Three Boys Wasted

And so it began in a strip club.

It was a seedy joint, bad techno beats, cheap neon lights and cheaper women. But for a small shithole town in the heart of the wasteland, it did the trick. No pun intended.

Hayden leaned back on his rusted barstool, the strippers swaying about lazily - no doubt drunk, but still not as drunk as he was. Pounding his empty glass in front of him, he grinned as he waved for the server to bring him more. She was a slight girl with a cute smile, and he knew damn well she’d be no match for his charm.

He sighed heavily as he reached into his dusty jeans for a cigarette, but a heavy hand on his shoulder prevented him from retrieving one. Turning around slowly he was disheartened at the sight of the club’s manager and two burly brutes. They certainly weren’t the cute waitress.

What you tryna’ pull? The pig faced manager scowled, his prickled patchy hair standing on end.

Huh? Hayden responded innocently.

You think you can pull one over us? He leaned to within inches of his face.

I don’t know what you’re talking about?

Your money.

Hey, I’ve tipped real well, don’t be a dick! Hayden protested.

Oh yeah? You’ve tipped well? Fuck you! The manager stepped back and threw wads of cash at the 20 year old.

What the hell? Hayden jolted to his feet.

It’s fake you little fucker! Now pay up!

Shit. Busted.

What? Fake? No way? He tried to fake sincerity but failed miserably.

I want my money! The manager shouted as one of his goons grabbed the youth by his lapel.

You take an IOU? Smiling hesitantly he could only hope for some miniscule ounce of lenience.

There was none. His ass was grass and before he knew it he was out cold.

***

There was no sun in the wasteland. The thick dark skies melded seamlessly into the abyss of lifeless gravel that stretched out in all directions.

Wearily Hayden opened his eyes. Sprawled out on his back he stared up into the steel coated clouds above. His head still spun, whether it was the booze, or getting his ass kicked, he wasn’t sure. It was more than likely a combination of both. He laughed as he stood to his feet. He drank those jerks out of house and didn’t lose a cent. Score one for Hayden.

The world was a large and wild place, but he knew little of it. He was but a child of the wastelands, born into its lawless heat. Its vices had raised him and now they defined him: women, money, booze, gambling. Women. This arid land, void of sustenance and nature, was the only home he had ever known.

He dusted himself off as he reached into his back pocket for a smoke. He groaned, quickly checking his other pockets. Those jerks had taken his cigarettes and all of his counterfeit money too. He was officially bummed out.

Doing the only thing he could, he walked. That was always his only complaint about this place: it all looked the same. You never were quite sure where you were going or where you came from. You would just simply go, and hope that you’d end up somewhere.

After wandering rather lethargically for some time he came across a small stall in the otherwise barren flatlands. From a distance he hoped it was a canteen, but as he drew nearer he realized that it was just a magazine stand.

The strung out dude behind the stand paid Hayden no mind as he leafed through a porno. It wasn’t long before Hayden realized that all the magazines for sale were pornos.

You get much business out here? Hayden laughed, trying to make small talk.

No. The wiry man didn’t even bother to look at him.

Then uh… why? Hayden couldn’t even find the words.

You do what you love and you’ll be a happy man.

Right. The guy had a point. Hey, you got a smoke?

You got money? He finally dropped the porno in his hands to look at Hayden.

Uh… no.

Then no.

Hayden, who had long ago sized up the greasy looking salesman, figured he could probably rip him off something good. But a cough from the man and the muzzle of a shot gun on the table convinced him otherwise.

Uh, you know where the closest town is? Hayden backed off.

No. Adjusting his coke bottle glasses he returned to his smut, but there’s a bus stop that way. He pointed lazily into the distance.

Without feeling compelled to thank the odd porno salesman, Hayden continued in the direction he was pointed. Stupid, cranky loser, wouldn’t even give me a fucking smoke, he groused as he kicked at the mix of gravel and shredded junk beneath his feet.

Sure enough, just as it had been pointed out to him, there was a bus stop. Little more than a rusted post with a faded sign, the bus stop looked eerily out of place in the otherwise empty landscape.

Staring out at the bleak world that engulfed him- his head still pounding- he wondered if there was more. It was a feeling that had always been there. Over time his excessive habits had managed to supress it, but it still remained. Somehow he was sure he was meant for more.

