apologize.
“You’re sorry my ass!” the customer shouted back. “You see my parents here? They came from out of town. They said they wanted to go to the best Italian place in all of Toronto, and I took them here. And I didn’t take them here so they could sit around for an hour waiting to get five measly breadsticks.”
Gary took a deep breath and attempted to calm himself. “Your breadsticks will be out in a moment,” he told the customer, and he walked away, rolling his eyes. The kids buy my shit, Gary thought, That’s how I get cash. That was the only sobering thought that got Gary through the day. Gary would see the many wonderful meals that he served on a daily basis and he could only wish against hope that he too could enjoy them one day—the Grilled Shrimp Caprese, the Braised Beef & Tortellini, the Lasagna Classico, and of course, the famous Tour of Italy.
Unfortunately, Gary’s meager waiter’s pay meant he would be left on the outside looking in. Instead, Gary was forced to eat little else but mundane cold cut sandwiches that he packed at home. Gary’s big one splurge in his cuisine? Mayonnaise. He put mayonnaise on everything. That’s how he ate.
As Gary reached for a basket of piping hot breadsticks, Asher Skinner—Gary’s manager, but half his age—pulled him aside. “Gary, we just got a phone call,” Asher said. Gary’s heart immediately dropped in his chest. His mind began to replay that same scene from when he was three, his father—that fuckin’ guy—turn his head around and snapping at him, all the time while he defaced his mother’s honor. Gary didn’t yet know what the news was, but he did know it would not be good news.
“It’s about your brother.”
Next: Chapter Three: DTM
Stevie Switling took a fearless attitude with him to the lockup. With his right cheek emblazoned with a large tattoo of the letters “L” and “S”, Stevie vowed to be a dedicated soldier of the Lakeshore Stranglaz during his eighteen month stay at Neal Peart Provincial Institution in desolate Northern Ontario. At one point, Stevie was heard threatening another inmate and screaming, “I’ll throw my hands around your neck, and then I’ll wrap them around! And it will be months before your body’s actually found!”
Unfortunately, Neal Peart served as something of a microcosm of Canada’s burgeoning gang wars. While the Lakeshore Stranglaz had its share of representatives in the general population, so too did the Stranglaz’s major rival, the Narwhals. The Narwhals long controlled much of Canada’s Arctic areas, but only recently began to make inroads in the Toronto metropolitan area, which had been in the exclusive control of the Stranglaz for over a decade. Imprisoned at Neal Peart at the same time as Stevie was Walt Star, a longtime captain of the Narwhals.
Star knew his target. Killing an upper level Stragla like Stevie would ensure Star would remain in the high ranks of the Narwhals once he got out. One afternoon as inmates were leaving the mess hall after a quite subpar dinner of cornflake crusted chicken, Star was able to bribe a guard so that he would be standing directly behind Stevie in the line back to the prison dorm.
Just as the line began to move, Star pulled out a shiv that he had fashioned from an old chicken bone and plunged it into Stevie’s back. As Stevie yelped in pain, Star shouted, “Narwhals! Fuck yeah!”
Stevie fell to the ground, gasping for air. The last thing Stevie saw in his 36 years of wasted life was Walt Star standing over him with a bloody shiv. “Ain’t no hooves on this bitch,” a wild-eyed Star said with a chuckle just before the guards pulled him away from the fracas.
* * * *
“Where the hell’s my breadsticks?” the irate customer shouted at Gary.
“Sir, I’m sorry—,” Gary began to apologize.
“You’re sorry my ass!” the customer shouted back. “You see my parents here? They came from out of town. They said they wanted to go to the best Italian place in all of Toronto, and I took them here. And I didn’t take them here so they could sit around for an hour waiting to get five measly breadsticks.”
Gary took a deep breath and attempted to calm himself. “Your breadsticks will be out in a moment,” he told the customer, and he walked away, rolling his eyes. The kids buy my shit, Gary thought, That’s how I get cash. That was the only sobering thought that got Gary through the day. Gary would see the many wonderful meals that he served on a daily basis and he could only wish against hope that he too could enjoy them one day—the Grilled Shrimp Caprese, the Braised Beef & Tortellini, the Lasagna Classico, and of course, the famous Tour of Italy.
Unfortunately, Gary’s meager waiter’s pay meant he would be left on the outside looking in. Instead, Gary was forced to eat little else but mundane cold cut sandwiches that he packed at home. Gary’s big one splurge in his cuisine? Mayonnaise. He put mayonnaise on everything. That’s how he ate.
As Gary reached for a basket of piping hot breadsticks, Asher Skinner—Gary’s manager, but half his age—pulled him aside. “Gary, we just got a phone call,” Asher said. Gary’s heart immediately dropped in his chest. His mind began to replay that same scene from when he was three, his father—that fuckin’ guy—turn his head around and snapping at him, all the time while he defaced his mother’s honor. Gary didn’t yet know what the news was, but he did know it would not be good news.
“It’s about your brother.”
Next: Chapter Three: DTM
Chapter Three: DTM
Gary, filthy and unshaven, lay crosswise on his bed in his cramped apartment above the Happy Beaver, and stared directly at his father’s skull.
