“Win, Lose, or drawers,

You know I'ma leave a shid stain.”

Backpack Bones 

(The Shid Chronicles)

—

RED DRAGON

Lowell Dot Com hated Bedtime Story Time. At that time, Lowell and STRONK would have to get in their pajamas. That was strike number one. Because STRONK had a nice pair of pajamas with aliens on them. Lowell, on the other hand, did not. So Fred Dick fashioned Lowell a pair of denim pajamas. Pajamas made out of Wrangler pants. All he did was give Lowell two pairs of pants with holes in the crotches. One hole to pee and poop with. One for his neck and “apple-shaped head.”

They didn't fit well.

They irritated his skin.

Also, Fred would make them sit “Criss Cross, Applesauce” on the bedroom floor while he rocked back and forth in a rickety chair and pretended to read them a book. But it was really just Fred Dick unloading his traumas, or giving unsolicited advice, or actively trying to give them nightmares.

This particular Bedtime Story Time, he has the lights off, and performs shadow puppets.

“So there our two heroes was,” Fred says sternly, shining a fllashlight on his face. “The entire Red Army hatin’ their guts! Why? Cuz they was American! And they weren't takin’ no daggum piss mouth from a fuggin Rusky-ace bench! But then what did the Red Army do? They got themselves a GREAT, BIG OL’ RED DRAGON! It soared through the skies, takin’ big spray shids on everybody down below. Especially on account of the fact that the big, red dragon had not one, BUT TWO ACEHOES!!!”

Fred makes a shadow puppet on the wall.

It's a butt.

Its butt cheeks spread apart.

Yup. Two assholes.

“How the heck did ya make the butt cheeks spread apart and reveal two buttholes?” Lowell asks.

“MAMA DICK IS MAGIC.”

“I'm just reading the beautiful words here in this timeless Dr. Seuss classic, ‘One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish,’ STRONKY Tonk. If anythang a’tall is truly magic, it's not me. It's books.”

“Really?” Lowell asks. “That's interesting.”

Fred detects the sarcasm dripping from Lowell’s cursed, devil tongue. He knows that Lowell knows he can't read. He knows that Lowell knows that he knows that Lowell knows it, too.

“Inchrin’ you say? Whatchu thank is inchrin’, boy? You tryna buck on Ol’ Fred?”

Lowell runs a quick cost benefit analysis on fighting Fred right here, right now. “...no…”

“That's what I thought. Puss. Anyway…”

Fred goes back to the shadow puppets. His hands act out the following, somehow, quite well:

“And the thang about this dual aceho’ wieldin’ dragon righcheer? Ohhhh, even if you straight up KILT one of them acehoes, I'm talkin’, grabbin’ that lil sum bitch by the nutball bag and squeezin’ til they don't even breathe no more, right? Well, one of the acehoes can replicate. The other acehoe? Is rumored to have an entire stable of acehoes just like him travelin’ throughout times and spaces of various universal whathaveyous. I'm talgin’ super computer shid. I'm talgin’ Neil DeGrasse Tyson shid.”

Fred Dick turns the flashlight back on his face. He grins evilly.

“How d’ya thank they ended up dealin’ with them no good sorry acehoes of infinity doin’ the drizzle-shids all over the community? Reckon they got shid on?”

“NO WAY MAMA DICK,” STRONK says.

“Why not?” Fred asks.

“Because,” Lowell answers out of turn, a wholesome, loving grin on his face. “It's me and STRONK. The heroes. Right?”

Fred's disgusted expression sends his top chin right into the folds of his second chin.

“...WHUT… the hell… gave you… the MOTHAFUGGIN AWWWWWWWWDACITY to EVEN THANK you orta suggest a literary theory about this beautiful daggum story by Dr. Seuss?”

“THAT WAS SO DUMB.”

“Newsflash, Leto. You ain't in this fuggin’ story. Okay? This story is a metaphor for STRONK and me. It ain't even for you. Why are you even here? I'm like, God DAMN dude, can a MAMA HAVE A BREAK??? LAAAAAWD I DIDN'T ASK FOR ALL THESE KIDS! Damn sure didn't ask for you. Ugly ace ol’ apple head, got a wig that looks like daggum dog shid on it. Lookin’ like a damn dog took a shid on an apple and God made it your head for some reason. Pray on that shid, Linus. I'm serious.”