He forced himself to laugh. Back to reality. He was broke, bruised and hung over; his biggest hope now was that wherever the bus was headed would be a decent enough to place to scrounge some food, money and maybe even a good time. Where the hell was that bus anyway?

Volume 2

Hayden scratched at his unkempt hair as the run down bus puttered to a stop in front of him. The dust that swirled around the rusted vehicle clouded the faded, peeling blue paint. Suitcases and cardboard boxes were tied lazily to the roof. If he was lucky he’d swipe one before the trip had ended.

As he climbed aboard a man swore in a language he didn’t understand, struggling to keep his chicken from fluttering out the window. The bus driver was a grotesquely obese lady with an eye patch and flat hair.

Where you headin’? She croaked.

Don’t matter, wherever. He shrugged.

100. She stated the price. This was his time to shine. He flashed her a million dollar smile as he reached into his pockets. Fidgeting awkwardly, he gave her the best ‘poor old me’ face he could muster.

Get the fuck off my bus. Damn. The broad was a battle axe.

Stepping off the bus and back onto the harsh ground, he scoffed. He wouldn’t give up that easily.

The bus chortled, its fragile transmission grinding as it pulled away. He waited patiently, and, as the bus slowly passed him, hopped onto the rear fender. The plume of dust it’s overly vulcanized tires kicked up disguised his movements well.

His lungs filled with the toxic mixture of ashy earth and black exhaust. He coughed as he let himself in through the back door, which had been held shut by no more than a piece of duct tape.

Making sure the old hag didn’t notice him; he crouched down beside a weathered, ancient looking man. The lines on his face drew an unsavoury portrait. The other bus patrons noticed his arrival, but none cared. Rule number of the wasteland: mind your own business.

Leaning his head back, he stared up at the smoke stained roof above. Smoke. Damn, nicotine fit. He peered sideways to see if anyone nearby looked like a smoker.

Alright everybody! A deep voice echoed through the bus.

What the hell is this all about? Hayden muttered as he leaned over to get a look at the commotion.

Give me all your cash and no one gets hurt! The man yelling was tall and thin, a black bandana pinned around his face. Over his hand was a tattered pillowcase, a pointed object beneath it attracting more than the imagination of the passengers.

Wonderful. Hayden groaned as the hold-upper collected cash from the complacent riders.

Hey you! Didn’t you hear me? Give me your money! He prodded his draped firearm at Hayden, who had been trying to ignore him.

I got nothing man. He scowled.

Bullshit, cough it up or I’ll kill you. He glared at Hayden, his young eyes peering out from behind battered spectacles.

Kill me? With what? I’ll bet that’s not even a gun, it’s probably just a freaking banana under a pillowcase, he groaned.

Man, shut the hell up! He scoffed at the accusation.

Then shoot me, Hayden mocked as he stood to his feet. What did he care? Die today, die tomorrow: it made little difference.

Sit down! You’re gonna die here! He shook his cloaked weapon vigorously, so as to hammer in his point. But Hayden didn’t back down. He was tired, hungry, and killing for a smoke: he was in no mood for some half-wit bandit.

The bus lurched to a sudden stop, both young men falling forward. Scampering to their feet, a bright yellow banana sat on the ground, a dirty pillowcase only half covering it. Hayden grinned.

Hey!

They both spun around, the bus driver cocking a semi-automatic rifle. Get the fuck off my bus. Her stocky frame shrouded all others onboard.

Hayden laughed.

You too freeloader.

He stopped laughing.

Back to the wasteland.

As the bus rumbled away into the distance, the robber slid the bandana off his solid, pointed jaw as he stared down at the banana in his hand, the only thing the bus driver had let him keep.

You’re a real prick. He scolded Hayden.

What the hell did I do? You’re the one trying to rob me, he responded indignantly.

It’s a tough life out here man, I’m just trying to get mine.

Well, you’re not very good at it, Hayden spoke with a stinging honesty.

Screw you. The dark skinned bandit turned and began walking away through the wasteland. Jerk.

Idiot. Hayden shook his head as he took a step in the opposite direction. His day had just gotten a whole lot longer.

Volume 3

As his weary feet shuffled through the shards of metal substituting for earth, he stopped. Peering around at the abysmal grey landscape, he inhaled deeply. Shit. He was going the wrong way. He shook his head distastefully; that goddamn wanna be bus robber was going the right way.

It didn’t take long for the bandit to notice his footsteps.

What the fuck? Why are you following me? He turned around to face Hayden.