It wasn’t his father’s actual skull. It was made of wood and covered in cheap gold paint and was attached to a three foot long stick. He’d had it for years. Given that his mother never kept any pictures of the fuckin’ guy, when Gary was twelve he’d asked his mother—who as usual was in a drunken stupor—what his father looked like. Her response was to drag her and Stevie to the nearby Party City, where she rummaged through the Halloween clearance aisle until finding the golden skull staff. “Here!” she shouted. “Here’s what that no good son of a bitch looks like! He’s DTM—dead to me, dead to all of us! He’s just as good as dead!” Sobbing all the way, she brought the staff to the register, threw money down on the counter, and grabbed her sons’ hands and walked out the door. From that day on, Gary kept the staff by his bedside, to remind him of the pain and turmoil that the fuckin’ guy had put his mother and his family through.
Gary heard a knock on the door. He slowly got up and stumbled to the door, and opened the door part way with the chain still attached. It was Dontelle and Big Al, Stevie’s cohorts from the Lakeshore Stranglaz.
“What the fuck do you want?” Gary muttered.
“We heard about your brother,” Big Al—who ironically had the same height as Gary’s short stature—replied. “We’re sorry. Can we come in?”
Gary paused a moment. While he was naturally suspicious of Dontelle and Big Al given the life they brought Stevie into, they were the only two familiar faces he’d seen in days. Shaking his head, he unlocked the chain and opened the door.
Dontelle looked around Gary’s pigsty of an apartment. On the floor, Dontelle counted not two but three empty boxes of red wine. “Shit,” Dontelle remarked in amazement, “Nice drinking, Chuggo.”
“What the hell did you just call me?” Gary retorted.
“Chuggo,” Dontelle replied. “As in you just chugged down those giant boxes of red wine like it meant nothing to you.”
“Whatever,” Gary said, his bloodshot eyes dead to all emotion whatsoever. He was slightly insulted but didn’t feel the volition to care a single bit.
Dontelle and Big Al had been feeling the pressure of the Narwhals for several years now. Once unchallenged, the Lakeshore Stranglaz now faced a certain turf battle with the vicious and unforgiving Narwhals, and morale amongst the ranks was running thin. The gang needed a leader, not so much for strategy but for the raw emotion that would certainly leave the Narwhals a bloodied mess on the icy streets of Toronto. And who better to provide that emotion for the Stranglaz than the brother of one of its greatest soldiers ever?
Dontelle and Big Al pled their case to Gary, who was unmoved by any of it. He was, after all, the good son, and how would he be living up to the promise he made to his dying mother by joining the same institution that destroyed his brother’s life? But that position quickly changed after what Gary heard next from Big Al.
“This piece of human excrement, Walt Star, that killed your brother, he’s the worst of the worst,” Big Al said. “Fucking guys like him—“
“What did you just say?” Gary quickly shot back.
“I said, fucking guys like him…,” Big Al continued.
The words “fucking guys” resonated deep within Gary’s bare head. Once again, Gary was sent back to his days of being three years old, and his naked father laughing and smirking at him and telling him to get back to his room. Oh, how he despised everything about that fuckin’ guy…
“All right,” Gary said. “I’ll do it.”
“You serious?” a somewhat astonished Dontelle said.
“Yeah,” Gary replied with a subtle smile. “You want to go against Chuggo….yo, fuck that.”
“Aww, yeah!” a visually pleased Dontelle remarked. “YOU WANT TO GO AGAINST CHUGGO? YO, FUCK THAT!!!”
The newest Lakeshore Strangla, formerly known as Gary Switling but now known as Chuggo, grabbed his golden skull staff, stood up, walked out the door, and walked out to his Mini Cooper. Dontelle and Big Al both knew they had a new leader on their side.
NEXT: Chapter Four--Chuggo of Toronto
Gary, filthy and unshaven, lay crosswise on his bed in his cramped apartment above the Happy Beaver, and stared directly at his father’s skull.
It wasn’t his father’s actual skull. It was made of wood and covered in cheap gold paint and was attached to a three foot long stick. He’d had it for years. Given that his mother never kept any pictures of the fuckin’ guy, when Gary was twelve he’d asked his mother—who as usual was in a drunken stupor—what his father looked like. Her response was to drag her and Stevie to the nearby Party City, where she rummaged through the Halloween clearance aisle until finding the golden skull staff. “Here!” she shouted. “Here’s what that no good son of a bitch looks like! He’s DTM—dead to me, dead to all of us! He’s just as good as dead!” Sobbing all the way, she brought the staff to the register, threw money down on the counter, and grabbed her sons’ hands and walked out the door. From that day on, Gary kept the staff by his bedside, to remind him of the pain and turmoil that the fuckin’ guy had put his mother and his family through.
Gary heard a knock on the door. He slowly got up and stumbled to the door, and opened the door part way with the chain still attached. It was Dontelle and Big Al, Stevie’s cohorts from the Lakeshore Stranglaz.
“What the fuck do you want?” Gary muttered.
“We heard about your brother,” Big Al—who ironically had the same height as Gary’s short stature—replied. “We’re sorry. Can we come in?”