Fred stands up. “STRONK, I'm sorry, but your dickhead friend just pissed me off real good. HE needs to find the Lord and shut the fuck up. ‘Nuf ‘bout him, though. How d’ya reckon our heroes overcame the dragon with the two infinite acehoes?”

“HOW MAMA DICK?”

“They held the dragon's acehoes on the ground for three seconds by lying on top of them.”

“IS THAT ALL THE HEROES HAD TO DO?”

“Yup. One, two, three.”

Fred boops STRONK on the nose.

“Welp, good night boys. Don't forget to say your prayers.”

Fred walks out of the room, takes the flashlight with him.

“I don't think Mama Dick likes me very much,” Lowell whimpers.

“YES.”

Lowell sniffles, “Why don't he love me, man?”

“STRONK DOES NOT KNOW AND STRONK DOES NOT CARE. IT IS TIME FOR STRONK TO SAY STRONK'S PRAYERS.”

STRONK claps his hands together so hard, a dog hollers about it outside.

He prays:

“THESE ARE STRONK'S MUSCLES. THERE ARE MANY LIKE THEM BUT THESE ONE'S ARE STRONK’S. STRONK'S MUSCLES ARE STRONK'S BEST FRIENDS. THEY ARE STRONK'S LIFE. STRONK MUST MASTER STRONK'S MUSCLES AS STRONK MASTERS STRONK'S LIFE…”

—

A BIG DICK CALI PICNIC

It’s burnin’ hot in San Fran, and for unexplained reasons the Big Dick Stallions have decided to have a picnic behind a McDonald’s dumpster. The dumpster is packed to the brim, hasn’t been cleaned in days, and with every gust of stinky wind a wrapper or drink container tumbles out onto their immaculate red-and-white checkered picnic blanket.

The sun pumps that spicy UV down upon their shirtless torsos as they scarf fried chicken and inhale sausages (also fried). They’d already eaten about a cow’s worth of plain beef McDonald’s patties before they ventured off to two nearby restaurants to procure their next course.

Nothing like hot food on a hot day!

Sausage grease cascades down STRONK’s chin, which Fred Dick lightly dabs with a napkin after moistening it with his tongue. “STRONKY Boy, ya need to sloooow it dowwwwwn! Y’gut acids’ll break it down and capture the newtrents better if ya chew. We got all afternoon!”

STRONK blinks, then GULPS down an entire chicken breast. “OKAY. SORRY MAMA DICK.” He averts his eyes, finding two crows frantically pecking away at each other, fighting over a hamburger bun scrap.

Fred stretches his hand out, fingers slick with oil and mustard, touching STRONK’s cheek. “Lookit, boy: it took Mama Dick twenty-somethin’ years to figger the art of gnashing. I was just like you is now, suckin’ back wangs and clearin’ throat blockages wit’ a swift, desperate punch to the Adam’s! But ya gotta know… there’s a better way forward. Chew, then swallow.”

STRONK gazes out across the horizon (of the busy fast food parking lot), looking pensive, as if contemplating something of great consequence. “STRONK UNDERSTANDS. CHEW. SWALLOW. … AND BECAUSE OF THE CHEWING … THAT MEANS WHOLE BONES ARE NOW ON THE MENU.”

Fred gives an incredulous look, pursing his lips, side-eying the behemoth masticating ravenously in front of him. “… Ya talmbout that ‘marrow’ game, son? That dawg life?”

“WHAT IS MARROW?”

“The goo in the middle of a goat’s femur—for example.”

“THEN YES. STRONK WANTS THE GOO.”

“Don’t we all…” The King of Wrong Style’s voice trails off, becoming lost in his own imagination and thoughts, however bizarre they may be. Then, his focus snaps back to Godson, having spied him pull a move that had caught his attention once or twice earlier. “Hey baby boy, why you keep rummagin’ for cum change in your bathin’ drawers? You playin’ a game of pocket hockey? You tryna find Narnia deep in them shids? I ain’t chastisin’—I get it—I’m just lettin’ you know… that I know.”

Fred winks, smacking his greasy lips audibly.

“WHAT?” The King Stallion looks confused, even as his catcher’s mitt of a hand snakes back into his pocket to attend to whatever’s in there, putting serious strain on the seams of his cabana-wear short-shorts—a gift from Mama Dick that preceded their picnic.