I’m not following you.

Uh, kinda looks like it to me.

I want to go this way. He pointed in the direction the bandit was heading, uncaring of the man’s discourse.

Of course you do. He kicked at the terse ground before continuing on. It wasn’t long before Hayden began whistling, loudly.

What the hell is wrong with you?

What? Hayden said indignantly.

Stop whistling for fuck sakes.

What are you gonna do about it? Shoot me with your banana? Hayden mocked relentlessly.

Whatever. still ashamed, he gave up easily.

The self-proclaimed children of the wasteland made their way through the empty plains in mutual silence.

You gonna eat that banana or what? Hayden broke said silence.

Fuck off.

And thus Hayden was just as begrudged as his unwilling comrade.

So they walked.

A bleak, foreboding twilight had crept over the horizon as the faded light of day cast shadows on a small congregation of buildings in the distance: a town at last. As they approached, they gladly went their separate ways.

Dragging his weary body through the wide, dusty streets he peered around. It was no different than any other wasteland town. A little on the small side, but it would do.

Drab cement buildings with cracks running down their sides lined the unpaved streets. Hayden often wondered why anyone would live in such a god awful place. There was a whole world out there. But aside from the allure of lawlessness and vice, the only answer he could come up with was that it was simply home. Just as it was for him, it must have been for many: it was the devil he knew.

Hunger taunted his stomach with obscene gestures as he was brought back to problem numero uno: he needed some cash, fast.

He got off the main streets, chasing unknown opportunities down dingy, unlit alleys.

Hey hot stuff, a haggard hooker cat called from a dark doorway. Ew. She was way too old. Like cockroaches, the scum of humanity infested every dark corner of the cramped alcove. He felt right at home.

Keep walking buddy, a hoarse voice moved him along as his wandering eyes washed over that which they probably shouldn’t have.

Hey cutie. Another hooker, but this one was a little younger, a little better looking.

Hey, Hayden sauntered to a stop.

You lookin’ for a good time? She smelled of homemade liquor and expired perfume. Her face was plagued with the harsh realities of a cold, broken world, but her smile was forced with such experience that it almost fooled him.

Aren’t we all?

I’ll say, she leaned in close, wrapping her frail arm around his back, her bony fingers twirling his unwashed hair. He used the back of his hand to graze what was exposed of her chest.

fifty. She whispered into his ear with a seduction that was more akin to well washed cotton than silk.

Fifty for what?

She pushed him away.

Wait! You’re a prostitute? His naïve bemusement only drew a scowl.

Fucking freeloader! Fuck off!

Whoa! Whoa! Calm down, Hayden put his hands up in defense, slowly backing away.

Waste of my goddamn time, she coughed under her breath as he slunk away into the darkness.

Hayden looked back over his shoulder as he turned a corner. A wide grin snaked its way onto his lips as his fingertips toyed with the crumped bills held between them. A useful life lesson he’d learned long ago: Hookers always keep their cash in their cleavage.

Volume 4

Stupid small town. Stupid small town hooker. Hayden grimaced. His stolen cash didn’t amount to much, but it was at least enough to grab a bite to eat.

In a manner that lacked motivation he meandered back onto the main street, where paper lanterns cast long shadows over unassuming buildings. Even here, amongst the cleverest disguise of civilization, the wasteland crept in, it’s dust and inescapable emptiness a rash for which there was no cure.

His tattered sneakers carried him forward purposelessly until the smell of grilling meat filled his nostrils. Then, he had a purpose. The small roadside canteen was only several blocks up and the chatter of drunken men and the plumes of charcoal smoke seemed a cacophony of noise in this still place.

It was a bit of a dive: a few plastic tables adorned with mismatched lawn chairs and several nailed two-by-fours masquerading as a bar counter. He opted for the bar. It felt nice to sit down as he slid himself onto a crooked stool.

What’dya want? The gruff voice of the cook/bartender/server boomed over the sizzle of onions.

I dunno. You’re the chef, chef, he tossed a crumpled bill across the counter. Keep the change. Grinning pompously he watched as the cook snorted and returned to his grill.

Impatiently awaiting his meal he peered around.

Hey young man. A drunk nobody slunk his arm around his shoulders. Hayden groaned; he looked like a talker. You lookin’ fo’ work?

Nope.

Too drunk, or too lonely, the battered old man ignored Hayden’s response, "you know there’s lots