Gary paused a moment. While he was naturally suspicious of Dontelle and Big Al given the life they brought Stevie into, they were the only two familiar faces he’d seen in days. Shaking his head, he unlocked the chain and opened the door.
Dontelle looked around Gary’s pigsty of an apartment. On the floor, Dontelle counted not two but three empty boxes of red wine. “Shit,” Dontelle remarked in amazement, “Nice drinking, Chuggo.”
“What the hell did you just call me?” Gary retorted.
“Chuggo,” Dontelle replied. “As in you just chugged down those giant boxes of red wine like it meant nothing to you.”
“Whatever,” Gary said, his bloodshot eyes dead to all emotion whatsoever. He was slightly insulted but didn’t feel the volition to care a single bit.
Dontelle and Big Al had been feeling the pressure of the Narwhals for several years now. Once unchallenged, the Lakeshore Stranglaz now faced a certain turf battle with the vicious and unforgiving Narwhals, and morale amongst the ranks was running thin. The gang needed a leader, not so much for strategy but for the raw emotion that would certainly leave the Narwhals a bloodied mess on the icy streets of Toronto. And who better to provide that emotion for the Stranglaz than the brother of one of its greatest soldiers ever?
Dontelle and Big Al pled their case to Gary, who was unmoved by any of it. He was, after all, the good son, and how would he be living up to the promise he made to his dying mother by joining the same institution that destroyed his brother’s life? But that position quickly changed after what Gary heard next from Big Al.
“This piece of human excrement, Walt Star, that killed your brother, he’s the worst of the worst,” Big Al said. “Fucking guys like him—“
“What did you just say?” Gary quickly shot back.
“I said, fucking guys like him…,” Big Al continued.
The words “fucking guys” resonated deep within Gary’s bare head. Once again, Gary was sent back to his days of being three years old, and his naked father laughing and smirking at him and telling him to get back to his room. Oh, how he despised everything about that fuckin’ guy…
“All right,” Gary said. “I’ll do it.”
“You serious?” a somewhat astonished Dontelle said.
“Yeah,” Gary replied with a subtle smile. “You want to go against Chuggo….yo, fuck that.”
“Aww, yeah!” a visually pleased Dontelle remarked. “YOU WANT TO GO AGAINST CHUGGO? YO, FUCK THAT!!!”
The newest Lakeshore Strangla, formerly known as Gary Switling but now known as Chuggo, grabbed his golden skull staff, stood up, walked out the door, and walked out to his Mini Cooper. Dontelle and Big Al both knew they had a new leader on their side.
NEXT: Chapter Four--Chuggo of Toronto
Chapter Four: Chuggo of Toronto
Chuggo sat quietly in the front passenger’s seat of the Mini Cooper while Dontelle drove and Big Al sat in the back seat. The Notorious B.I.G.’s “Juicy” played on the radio. Chuggo closed his eyes and took the music in. Had he not been an Olive Garden waiter turned Toronto gang lord, Chuggo imagined he could have made it in the rap world. But rappers made him angry, which is why he was pissed. I’d put a sign on their backs that says ‘I can’t rap,’ Chuggo thought to himself, And a bruise on their faces that says ‘I can’t scrap.’ Chuggo’s thoughts then meandered to happier times with his family. His mother took him and Stevie leafing in Vermont, and Chuggo was amazed at all the rich, incredible colors of the various maples and oaks. So few were the truly happy times in Chuggo’s life that he felt the need to relive them from time to time. But that was then; this was now. His daydreaming over, Chuggo snapped to. He had a lot of work to do in the mean streets of Toronto.
* * * *
Over the past six months, Chuggo’s stature on the streets and neighborhoods of the greater Toronto area had grown by leaps and bounds. Areas where the Stranglaz once saw slipping towards Narwhal control were now firmly back in the Stranglaz’s hands. Many a street level Narwhal had the unfortunate experience of coming across Chuggo, who despite his 5-foot-1 stature had quite the intimidating presence when welding his golden skull staff. Chuggo chalked up his meteoric rise in reputation to his icy-cold focus. Every thug out there, every low life, everyone who dared cross his path—all he saw in them was the fuckin’ guy, and that summoned the rage from deep within him that allowed him to do what needed to be done. Chuggo had quickly become a Lakeshore Stranglaz legend.
Unfortunately, that same focus that gave him so much success on the streets made it nearly impossible for Chuggo to form close human relationships, especially with the opposite sex. Sure, Chuggo liked to brag about himself—“Bitches love the blanco,” he once said—but his sad upbringing made him suspicious of anyone who wished to reach out to him. He once told Dontelle, “I don’t trust nobody. That’s why I don’t blink.” One couldn’t say it was for a lack of opportunity, however. These girls can’t have me, Chuggo thought to himself, And it makes them fucking cry. With first his mother and now his brother out of his life, Chuggo’s only remaining love was the menacing golden skull staff that signified to the world that he was at last a man of great power.
Dontelle, on the other hand, did have a special woman in his life—Cindy. “Cindy” was a chrome .22 magnum that Dontelle swore brought him good luck and protection. Over the past few months, Chuggo and Dontelle had developed a strong, trusting bond, which was no easy feat when one considered how inscrutable Chuggo could be. (However, Chuggo still had some reservations about Big Al—there was something about him that Chuggo just couldn’t get a handle on.)