Fred jumps to his feet as quickly as a man dragging a loose three hundo possibly can, and points an accusatory finger toward STRONK’s crotch. “Right there! You’re doin’ it right now! Just acknowledge that you’re crankin’, FINISH UP of course, and we’ll go get some dawgs and maybe catch a farty romcom matinee.”

Caught, STRONK slowly… dramatically… pulls his hand from his pocket.

He reaches out, extending his hand, palmside down. He slowly turns it over; his fingers painstakingly curl back.

In the palm of his hand rests:

“That dang cursed… THANG!” Fred exclaims, forgetting what it’s called, moving back a foot or two to put some distance between himself and the weathered and worn Muggsy Bogues bobblehead.

He tries not to look at it. But the more he thinks about NOT looking at it, the more he HAS to look at it. Sneaking quick glances. Looking past it, so it’s out of focus… but really focusing more on the out-of-focus object he’s trying to avoid than the lady with the tight dumper exiting her Audi ten feet away. It captures his attention—no, too much of an understatement: it imprisons and tortures his attention.

Every unfortunate time the bobblehead crosses into his line of vision, he hears that trademark Hans Zimmer DOOOOOOONNNNNGGGGGG!, deep, resonant, powerful, and, in the context of the bobblehead at this present moment… unbelievably sinister.

“Now, Mama Dick told ya to throw that away, I do believe!” Fred says. “But that don’t look thrown-away to me neow, boy! If it wuz, it’d be at the bottom of that smelly bog!”

“SORRY MAMA DICK. IT CALLED OUT TO STRONK. IT SAID: STRONK. COME INTO THE SMALL WET AND PICK UP SMALL THING AND DECEIVE MAMA DICK AND ALLOW AWFUL THINGS TO HAPPEN—AND AWFUL THINGS WILL HAPPEN—WITHOUT INTERFERENCE.”

That was one of the longest goddamn sentences Fred has ever heard STRONK speak aloud.

Taken aback, but looking a bit relieved, Fred responds, “Ain’t no way you know the words ‘deceive’ or ‘interference’ … because I ain’t all-the-way sure I know what them shids mean myself! So I believe ya, son. I believe ya. Now, what did the voice sound like?”

STRONK bites into a sausage, chews thoroughly, swallows, and looks up at Fred with a guilty look in his eyes as though he’d rather not say.

“G’on, out with it neow, boy!”

“MAMA DICK.”

“Whut?”

“THE VOICE SOUNDED LIKE MAMA DICK. BUT A MAMA DICK THAT BURNED AND INHALED SEVERAL DOZEN TOBACCO CIGARETTES PER DAY FOR MANY HUMAN YEARS.”

“Hmmm… so sweet widda lil’ tang, y’say? Equal parts salt and pepper—a hobo spice medley? Inchring… innnnchrinnnng…” Fred swallows the fried chicken skin dangling from the corner of his mouth that was impeding his ability to speak. “I think we gotta consult someone on this matter. This don’t seem like Big Dick Jurisdiction.”

“NO. IT DOES NOT SEEM LIKE THAT. YES.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of this… or Mama Dick’s legal name in the province of Saskatchewan ain’t Warlock Smalls Junior!

“Which it damn well better be...”

—

ONE BOBBLEHEAD TO RULE THE BOG

“Holy Santa Barbara Salamander Shit! I ain't seen this little guy in years! …Where did you boys say you found this thing?”

When STRONK and Fred realized that the matter of the Muggsy Bogues bobblehead was one they had no idea about, they knew just the guy to call.

The Ideas Man himself.

Reed mothafuckin’ Young.

He walked into their Venice Beach AirBnB in some Gecko brand swimming trunks and a wife beater, double-fisting sugar free Monsters, or as he liked to call them, “Idea Drinks.”

But after hanging out, shooting the shit for a minute? The Big Dick Stallions reveal that bobblehead to Reed.

He drops both cans of Monster to the floor. They spill everywhere.

Then he utters those large words above.

“FROM THE SMALL WET,” STRONK answers.

“I see,” Reed closes his eyes, rubs his temples. “Any chance this small wet you speak of isn't a vagina, but is actually a bog? Like… in a swamp?”

“YES,” STRONK says.

