One For the Road Ch. 01

Here's my second story for Literotica. It has been mentioned that some people don't like my stories feeling they are too wordy - this tale will most likely disturb them as well. I understand that my writing style isn't for everyone but that's ok, because the main critic I need to appease is the one in my head and he's pretty satisfied.

I've also been called to task for my prologues before each chapter. This is a brief opportunity to let the reader know anything that might or might not be pertinent. And again, I like it - so it stays. J

This tale is will be a number of chapters long (maybe 5 or 6? Layout is done, but the actual "breaks" are still up in the air) at which time even I am not sure as I am still writing it. I think I have enough of a buffer between here and where I am now that there should be no more than a two or three day gap between chapters. It will go on until it is over and the story of the protagonist is finished.

I am sure that many of us know or knew people like those depicted here - I sure did. And let me just get it out now, as a person at the start of this tale, I don't like Jimmy much. But people do change when the fecal matter hits the oscillation device.

A reminder, this is only a story. Like a great writer once said: Write what you know. So that's what this is, me writing what I know.

There will be no John McClane or ninja attacks or gimp masks or frilly aprons. This is as close to reality as I could get it and still tell the story.

Enjoy! -V

*****

As the cold beer slid under the collar of my shirt and down the hollow sides of my spine the only thing that I could think was, 'What a fucking waste of a good Sam Adams.'

I shoved myself back off the bar stool, leading the way with my right elbow. It hit deeply into the fucker's gut, the fat bastard hunched over and retched across my shoulder. His vomit hit the side of the bar, just missing the soles of my Doc Martens. "Fucking prick," I snarled, grabbing him by his heaving side and shoving him to my left.

The crumpling noise as he tipped into the nearby table was deafening, followed by the tinkling crash of spilled bottles hitting the floor. I balled up my right fist and strode towards the panting fucker.

"Jimmy! Watch it!"

I ducked, tucking my neck in and rolling my shoulder up. Something slammed into it with a loud CRACK and the butt end of a pool cue broke off, spinning along the floor. "Asshole!" I growled, ignoring the fat ass trying to get off the upended table and rise to his feet, turning to the douchebag with the broken cue.

He was an ugly sod, greasy hair and sporting one of those moronic neck tattoos. 'Hey dickface,' I mused as I waded forward, 'it looks stupid on Tyson, and fucking stupid on you.' He tried to hit me again, but I was inside his reach. I blocked his wrist and then punched him in the mouth. Fucking idiot must have been smiling, greasy prick split my damned knuckle with his teeth. I hit him again, this time in the throat and that did the trick. Neck-boy slumped to the ground, dropping his busted cue and gasped like a lungfish.

I turned back to the fucking whale just in time to see my boy, Timmy, grab him by the back of his sweaty shirt and yank him off his feet. From the way he screamed after he hit the ground he probably got a shaft of busted glass in his ass. Fucking faggot.

"Jimmy Fucking Skelly!" Roared the ugly cuss from behind the bar. "You dumb shit! Get out! Get out of my damned bar!"

I pulled my beer soaked shirt away from back, and frowned at the greasy asshole gasping on the floor. I kicked him in his side and he fell over, groaning in obvious pain. "This is a new shirt, you twat!" I spat at him.

"Jim! Did you fucking hear what I said?! I want you out! Get the fuck out!"

I looked at Horace, the owner of the Baldwin Billiards, and flipped him off. "Screw you, you fat Greek fucker. I didn't start this shit."

"I don't care! You're a nasty drunk and I'm tired of you and your shit! Get out!"

Shrugging, I waved to Timmy and said, "Let's roll." I took a step towards the exit and then shuffled to the right, stepping my size 13's on the greasy asshole's outstretched hand. He yelled in pain, proof that he had gotten his wind back; trying to tug his fingers out from under my boot heels. I ground my foot a little before stepping off, getting him to squeal once more and chuckled, "Horace, I must have stepped in shit here. I'll send you the bill for my shirt and my boots!"

I laughed loud and boisterously as Tim and I strode from the pub and billiard hall into the crisp fall night-time air. Horace was still yelling as we left but I had already tuned him out. The parking lot was fairly empty, being it was a Wednesday night. I walked towards my pride a joy, a 2010 Inferno Red Dodge Charger. It gleamed under the parking lot lamp, the wheels turned in such a way that I straddled two spots. From our angle I could see along the back window where I had etched in the glass my wife's name "Myra" in frosty looking script. Below it and to the right were "John" and "Joel", my two sons.