With Chuggo waving his golden skull staff menacingly and Dontelle brandishing Cindy, the two made quite a deadly dyad to any Narwhal that dare crossed their path.
* * * *
On that day they had been cruising the neighborhood in the Mini Cooper, Chuggo suddenly caught a Narwhal patrolling a corner that had long belonged to the Stranglaz. He and Dontelle jumped out of the car and threw the poor guy against a wall.
“Loud with a slur, that’s how I speak,” Chuggo told him. “In your lobby with a knife, that’s how I creep! Drown in the lake, and get found in the creek!” Chuggo delivered these lines an inch from the Narwhal dealer’s face, while Dontelle pressed Cindy up against his face. “Blue in the face, cement surrounding your feet,” Chuggo continued in true poetic fashion, “You talked shit! And that was the beef.”
The Narwhal dealer pled for mercy, but Chuggo was relentless. “That’s why I’m gonna roll up and smash you in the teeth!,” he sneered, “See that fire right there?” The Narwhal just shook his head. “That was the heat! You deserve a good beating, that’s my belief!” Chuggo raised his golden skull staff in the air to strike the Narwhal when Dontelle cocked his gun.
“Pow,” Dontelle softly told the Narwhal with a smile, who most likely had already relieved his pants at this point. Dontelle and Chuggo backed off, and the Narwhal took off running. The two Stranglaz just laughed as they got back in the Mini Cooper. The Lakeshore Stranglaz were back in firm control of the situation. Life was good.
* * * *
Walt Star did not like to be out of control. True, within the several acres of Neal Peart he had a firm grasp of all the incarcerated Narwhals, and had in fact managed grown their ranks there substantially with his manners of “persuasion.” But word spread about the Narwhals losing their grasp in Toronto, and it infuriated Star. What made Star even angrier was tales of this Chuggo fellow and the atmosphere of terror and intimidation that he had brought over the past few months. But when Star learned that Chuggo was the brother of Stevie Switling, then he knew immediate action needed to be taken.
The word was sent out. The Narwhals communicated via a website called NarwhalUnderground.com. To the casual observer, NU (as it was called) was simply a place where enthusiasts of the beloved Arctic species of whale could gather and discuss issues relating to their protection. However, the NU message board actually served as a means to communicate via code between the various Narwhal gangs from all across Canada.
On the NU message board, between topics titled “Kudzu: It’s growing places!” and “I want to create a thread that never dies,” an urgent message read: “CALL PARLIAMENT RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!11!!!” All the Narwhals knew exactly what it meant.
Accordingly, phone calls went out, bribes were made, and soon a pardoned Walt Star walked out of Neal Peart a very free man.
A chartered limousine sat waiting at the prison gates. The driver opened the door for Star, who sat down in the plush leather seat. Smiling in anticipation, Star poured himself a glass of Remy Martin (that’s how he had class). The final showdown was about to begin.
Next: Chapter Five--Shots fired at the Cracker Barrel
Chuggo sat quietly in the front passenger’s seat of the Mini Cooper while Dontelle drove and Big Al sat in the back seat. The Notorious B.I.G.’s “Juicy” played on the radio. Chuggo closed his eyes and took the music in. Had he not been an Olive Garden waiter turned Toronto gang lord, Chuggo imagined he could have made it in the rap world. But rappers made him angry, which is why he was pissed. I’d put a sign on their backs that says ‘I can’t rap,’ Chuggo thought to himself, And a bruise on their faces that says ‘I can’t scrap.’ Chuggo’s thoughts then meandered to happier times with his family. His mother took him and Stevie leafing in Vermont, and Chuggo was amazed at all the rich, incredible colors of the various maples and oaks. So few were the truly happy times in Chuggo’s life that he felt the need to relive them from time to time. But that was then; this was now. His daydreaming over, Chuggo snapped to. He had a lot of work to do in the mean streets of Toronto.
* * * *
Over the past six months, Chuggo’s stature on the streets and neighborhoods of the greater Toronto area had grown by leaps and bounds. Areas where the Stranglaz once saw slipping towards Narwhal control were now firmly back in the Stranglaz’s hands. Many a street level Narwhal had the unfortunate experience of coming across Chuggo, who despite his 5-foot-1 stature had quite the intimidating presence when welding his golden skull staff. Chuggo chalked up his meteoric rise in reputation to his icy-cold focus. Every thug out there, every low life, everyone who dared cross his path—all he saw in them was the fuckin’ guy, and that summoned the rage from deep within him that allowed him to do what needed to be done. Chuggo had quickly become a Lakeshore Stranglaz legend.
Unfortunately, that same focus that gave him so much success on the streets made it nearly impossible for Chuggo to form close human relationships, especially with the opposite sex. Sure, Chuggo liked to brag about himself—“Bitches love the blanco,” he once said—but his sad upbringing made him suspicious of anyone who wished to reach out to him. He once told Dontelle, “I don’t trust nobody. That’s why I don’t blink.” One couldn’t say it was for a lack of opportunity, however. These girls can’t have me, Chuggo thought to himself, And it makes them fucking cry. With first his mother and now his brother out of his life, Chuggo’s only remaining love was the menacing golden skull staff that signified to the world that he was at last a man of great power.
