Wrecking Balls

WRECKING

BALLS

by

Joe Giambrone

JGB

www.joegiambrone.us

Copyright 2016

Joe Giambrone

All Rights Reserved

1-3132141651

ISBN

9781370646104 (e-book)

978-1521719138 (paperback)

This is a work of fiction.

Chapter One

Words scraped from Charleston's dried-out throat, Am I paralyzed?

He panicked, ignoring the perturbed cop, an older black detective towering over his hospital bed.

Get the doctor back in here! What are you doing?

Stop changin' the subject, Mr. Cranston. You're in a lotta trouble.

The blurry guy was probably more intimidating than he seemed. Charleston's good eye spun in its socket. His body floated on a warm tropical sea.

I need tests, he said, his voice barely audible. Unable to raise his head, he sank to sleep again.

Uniformed policemen shuffled through the small curtained-off nook.

So you were drinking? The detective's deep voice berated.

Yeah. Of course. You have my blood already. The hell else do you want? Bloodsucker.

The predicament might be humorous if only he could dig his way through the joke. Glancing right, he saw that his wrist had been handcuffed to the gurney's railing, big silver bracelets reflecting ugly green hospital light. His body ambiguous from the morphine, the opiate splashed into his bloodstream.

Tell me about the crash then.

That blob of a detective held some potential. The man fronted like he already knew all the answers. Charleston resisted, swallowed, and attempted to reestablish feeling with his tongue.

I have no recollection senator. Why don’t you ask Giordano? I’m the victim here. I need care.

He could hear the E.R.’s cacophony outside the sterile white curtains. Doctors barked orders, and patients rolled by.

Is that so? The detective scratched a note. The victim?

You're fuckin' A right. Fat fuck was trying to kill me. It's on the video.

Uh huh...

Charleston tugged at his handcuff. Wait. I'm supposed to get a phone call.

The man grinned with pity. Yeah? Who do you want to call?

As he scanned the bland curtains in confusion, he realized he was friendless. I guess a lawyer. Public defender?

The cop flipped through his pad. The eyewitnesses said you rammed your vehicle into Giordano's.

Charleston’s jaw, inhibited by a tight neck brace, forced his mouth open. No that’s not right. I defended myself. Self-defense.

The man cocked his head. So you remember the crash now?

Charleston's un-bandaged eye peered up, pinned wide open.

Is he uh? Is he all right? Gary? Is he okay?

The detective shook his head angrily. I'm askin' the questions. Get it?

Well he's not dead, is he?

Did you crash your car intentionally?

Charleston breathed to stall for time.

He fucks with me. That’s how all of this shit started. Okay? He's a real fuckin' asshole.

The detective's eyebrow tensed, and he stared down coldly.

"All of what shit started?"

Chapter Two

The incident began in an innocuous conversation. Charleston was on the cusp of his thirtieth birthday. He and Giordano still sat on a couch playing video games most days, surrounded by food containers and Gary's wayward butts. Their cheap Reseda apartment, on ground level, sat in the center of the Los Angeles sprawl, five minutes from everywhere.

Charleston pressed pause. La, la, la—Labia. That's such a great word. Underutilized.

Tastes great too. Gary Giordano had surpassed the 300 pound mark, and he munched on gourmet jelly beans.

Charleston popped a stick of watermelon gum as he pondered. Labia. Lady parts. Gotta get the L in there. Labyrinth. Labial labyrinth?

Lake?

No... Charleston reached for his ever-present notebook. Ladle? He raised his bushy brow. Ladle the labia?

Gary said, in cockney accent, Lappin' up them labia lips, laddie.

Wait. It's coming. It's coming.

That's what she said.

Charleston swept out his palms. Labia. Arcadia. Uh. Anastasia?

Gonorrhea? Gary hunted for his cigarette pack.

The obvious.

"Yeah. Call me Captain Obvious. Just fuckin' pay me." Gary obtained a cigarette, but he was unable to locate his lighter.

No, dude. There's more to this labial phenomenon than meets the eye.

Or the tongue? Oooh. Gonorrhea tongue. Yum. Gary flicked his tongue about.

Class act, Gar. All the way. Lydia! Lydia would work! Lydia's labia. Something.

Gary caught sight of the darkness through their living room window. Hey what the hell time is it?

Charleston checked his phone.

Shit!

●●

The club's owner and resident personality Laff Daddy dressed like a Hell's Angel, his face a grey, fluffy beard. The dark club was dimmed further by stained wood walls. It seated fifty.

Hey, Laff Daddy breathed into his mic. Now this guy. Charleston. He strolled off, and he didn't seem to care about much.

Laff Daddy's sat far out of the way north of the city, and it smelled dank.