I took out my keys and hit the fob, the Charger unlocking and the modified electric blue lights flashed. I opened the door and rolled down the two front windows, snagging a bottle of Jack Daniels from under the front seat and taking a slug. It scored the edge of my throat as I swallowed it, washing away the taste of the beer I had been drinking so far

I handed the bottle to Tim who smiled at me before tilting it back. "Man, Jimmy," my buddy slurred as he kept pace with me, "You kicked that fucker's ass." He snorted once as he tried to laugh about it. "What happened? What'd he say to you?"

"Didn't say anything to me 'cept 'Sorry'."

"Sorry? For what?"

I shrugged, "For spilling his damned beer on me."

Tim stared at me with his bloodshot eyes and then bent over hysterical with laughter. "You mean you beat the shit out of those two for dumping his beer on you?"

I grinned, "Yeah. Like I said, it's a new shirt."

We both stood in the parking lot, hanging on to each other's arms and laughing at the situation. Tim had been my best friend since grade school. We had sat next to each other in Mr. Burke's 5^th grade class at Seaford Manor and used to shoot spit balls at the nerds and dweebs around us. The two of us spent a lot of time in lunch-room detention which meant that all too often I wouldn't get the chance to play outside at recess which really pissed me off.

Most of the time it was kickball or some tag races that the monitors would let us do. And man, I dominated in them. Even back then, I was one of the biggest kids in my grade. My size and attitude carried me well through Middle and eventually High School, letting everyone know that there was no pushing around James Skelly.

I gave Tim a hard glance as he tried to get his laughter under control. He was a few inches shorter than me at 6' or so, and definitely smaller than me too. I heard him bitch that he was over 210 which meant I had to have sixty pounds on him, too. But Tim was a standup guy and we had each other's back no matter what. I could always count on him to give me a hand, pass me a cig, or come out to blow off some steam when we were feeling the need for a drink or two.

"So where to now?" he asked, leaning against my car and taking out a pack of Camels. He tapped the back of the box to pack the tobacco down and then pulled one free with his lips. He lit it from a cheap Bic and took a deep drag.

I was going to reach out and take a coffin nail but decided against it as I wasn't in the mood for more drinking. "I gotta head home. It's after 11 and I have to be at the lumber yard at 7."

"Aww, man. You suck." He took another drag and then glanced over my shoulder, coughing and pointing. "Fuck," he said, stomping his cigarette out and trying to clear his throat.

I looked and shook my head. "Really?" The fat fucker I had flipped into the table and his greasy haired buddy were storming across the lot towards us; and they had a spindly looking guy that could have been strung out on meth and some unshaven freak with a big assed beard. "Some fuckers just don't get it, Tim." My buddy grunted in reply, sticking his hand through my baby's window and grabbing something from the back seat. When he stood up, he tapped me on the leg with something metal and nodded his head.

I marched out to meet them, Tim following behind, trying to keep my body in front of his. My hands were loose and I could feel my grin as I stepped up to the fat guy.

"Hey, Asshole!" The tubby fucker said, trying to keep his gut in and his chest out as if he could intimidate me with his two and a half chins. "You've got a lot of fucking..."

That's as far as he got before I stepped inside his reach and slammed my forehead forward. I had a close up view of his blood gushing past my vision and splattering across his wide chest; his nose crunching loudly under my head butt. I know he cried out but I was concentrating on the next target, which to me was the meth-head.

I grabbed the tubby bastard by his neck and lifted him upright, shoving him forward to slam into the gangly freak. His eyes went wide as his whale-friend stumbled backwards into him, the two of them hitting the ground in a tangle of too many arms, legs, and rolls of lard.

Meanwhile Tim had stepped up to the greasy guy as soon as I moved and poked forward with a 2' length of rebar he took from my Charger. The tattooed idiot gasped as he was hit, holding his chest where he was struck. Tim gave an upward backswing. Impact. Greasy guy fell back, his jaw clacked shut and chin bleeding.