Dontelle, on the other hand, did have a special woman in his life—Cindy. “Cindy” was a chrome .22 magnum that Dontelle swore brought him good luck and protection. Over the past few months, Chuggo and Dontelle had developed a strong, trusting bond, which was no easy feat when one considered how inscrutable Chuggo could be. (However, Chuggo still had some reservations about Big Al—there was something about him that Chuggo just couldn’t get a handle on.)
With Chuggo waving his golden skull staff menacingly and Dontelle brandishing Cindy, the two made quite a deadly dyad to any Narwhal that dare crossed their path.
* * * *
On that day they had been cruising the neighborhood in the Mini Cooper, Chuggo suddenly caught a Narwhal patrolling a corner that had long belonged to the Stranglaz. He and Dontelle jumped out of the car and threw the poor guy against a wall.
“Loud with a slur, that’s how I speak,” Chuggo told him. “In your lobby with a knife, that’s how I creep! Drown in the lake, and get found in the creek!” Chuggo delivered these lines an inch from the Narwhal dealer’s face, while Dontelle pressed Cindy up against his face. “Blue in the face, cement surrounding your feet,” Chuggo continued in true poetic fashion, “You talked shit! And that was the beef.”
The Narwhal dealer pled for mercy, but Chuggo was relentless. “That’s why I’m gonna roll up and smash you in the teeth!,” he sneered, “See that fire right there?” The Narwhal just shook his head. “That was the heat! You deserve a good beating, that’s my belief!” Chuggo raised his golden skull staff in the air to strike the Narwhal when Dontelle cocked his gun.
“Pow,” Dontelle softly told the Narwhal with a smile, who most likely had already relieved his pants at this point. Dontelle and Chuggo backed off, and the Narwhal took off running. The two Stranglaz just laughed as they got back in the Mini Cooper. The Lakeshore Stranglaz were back in firm control of the situation. Life was good.
* * * *
Walt Star did not like to be out of control. True, within the several acres of Neal Peart he had a firm grasp of all the incarcerated Narwhals, and had in fact managed grown their ranks there substantially with his manners of “persuasion.” But word spread about the Narwhals losing their grasp in Toronto, and it infuriated Star. What made Star even angrier was tales of this Chuggo fellow and the atmosphere of terror and intimidation that he had brought over the past few months. But when Star learned that Chuggo was the brother of Stevie Switling, then he knew immediate action needed to be taken.
The word was sent out. The Narwhals communicated via a website called NarwhalUnderground.com. To the casual observer, NU (as it was called) was simply a place where enthusiasts of the beloved Arctic species of whale could gather and discuss issues relating to their protection. However, the NU message board actually served as a means to communicate via code between the various Narwhal gangs from all across Canada.
On the NU message board, between topics titled “Kudzu: It’s growing places!” and “I want to create a thread that never dies,” an urgent message read: “CALL PARLIAMENT RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!11!!!” All the Narwhals knew exactly what it meant.
Accordingly, phone calls went out, bribes were made, and soon a pardoned Walt Star walked out of Neal Peart a very free man.
A chartered limousine sat waiting at the prison gates. The driver opened the door for Star, who sat down in the plush leather seat. Smiling in anticipation, Star poured himself a glass of Remy Martin (that’s how he had class). The final showdown was about to begin.
Next: Chapter Five--Shots fired at the Cracker Barrel
Chapter Five: Shots Fired at the Cracker Barrel
Chuggo’s phone rang out at three in the morning. It was Dontelle.
“Conference call in fifteen minutes,” Dontelle told Chuggo over the phone. A “conference call” was the Stranglaz term for a sit-down with a rival gang. Big Al had told Dontelle that Walt Star wished to discuss a truce between the Stranglaz and the Narwhals, and to meet them behind the Cracker Barrel across the street from the old Turtle N’ Shoe Lounge. Chuggo grabbed his golden skull staff and rushed to the Mini Cooper, where he went to pick up Dontelle (with Cindy, of course) and Big Al, and then drove them to the meeting place.
When they arrived, they saw Walt Star standing alone in the alleyway. Leaving the door ajar, Chuggo got out of the car, but left his gold skull staff on his seat figuring the lack of other Narwhals meant that Star’s olive branch was legit. Inexplicably, Dontelle let Big Al carry Cindy.
That proved to be a mistake.
It was the first time Star had ever come face to face with Chuggo. “I see you brought along Billy Corgan over here,” he snidely retorted to Dontelle.
“What is it you want, Star?” Dontelle asked. Before Star bothered to answer, Big Al pulled out Cindy and shot Dontelle point blank. Dontelle’s lifeless body fell to the ground.
“Yo friend!” Chuggo shouted in horror. “You ain’t my friend no more!” Big Al, with a sly smile said nothing and handed Cindy over to Star.