“That's exactly right,” Fred says. “I also saw some sweet mermaid clam down there.”

“Incredible!” Reed says. “You'll have to show me sometime. STRONK, have you looked on the bottom of that bobblehead?”

“NO.”

“Turn that bad boy upside down.”

“THE SMALL THING SAYS STRONK MUST NOT.”

Reed puts his hands on his knees and says, “Fight it, boy! Fight it! See, it's only telling you not to because it doesn't believe in you. It says, ‘STRONK is not strong enough to turn the small thing upside down.’”

“LIES.”

Reed says, “Yessir! Know what else? It says, ‘STRONK has weak wrists with no muscularity, he could never turn over the small thing!’”

“NO. THAT IS NOT TRUE. STRONK IS STRONK.”

Reed gets right in STRONK’s face. Nose to nose. “It says, ‘STRONK ain't a strong man. He's a soft little pansy boy!’ FLIP THAT SMALL THING OVER!!! SHOW HIM WHO’S BOSS!!!”

STRONK roars. It is so loud, so powerful, and so STRONG, that it shakes the walls.

His struggling, trembling wrist turns the bobblehead over.

There, in black sharpie, we see three letters.

JTP

“It's a good thing you called me,” Reed says to Fred forebodingly. “I have a story to tell you.”

Fred is bewildered. He just watched Reed mindfuck STRONK, and yet, he doesn't mind. STRONK, none the wiser, listens intently to Reed's tale.

“Long time ago, back in them territory days. Used to book this fella, Joseph Theodore Plutomberton, from time to time. Would've booked him more, but he didn't like my gimmick ideas. He was a real freak about collecting bobbleheads. And he was a real freak about doing orgies in swamps.”

Fred gasps.

“Indeed. Well one day, he fucked me over on some money deal. So I took his bobblehead. That very one in your hand.”

STRONK gasps.

“It would call to me in the night:

“ONE BOBBLEHEAD TO RULE THE BOG.”

“ONE BOBBLEHEAD TO FUCK THEM.”

“ONE BOBBLEHEAD TO PULL THE HOG.”

“AND IN THE DARKNESS, CUCK THEM.”

“That sound familiar?” Reed says.

STRONK responds, “YES. EVERY NIGHT. EVERY NIGHT.”

“JTP must've fulfilled the prophecy,” Reed says, shaking his head. “The Prophecy of the Swamp Orgy. Became the Bog King. This is bad. We need to call a meeting. Can you gather the other Whoresmen?”

“Sure,” Fred says. “Daytona might be a little difficult… I know. I'll just lie to him. Tell him we got titties here.”

“Hurry,” Reed whispers.

—

A NEW FIT AND A FRESH FADE

So, Lowell purchased a suit of armor.

Call it an impulse buy.

Call it a late-night coke binge buy.

Call it a spending money just to spend money buy.

Fact is, he’s now the proud owner of a lightly used suit of armor from Medieval Times.

He bought it at auction—with money that wasn’t his to spend, of course.

In the end, Lowell dropped an obscene amount of money, but he won the suit of armor… and that’s really all that matters.

STRONK’s money might as well have the Monopoly Man’s face printed on it; he spends it as quickly as it hits the private bank account his client doesn’t know exists.

Why does he need a suit of armor?

He has his reasons.

Lowell stands in the living room of his AirBnB, admiring his newly acquired battle gear standing in the center, begging to be taken out for a spin.

“Aren’t you a beaut! You’re gonna look real good on me, help me feel safe and dangerous again,” Lowell says to himself. He and STRONK continue to keep separate residences on the road, giving his client space, ensuring he doesn’t intrude on Big Dick Stallion business. Really, though… he’s just a petty, spiteful, little bitch boy, and the brand consultants’ ‘constructive criticism’ proved to be a much deeper cut than even he first realized.

Too much Lowell? How could that even be possible?

He adjusts the bike helmet atop his head, having just returned from rollerblading around town and inappropriately gawking at women. Strangely, no tufts of fried black hair spill out from the bottom of the helmet.

“Fuck this itches…” he mutters, digging with his keys between the open slots of the helmet, scratching at his head. “I told Poncho to go easy, too. He’s sloppy when he drinks.”