Charleston approached the mic. How are you doing? That's right. My name is Charleston, like the dance from the 1920s. I shit you not. Thanks, Mom!

He wiggled out a quick Charleston demonstration for the tepid crowd.

School was paradise. He located Gary seated at the bar, drinking, and he surveyed the thirty people in attendance.

So what has our species learned from that proud magnificent product of natural selection, the peacock? His gaze slithered across the young women.

Everyone assumes that the colorful Prima Donnas are the females, because of our own experience with same. But no! The plain, grey—dare I say—ugly peacock females are why the guys prance in Technicolor splendor. Ergo, trying to approach hot chicks is a fool's errand. You gotta get them to approach you. Ahhh...

The crowd raised its interest a few decibels. Charleston singled out faces below.

At the farthest point of the club, in the entrance corridor, strolled in a stunning blonde alone. Charleston couldn't help but strain for a better glimpse. Tall and confident, a modern Nordic Valkyrie in shimmering silk, her emerald eyes peered up across the expanse and jolted him silly.

He said, That's what the pop industry's figured out. Right? Rock stars?

He tracked the blonde, natural, no black eyebrows, while she hunted for a seat. She gazed back up in the glow of the stage lights.

What I'm saying is I need to sing!

From the back of the room the Valkyrie shouted, Wooooo-hoooo!

"Thank you. Thank you. Now all I have to do is brag shamelessly about how hot and rich I am, right? My private jets and my Benzes and my bitches. So many bitches and Benzes. Shameless narcissism and rhythm. 'I'm all that. Better than you. 'Cause I'm on the radio, muthafuckas.' Right? That is a fucking hit. I'm gonna write that shit down... But didn't assholes like that used to get beat up, justifiably? I'm just saying. Somebody's got to say it."

When the little blue bulb lit up Charleston had scored several rounds of chuckles and just as many misses.

Hey, it looks like that's my time. But people, I put a few flyers out over on the end of the bar. Check 'em out. The elephants, tigers, rhinoceroses, rhinoceri? They're all going extinct as a result of human malfeasance. Your species. You're responsible. And once they're gone it's forever. So think about helping them out. Save the elephants.

The people politely clapped, and he exited at the side.

Next up, Gary hit the spotlight with a half-eaten open box of pizza. He placed it on the stool, and he continued munching. I'm a big fan a sex, blow jobs particularly. Receiving, not giving.

Instant rapport, the crowd giggled.

They say don't knock it til you try it, but I don't know. You ever get a bad piece a sausage? Huh? That'll leave some taste in your mouth.

Half of Gary's presentation was through facial gestures and body language. He rolled up his pizza slice, and he used it for phallic effect, nibbling cautiously at the tip.

I'm not really sure how you chicks stomach it, but I love each and every one of you for trying. My God. You're all angels sent down from heaven.

The women whooped.

Or wherever. The other direction.

He paused for laughs. I say America needs a blow job appreciation week, or a month even better. January hasn't got shit goin' for it. Christmas and New Years is over. What are we gonna do? Wall to wall blow jobs! Hello!

The crowd seemed to approve.

Hey Charleston? An unseen woman called into his ear.

Charleston swiveled on his bar stool to find the Valkyrie goddess seated beside. Her golden hair teased to flow toward her shoulders, her lips were a soft shimmering pink gloss.

You know my name?

The green-eyed blonde cocked her head and squinted. They announced it, repeatedly. And you did a little dance?

Yeah. Yeah, of course. Charleston fumbled for his beer mug.

Answer me something, she said.

Sure.

How many times can a guy come in one day?

Charleston shook his head in a double-take. Uhhh. For real? I don't know. Three. Maybe four.

The young hottie leaned in close like a political reporter. You have first-hand experience?

I hear things. He whispered, But four. Jesus. That's like the dictionary definition at that point.

How so? She sat back and inhaled.

Self-abuse. Self-torture. His shoulders cringed.

The blonde suppressed a giggle. So you ever get to four?

Me? Nooo. Yeah. Maybe. I'd need a referee on that one, counselor. The final jizz it's like, there's nothing left. Blip.

Blip. She nodded with a guttural, devilish rumble. What about piercings? You got any hardware pounded through down there soldier?

He snickered. No fucking way.

Whips, chains, nipple clamps?

I don't think so. He smirked and reassessed her. I'm not into pain. My own. I mean other people's, sure. Whatever. Knock yourself out. Hey you know there's this video I saw, you should—

Yeah. She lifted her can of diet cola and sipped through a red straw.

Charleston regrouped. "What, what about you? Anything piercing the labia I should be aware of?"

Her pale eyes rolled and then stabbed. I can assure you there's nothing that you need to be aware of down there. Her index finger extended to stroke the side of his cheek.