“It seems your colleague here decided it was in his better interests to take the promise of a lieutenant’s position with the Narwhals rather than face my vengeance,” Star told Chuggo. He then pointed Cindy at Big Al and without hesitation fired two shots. “He’s a huge moron, just to let you know.”
For once, Chuggo was speechless as he watched Star slowly point Cindy up at him. “I didn’t truly relish killing your brother,” he said, “But I know I’ll enjoy killing you.” Chuggo seethed in anger. I’ll smash your fucking head, Chuggo thought to himself, That’s how I’m real.
As Star—grinning like a mad man—took a slow step towards Chuggo for the kill shot, Chuggo reached onto the car seat and grabbed his golden skull staff. Before Star could manage to squeeze the trigger, Chuggo swung the staff with all his might and landed the blow square on Star’s forehead, throwing him back to the ground. Cindy skidded across the icy pavement, and Chuggo picked her up and pointed it directly at Star.
At that point, Chuggo was consumed by more hate and fury than he’d ever been before in his life. He saw Star’s eyes—his beady little eyes—and he realized it was the same look that the fuckin’ guy had given him back when he was three, that same look of utter contempt and disdain for others. Monsters like Star and the fuckin’ guy—they didn’t deserve to live.
“What are you going to do?” Star said, sitting on the ground, his legs spread apart, “Shoot me? Go ahead. Do it.”
Chuggo said nothing but did manage to crack a diabolical grin.
“Pull the trigger.” Star continued, without a hint of fear in his voice. “Do it. Send me to my grave. Go ahead.”
Chuggo leaned in closer towards Star, with Cindy aimed directly at him, but he didn’t yet dare pull the trigger. For the first time, Chuggo got the sense of fear from the man who murdered his brother, and he just wanted to take it all in.
“TOMBSTONE ME NOW, CHUGGO!!!!!” Walt Star shouted.
“Okay,” Chuggo responded and emptied two shots directly into Star’s chest.
Chuggo staggered back to the Mini Cooper, grasping Cindy in one hand and the golden skull staff in the other. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. Chuggo was shocked at what he’d become, a cold blooded executioner, a man without morals. He banged his head against the steering wheel. In the distance, police sirens cried out. The day of reckoning had come upon him. Hear those dudes coming? Chuggo told himself, That’s the police.
Chuggo thrust Cindy into his mouth and wrapped his index finger around the trigger, ready to pull it. He waited five second. He pulled her out of his mouth and stuck her on his eye. Again, Chuggo nearly did the deed but ultimately pulled back. He dropped Cindy to the seat next to him. The police sirens grew louder.
How did it come to this? Chuggo thought. And for the first time that he could ever imagine, with his life falling apart before his own eyes, Chuggo felt the sense of regret that he never truly knew his father.
The police cars pulled up, and several officers jumped out and trained their guns on Chuggo, who sat expressionless in the Mini Cooper. Yet inside Chuggo was being ripped apart. The fuckin’ guy had started the ball rolling, and destroyed everything in his path. Yet was there a chance the bastard could be redeemed? Could Chuggo himself be redeemed for what he’d become? Chuggo would have to face the music as far as the deeds he’d done, but perhaps—just perhaps—it would give him a chance to reconnect with that one man who had turned his back on him all his life.
Finally, Chuggo could sit there no longer. He jolted out of his seat and out of the car and turned to face the cops. Exhausted as he was, there was enough energy in him for one more cry.
“AHHHH!!!” Chuggo screamed at the top of his lungs, “C’MON FUCKIN’ GUY!!!!!!!!!!”
The police held their fire. Then Chuggo reached behind him to grab something.
“Watch out, he has a gun!” one of the policemen shouted. As Chuggo swung his arm around in front of him, shots rang out. Chuggo was hit twice; once in the shoulder, and a second time square in the stomach.
Chuggo fell towards the ground. As he did, the object that Chuggo had grasped—the object that had caused the police to let loose their fire—fell to the ground and right in front of Chuggo’s eyes. Chuggo couldn’t avoid but looking directly at it. It was the golden skull at the end of his staff.
* * * *
Lying on the gurney as paramedics rushed him to the emergency room, Chuggo faded in and out of consciousness. He looked up at the bright operating light above him, and it began to vacillate in brightness, until it became so blinding that all he saw was a white vastness.
Slowly, an object began to come into focus. It was Chuggo’s Mini Cooper, and three persons were sitting in it. Chuggo squinted to try to make out their faces.
Chuggo was first able to make out the person in the back seat. It was his brother Stevie. He was smiling, which was very atypical for Stevie, but the sheer abnormality of it caused Chuggo to smile too. He waived, and Stevie waived back at him.
The second person in the front passenger seat then came into focus. It was his mother, but as he had remembered her before alcoholism had raged her body and destroyed her soul. Chuggo felt comforted, as though the clocks of time had turned back and given her a second chance to see the world—and life—as it really should be seen, as a blessing. Chuggo smiled at his mother, and she let out a happy laugh.
It took the longest for Chuggo to make out the third person, the driver of the car. That person would turn out to be none other than Phillip Switling.
His father said nothing, but reached out his hand and smiled at his son. Chuggo felt himself floating towards his father, and he, too, reached his hand out towards him. Finally, his father grabbed a hold of Chuggo’s hand, and the two entered into a firm handshake.