Meth guy had finally crawled out from under Jabba the Hutt and I figured this would be a good time to score a field goal. But the quivering prick rolled back, twisted my foot with some weird grab and pull, and knocked me down. I rolled over, elbowing the Stay-Pufft asshat in the process and bounced up, fists at the ready. The strung out dude was bouncing on the balls of his feet, one foot back, stance wide. 'Fucking got to be kidding me,' I thought. 'Another douche who knows Karate.'

I heard Tim was still messing around with the other two, and from the cries over there, he was getting the better of them. Or at least the length of rebar he was using was helping. I concentrated on fuck-a-doodle and tried to close in to bring him to the ground. Fucker hit me in the chest, and again in the cheek. His fists felt like bags of walnuts and sticks. I took the blows and hit back with my own. Meth-head blocked it and then stepped into my punch and somehow or another got his arms around my neck and armpit and bound me up. It was when I felt his leg behind mine that I figured he was going to do some Bruce Lee shit one me.

No fucking chance.

As he pushed me back to take me down, I wrapped my hands around his neck and shoved myself further off balance. He tried to let go but I gripped him tight. We hit the ground at the same time, my shoulder and his head - both striking the pavement. Difference was I got back to my feet and Gollum's cousin stayed there.

I got to my feet and ran to help Tim who was struggling with the biker looking dude, the two of them trading punches like old people trade coupons. I launched myself skyward, using the fat bastard's chest as a spring board, racing over to help my bud. "Hey! Yukon Ted!" I roared, slamming my fist at the side of his face. He fell to the side and tried to hold off Tim and I, but we were a team and were feeling no pain. I know he hit me in the mouth and I was sure Tim was going to sport a shiner, but Yosemite Sam fell to the side and eventually dropped, finished.

We took a look around. Four down, the two of us still up. "Fuckers," I said, my voice a bit slurred from the shot to my mouth. "Stay down. Come near us again, and we'll really take you to town." I kicked the greasy asshole to finalize my point and then motioned Tim to the Charger.

We piled in and I flipped on my stereo, blasting AC/DC's "Who Made Who" from the speakers. I cut the wheel hard to the right, stomped the gas, and caused the 368 anxious horses to smoke my tires. I stuck my middle finger out the window as we blew by the Four Horsemen of the Asskickery; my donut causing gravel and other road grit to splatter the area before I straightened the wheel, feathered the gas, and tore out of the parking lot to the sound of Brian Johnson yelling the chorus.

"Jimmy," Tim said as he wiped his bloody eye clean with a napkin from my console, "You are the fucking man!"

I grinned, wincing as I felt the tightness in my lips. I ran my tongue over my teeth carefully, feeling none of them loose and no chips. "Nice job on my back, Timmy."

"Dude, I'll always have your back!" He fumbled around and found his pack of Camels, groaning miserably. "Fuck. That hairy prick punched me in the cigs, man! They're all fucked up!"

"That's fricking funny, man!" I chuckled, watching him as he poked around the crushed box. "Whoa, Timmy. No smoking in the car. Ever!"

"Wasn't gonna smoke. Just seeing if I have even one that ain't busted." He must have gotten lucky because he took a wrinkled but still whole cigarette out and tucked it behind his ear, closing the rest of the pack and shoving it into his pocket. "So," he said looking out the side window as we drove towards Sunrise Highway, "You really going home or we gonna hang out some more?"

I shrugged. "I have to get home. Got work." I turned off of Grand and onto the Highway, the V-8 of my baby giving a throat clearing rumble as we shot through the empty roadway.

"Pussy."

I scowled, looking over at him. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," he said, leaning further back in the seat and watching the street lights flash by overhead.

"Why don't you give Scott a call. He should be around?"

"He moved to Patchogue. I ain't going out to Patchogue."

"Jerry?"

"He's a loser. Don't go out after 10."

"Brian? What about Brian? Haven't seen him in a month or two. What's he doing?"

Tim smirked. "His wife don't let him hang out with me, says I'm a bad influence on him."

I laughed. "Man, does she have that wrong. Pretty sure it was Brian that had you puking when we were getting a show at the Café Royale."

"That is the truth!" my pal crowed, rolling his head back across the headrest. "Truth is man, most of our buds don't go out anymore. It's down to you and me." He stuck his fist out and I bumped it back in response. "You're the man, Jimmy."

As I drove on, I watched my speed knowing that the local Nassau PD loved to catch the poor bastards who drive at night. As the miles passed by I thought about what Tim had said. A lot of the old gang didn't come out anymore. They moved or had some family stuff or whatever and couldn't get it together to go out with their buddies and blow off some steam and tilt back a few cold ones.