He looks at a word tattooed on his left ankle, the letters not uniform in size, the spacing wildly off, the lines jagged and amateurish—it simply reads:

CUMCROW

Prison nicknames, they tend to stick.

His phone rings, playing some Ke$ha song from fifteen years ago as the ring tone. He answers it, but whoever’s on the other end immediately disconnects, probably aiming for voicemail, not wanting to actually converse with Lowell.

It buzzes. He looks at the screen.

“Emergency Whoresmen meeting?” He gulps. Then trains his eyes on the untarnished suit of armor, grinning. “Uh oh, this can’t be good…

“I better SUIT UP.”

—

THE FELLERSHIP OF THE BOBBLEHEAD

The patio furniture is old as shit and made of concrete. It's wobbly and, you can bet your ass that if you ain't careful, it'll scuff them cheeks.

Keep that ass on a swivel.

Speaking of ass, lots of them sitting on those concrete patio benches. Harley Walker. Fred Dick. STRONK Godson. Daytona Diamonds. Reed Young.

“Anyone missing?” Reed asks.

“Nope,” Daytona says. “Bring out the titties!”

Suddenly, the back door to the AirBnB swings open, and out walks Lowell Dot Com.

He's wearing armor, complete with a helmet. He struts around like a peacock. His codpiece shines magnificently beneath the California sun. He walks to the table, has a seat. Removes the helmet.

Reveals a bald head, with a tattooed buzz cut and bangs.

He looks around expectantly.

Reed Young stands up.

“A young man I used to book back in the day. JTP. He went and became the Bog King. All the swamp creatures respect him. And unfortunately, STRONK stole his bobblehead, which is why we're here.”

A quiet falls over the patio.

“I know. You're thinking, ‘who cares?’ BUT! Back when I took it? I started hearing a cat meowing outside my window. Then, dicks started appearing everywhere. Spraypainted on my car. My car! With hairy balls. The works.”

“Jesus fuggin' Christ,” Fred says. “This threat is bigger than I realized.”

“That's right. He'll never stop looking for this evil little demonic bobblehead that enchants your brain. He will find you. He will bring cats to your window. He will spraypaint dicks on all your stuff. With the works. Unless…”

“UNLESS WHAT, REED YOUNG?”

“Unless you return it to whence it came, and destroy it. Otherwise, it'll keep calling to you… Forever.”

“I'll take it,” Lowell says, standing up triumphantly.

“Sit your ass down, Lipton,” Fred says, either not recognizing or not acknowledging Lowell’s armor and hair thing. “It’ll corrupt you the moment you lay hands on it. I'll take it. My mind is a steel trap, it'll never trick me with demonic shid.”

“I'll take it,” Harley says. “Fred, you're a dumb ass bud. Plus, I got a motorcycle.”

“NO,” STRONK declares, standing up, his chest heaving with resolve, but his face… completely devoid of emotion, as is always the case. “STRONK MUST DO THIS. STRONK MUST RETURN TO THE SMALL WET THAT IS NOT THE BIG WET AND OBLITERATE THE TINY STATUE WITH THE WOBBLY SKULL. STRONK WILL WALK UNTIL THERE IS NO MORE EARTH TO WALK AND THEN STRONK WILL WALK IN THE WET AND WITH ANY LUCK IT WILL BE THE SMALL WET BUT STRONK UNDERSTANDS THAT IS UNLIKELY. AND SO STRONK WILL TURN STRONK’S BODY IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION AND THEN STRONK WILL WALK IN THAT DIRECTION AND REPEAT WHAT STRONK DID IN THE PREVIOUS DIRECTION.”

Reed looks at STRONK with admiration. Amongst all these warriors, it's the short one who stands tallest.

"You can have my motorcycle," Harley says.

"You can have my codpiece," Lowell says.

"I ain't givin' y'all a fuckin' thang!" Daytona says. "Buncha crazy ass bullshit is all this is. Fred, you said there'd be titties here. Well, I'm lookin' around, and I see zero titties."

Daytona stands up from his seat at the patio, places his hat on, tosses a side glare at Fred.

"We don't lie about titties," Daytona states through gritted teeth. "It's the Whoresman Credo."

Daytona storms away. He gets on Harley's motorcycle and rides towards the sunset, sending a middle finger back towards the boys.

His voice drifts away as he does.

“DON'T LIE ABOUT TIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiiiiits....”

fin.