At that moment, Gary Switling was no longer Chuggo. Phillip Switling was no longer that fuckin’ guy.
As Gary drew the very last breath of his life, the son was finally at peace with his father.
Next: Epilogue--Denouement at Eleven
Chuggo’s phone rang out at three in the morning. It was Dontelle.
“Conference call in fifteen minutes,” Dontelle told Chuggo over the phone. A “conference call” was the Stranglaz term for a sit-down with a rival gang. Big Al had told Dontelle that Walt Star wished to discuss a truce between the Stranglaz and the Narwhals, and to meet them behind the Cracker Barrel across the street from the old Turtle N’ Shoe Lounge. Chuggo grabbed his golden skull staff and rushed to the Mini Cooper, where he went to pick up Dontelle (with Cindy, of course) and Big Al, and then drove them to the meeting place.
When they arrived, they saw Walt Star standing alone in the alleyway. Leaving the door ajar, Chuggo got out of the car, but left his gold skull staff on his seat figuring the lack of other Narwhals meant that Star’s olive branch was legit. Inexplicably, Dontelle let Big Al carry Cindy.
That proved to be a mistake.
It was the first time Star had ever come face to face with Chuggo. “I see you brought along Billy Corgan over here,” he snidely retorted to Dontelle.
“What is it you want, Star?” Dontelle asked. Before Star bothered to answer, Big Al pulled out Cindy and shot Dontelle point blank. Dontelle’s lifeless body fell to the ground.
“Yo friend!” Chuggo shouted in horror. “You ain’t my friend no more!” Big Al, with a sly smile said nothing and handed Cindy over to Star.
“It seems your colleague here decided it was in his better interests to take the promise of a lieutenant’s position with the Narwhals rather than face my vengeance,” Star told Chuggo. He then pointed Cindy at Big Al and without hesitation fired two shots. “He’s a huge moron, just to let you know.”
For once, Chuggo was speechless as he watched Star slowly point Cindy up at him. “I didn’t truly relish killing your brother,” he said, “But I know I’ll enjoy killing you.” Chuggo seethed in anger. I’ll smash your fucking head, Chuggo thought to himself, That’s how I’m real.
As Star—grinning like a mad man—took a slow step towards Chuggo for the kill shot, Chuggo reached onto the car seat and grabbed his golden skull staff. Before Star could manage to squeeze the trigger, Chuggo swung the staff with all his might and landed the blow square on Star’s forehead, throwing him back to the ground. Cindy skidded across the icy pavement, and Chuggo picked her up and pointed it directly at Star.
At that point, Chuggo was consumed by more hate and fury than he’d ever been before in his life. He saw Star’s eyes—his beady little eyes—and he realized it was the same look that the fuckin’ guy had given him back when he was three, that same look of utter contempt and disdain for others. Monsters like Star and the fuckin’ guy—they didn’t deserve to live.
“What are you going to do?” Star said, sitting on the ground, his legs spread apart, “Shoot me? Go ahead. Do it.”
Chuggo said nothing but did manage to crack a diabolical grin.
“Pull the trigger.” Star continued, without a hint of fear in his voice. “Do it. Send me to my grave. Go ahead.”
Chuggo leaned in closer towards Star, with Cindy aimed directly at him, but he didn’t yet dare pull the trigger. For the first time, Chuggo got the sense of fear from the man who murdered his brother, and he just wanted to take it all in.
“TOMBSTONE ME NOW, CHUGGO!!!!!” Walt Star shouted.
“Okay,” Chuggo responded and emptied two shots directly into Star’s chest.
Chuggo staggered back to the Mini Cooper, grasping Cindy in one hand and the golden skull staff in the other. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. Chuggo was shocked at what he’d become, a cold blooded executioner, a man without morals. He banged his head against the steering wheel. In the distance, police sirens cried out. The day of reckoning had come upon him. Hear those dudes coming? Chuggo told himself, That’s the police.
Chuggo thrust Cindy into his mouth and wrapped his index finger around the trigger, ready to pull it. He waited five second. He pulled her out of his mouth and stuck her on his eye. Again, Chuggo nearly did the deed but ultimately pulled back. He dropped Cindy to the seat next to him. The police sirens grew louder.
How did it come to this? Chuggo thought. And for the first time that he could ever imagine, with his life falling apart before his own eyes, Chuggo felt the sense of regret that he never truly knew his father.
The police cars pulled up, and several officers jumped out and trained their guns on Chuggo, who sat expressionless in the Mini Cooper. Yet inside Chuggo was being ripped apart. The fuckin’ guy had started the ball rolling, and destroyed everything in his path. Yet was there a chance the bastard could be redeemed? Could Chuggo himself be redeemed for what he’d become? Chuggo would have to face the music as far as the deeds he’d done, but perhaps—just perhaps—it would give him a chance to reconnect with that one man who had turned his back on him all his life.
Finally, Chuggo could sit there no longer. He jolted out of his seat and out of the car and turned to face the cops. Exhausted as he was, there was enough energy in him for one more cry.