Shit, I had no problem with that. Myra and I had been together since Senior year at Seaford High and married when she came up pregnant a few years later. That was something my dad was big on; he used to always say, "Sometimes you get fucked for the fucking you've been getting." So I scraped together a couple of bucks, grabbed her a nice half carat at the Tri-County Flea Market and we got hitched.

John was born that next year and we got busy as soon as she healed up. Which meant that she got knocked up almost immediately afterwards with Joel. She was pissed but it does take two to dirty the sheets so we dealt with it.

I can understand not going out every night; that makes total sense. I love my boys, nothing I wouldn't do for them. I remember being there in the hospital, wearing that stupid papery gown and the mask, holding Myra's hand as she tried to squeeze the blood from my fingers. I rubbed her shoulders and knelt down so I could whisper to her how great she was doing. And then the doc was reaching out and right from my wife's box, fucking amazing to me, my sons were born. Squealing and covered in what looked like creamed corn and god knows what, they came into the world naked and pale and pink.

Damn it if I didn't make a promise to the God Almighty that I would protect my kids to the end of all things. They needed me and I was not going to let them down.

I saw the sign for Newbridge Road so I slowed down, took a left, and raced up towards North Bellmore. My CD had changed to "Back in Black" which had Tim and me tapping our feet as we made our way through the cramped neighborhood, eventually stopping in front of a tiny property with a squashed looking two story home in the middle of it. The driveway was a mass of gravel and ruts and it looked like the side gutter was going to fall off the eaves pretty soon. An older Taurus and a Tim's Chevy Malibu with the two flat tires were parked in the street.

"Tim, you going to get those tires fixed?" I asked as he patted his pockets one last time and opened the door.

"Soon. I have a paycheck coming on Friday and as long as my mom," he thumbed towards the 2^nd floor of the house, "doesn't ride my ass for any money, I should be able to drive then."

"How you been getting to work?"

"The old lady lets me take her car." He clambered out and shut the door behind him. "Gotta get my wheels back though; she's down to about half a tank of gas." He reached in through the window and stuck his hand towards mine, shaking it with a firm clasp. "Great night, Jimmy. Give me a call when you want to go out for a drink again."

"Later, Tim." I pulled back onto the street and drove away, making my way to the Southern State Parkway East, travelling home. I had the window open and the fall breeze was wonderful feeling as it raced through the interior of my baby. She growled as I hit the gas and then let off, her power pushing me back into the driver's seat like a lover's touch. I was feeling good, real good. I took a deep breath, my head clearing as I drove on and thought about getting home to Myra.

I took the exit for Wantagh Ave south and made my way towards home. It had to be almost midnight when I guided my Charger down my block and stopped just in front of my house. It wasn't much, one story, small property, and the lawn was a mix of brown, green, and covered in leaves. I could see my boys' mini-basketball net along the side of the house which pissed me off because no one dragged it behind the fence. "Fucking thing was expensive. Some fucker could have stolen it."

I backed into the driveway, leaving plenty of room between my baby and Myra's powder blue Kia Sedona. Her minivan needed a washing soon, there was a deep layer of crud gathered in the windows, and it was obvious to see where my boys had put their hands on the car's body. I got out of the car and closed the door quietly, hitting the fob to lock it and activate the alarm. Walking towards the back of the house, I dragged the backboard around and shut the gate. I had to lift the lock and wiggle it to get the pin to actually latch but at least it wouldn't blow open in the breeze.

The front door closed without a sound and I flipped off the porch light. Taking a look around the TV room I could see that my boys must have been playing with crayons after dinner from the number of pictures on the couch. I looked at a couple of them and grinned. John, at 5, had gotten pretty good and the stick figures showed him playing outside with his brother and me while Myra was waving from the window. Joel who was almost 4 was still trying but he never failed to scribble something. I picked up three of the ones I liked the best and took them into the kitchen.

The side of the fridge was pretty well covered so I took down three older ones from last month and replaced them with the new ones. "Nice," I said to myself, opening the door and taking a look inside. There was still most of a twelve back of Bud Light in the blue can so I took one out and popped the top. "Ahh," I grunted as I drank it down, the cold cold beer sluicing down my throat and sending familiar tingles throughout my skin.