Charleston's body stiffened as she instead flicked his nose and strutted off like a femme fatale siren.

Ow! He pinched his nose. Hahaha. La, la, la, labia... He tranced as he watched her disappear into the shifting crowd at the bar.

Giordano plopped down onto the vacant stool beside him. Who the hell's she?

Charleston swooned like a sixth grader. I don't know, man. But I want to find out.

Gary bit his own knuckle. Oh my God, her ass was made by Ferrari.

Laff Daddy reentered the spotlight up on the short stage, and he puffed his cigar, smoke up into the rafters. Ladies and whatever the hell you others are, I would like to give to you the sexy, the gorgeous, and the twistedly funny Amanda Winters! Yeah. Check this.

The crowd roared to life as the inquisitive blonde emerged from the back curtain and took the microphone from his hand. Laff Daddy delayed his exit to the side as he attempted to flirt, obligatory for the crowd.

Charleston guzzled his beer, and he quickly called for another.

Gary muttered with faux mental retardation, She's purdy.

At center stage Amanda smiled for an extended bout of applause. Hey you guys. I'm now on my way to New York City, she said. But on my tewer I've decided to stop at every shit hole dive bar that my manager could possibly find. The more infested the better. She nodded around the room. So let's have a big hand for vomit-stained, bullet-hole ridden, piss-smellin', diarrhea-smeared dive bars!

Amanda Winters glowed golden in the warm yellow stage lights, and she peered around the room to steal hearts and minds with minimal exertion. The mostly male mob hollered back and cheered.

I'm really on my way now. She smiled. This is livin' it up.

Charleston gawked up in a self-induced hypnotic lull. He and Giordano laughed at every single punchline she threw out.

Chapter Three

The rotund boy Giordano hung in the sky like a cannonball orbiting the earth, ready to drop.

The wiry Charleston C. never did see Giordano coming, having skulked away from the two McKinney sisters, ten and twelve. The two young blondes had laughed in his face, at him rather than with him, and that was comic death.

Well that didn’t work, he said as he reassessed his comedic inventory and stumbled to the center of his yard. Charleston Cranston, ten years today, retreated lost in an existential crisis. If not comedy then what?

Gary Giordano could have only attained such an impressive altitude by launching himself up off of the bench beside the picnic table.

Charleston descended into a dark alienation. Those two girls didn’t appreciate how tough it was crafting original punchlines. Long, dreamy blonde hair and sparkly green Irish eyes, they were too pretty to ignore. Each morning before school he thought up a new joke for another chance to talk with the younger McKinney, but only as a step toward her budding older sister. Now he had to concede that they were out of his league and pretty mean too. A full decade’s setbacks, he could feel the weight of social stratification pinning him down.

Gary Giordano wielded a grey plastic sword and wore a green Ninja Turtle shell upon his back. The opening syllables of Cowabunga gurgled from his lips.

The freshly cut backyard teemed with strangers, but Charleston couldn’t help but feel alone in the universe. His presumed special day whipped past, while he felt disconnected from society, like it was all illusory. Invisible, he doubted the entire birthday institution. The grownups drank and smoked amongst themselves. Several kids chatted about kids' stuff.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The late afternoon glare eclipsed then by that oversized Ninja Turtle who dropped from the sky and splattered Charleston down into the lawn. The impact nearly snuffed out his fragile existence. His face squished into the grass, he strained just to keep breathing.

A surreal scene played out above. Charleston's mother salvaged her bottle of gin as their picnic table toppled with its cargo of hamburgers, hot dogs and condiments.

The chubby Ninja Turtle rolled away laughing to himself.

But Giordano’s own father stormed closer, whipping off his leather belt. I told you I ain’t in the mood for your bullshit! Come here, you!

Gary changed tune to scramble away. His plodding old man grabbed for him, unable to latch on. The father corralled in Gary at the fence's corner and left him with nowhere to run.

Charleston, still on the ground and dazed from the impact, flipped a middle finger in Giordano’s direction, as the other was seized by the arm.

You’re overdue for a beatin’, Gary’s father shouted and cracked down on him with the leather belt. The old man's pants slipped lower as he delivered the increasingly severe lashes.

Charleston hid inside the house. Gary was whipped in front of the party. His plastic turtle shell blocked several lashes, but soon the severity captured everyone’s attention. They feigned concern, which was not quite the same as acting.

In his kitchen Charleston cringed at his compatriot’s screams. Some birthday party. At least the cake was saved. Spying through the sliding glass door he pondered if he was better off with no father at all than with someone like Gary’s.

Charleston’s mother handed Gary’s father a fresh beer, and he was distracted from assaulting the kid any