“AHHHH!!!” Chuggo screamed at the top of his lungs, “C’MON FUCKIN’ GUY!!!!!!!!!!”
The police held their fire. Then Chuggo reached behind him to grab something.
“Watch out, he has a gun!” one of the policemen shouted. As Chuggo swung his arm around in front of him, shots rang out. Chuggo was hit twice; once in the shoulder, and a second time square in the stomach.
Chuggo fell towards the ground. As he did, the object that Chuggo had grasped—the object that had caused the police to let loose their fire—fell to the ground and right in front of Chuggo’s eyes. Chuggo couldn’t avoid but looking directly at it. It was the golden skull at the end of his staff.
* * * *
Lying on the gurney as paramedics rushed him to the emergency room, Chuggo faded in and out of consciousness. He looked up at the bright operating light above him, and it began to vacillate in brightness, until it became so blinding that all he saw was a white vastness.
Slowly, an object began to come into focus. It was Chuggo’s Mini Cooper, and three persons were sitting in it. Chuggo squinted to try to make out their faces.
Chuggo was first able to make out the person in the back seat. It was his brother Stevie. He was smiling, which was very atypical for Stevie, but the sheer abnormality of it caused Chuggo to smile too. He waived, and Stevie waived back at him.
The second person in the front passenger seat then came into focus. It was his mother, but as he had remembered her before alcoholism had raged her body and destroyed her soul. Chuggo felt comforted, as though the clocks of time had turned back and given her a second chance to see the world—and life—as it really should be seen, as a blessing. Chuggo smiled at his mother, and she let out a happy laugh.
It took the longest for Chuggo to make out the third person, the driver of the car. That person would turn out to be none other than Phillip Switling.
His father said nothing, but reached out his hand and smiled at his son. Chuggo felt himself floating towards his father, and he, too, reached his hand out towards him. Finally, his father grabbed a hold of Chuggo’s hand, and the two entered into a firm handshake.
At that moment, Gary Switling was no longer Chuggo. Phillip Switling was no longer that fuckin’ guy.
As Gary drew the very last breath of his life, the son was finally at peace with his father.
Next: Epilogue--Denouement at Eleven
Epilogue--Denouement at Eleven
At his home in Hamilton, Phil Switling laid in bed with his second wife, Marla. Marla had long since fallen asleep, but Phil had stayed awake for the eleven o’clock news, as was his customary tradition.
The usual theme music to the news blared loudly, and the female anchor jumped in with her feigned sense of urgency.
“We begin tonight with breaking news out of Toronto, where the city’s gang problems continued to escalate,” she said. “Police say following a shootout between two rival gangs, they were forced to shoot and kill one of the gang members.”
Phil continued watching with only passive interest. He really just wanted to know what the five-day forecast was.
“Police spokesmen say this man was the individual shot and killed,” the anchor continued. A picture of a bald man in his late thirties wearing an orange shirt shot up on the screen. “They believe he was the leader of the gang called the Lakeshore Stranglaz and went by the street name ‘Chuggo.’”
Phil yawned. He was getting tired. He might not make the five day forecast.
“Sources say that Chuggo’s real name was Gary Switling and that he only recently came onto the Toronto gang scene,” the anchor continued.
Heh, Phil thought. That’s a shame. A real shame.
“In other news tonight, President Bush was receiving his daily brief—,” the anchor started before Phil hit the button on the remote. He was exhausted and had to go to work early the next morning. Turning off the small lamp beside his bed, he turned around and fell fast into a deep sleep.
The End
At his home in Hamilton, Phil Switling laid in bed with his second wife, Marla. Marla had long since fallen asleep, but Phil had stayed awake for the eleven o’clock news, as was his customary tradition.
The usual theme music to the news blared loudly, and the female anchor jumped in with her feigned sense of urgency.
“We begin tonight with breaking news out of Toronto, where the city’s gang problems continued to escalate,” she said. “Police say following a shootout between two rival gangs, they were forced to shoot and kill one of the gang members.”
Phil continued watching with only passive interest. He really just wanted to know what the five-day forecast was.
“Police spokesmen say this man was the individual shot and killed,” the anchor continued. A picture of a bald man in his late thirties wearing an orange shirt shot up on the screen. “They believe he was the leader of the gang called the Lakeshore Stranglaz and went by the street name ‘Chuggo.’”
Phil yawned. He was getting tired. He might not make the five day forecast.
“Sources say that Chuggo’s real name was Gary Switling and that he only recently came onto the Toronto gang scene,” the anchor continued.
Heh, Phil thought. That’s a shame. A real shame.
“In other news tonight, President Bush was receiving his daily brief—,” the anchor started before Phil hit the button on the remote. He was exhausted and had to go to work early the next morning. Turning off the small lamp beside his bed, he turned around and fell fast into a deep sleep.
The End
What a great ending to the story.
thumbs up!
Someone get J. J. Abrams to turn this into a movie!
After all this time!
you get a LOT of DU links.
Just like those Baltimore Ravens! 
Hey guess who is going to Florida to see Nats spring training... ME!!
[img]
[/img]
can't explain why, it just never captures me.... You locked in me from the first sentence.
Yet, fascinated... 