Terrible Poet? Nah, Now I'm a Terrible Novelist

I have decided to expand my horizons as a writer. I will still write the same terrible poetry which you all seem to hate so much. Starting today, however, I will paint the walls of this blog with a different kind of poop. I will a terrible novel, serialized right here. Here's the first part of my terrible novel.

Chapter One

So, there was this guy. He was a pretty handsome guy, in a rugged construction worker or infantryman sort of way. A lot of people thought they'd like to sleep with him just based on his appearance. And he was hell of tough. He had really big muscles and his skin was rough like sandpaper. Not like the little grit sandpaper, like the 400 grit or whatever, but more like the 40 or 60 grit. You know the kind of stuff that feels like it has chunks of goddamn glass in it and shit. That's what this guy's skin felt like. And one way I knew he was tough was that he could sit through an entire episode of Access Hollywood and not even crack a goddamn smile. It was crazy.

Anyway, he was coming out of this bar, when all of a sudden a truckful of good-for-nothing dipshits pulled up in front of the bar. They were like these twentysomething nimrods who like ride around town on skateboards and listen to Skinny Puppy and Cradle of Filth. And so anyway, this guy, um, let's call him Harry Handfuls, he was pretty drunk okay? And he said something like, "What's up, scumbags?"

And so these young guys had taken a lot of speed or PCP or crack or maybe just a bunch of Monster brand energy drink or whatever, and they were out of their mind raging for a fight. The leader of this band of merry pranksters said something really original like, "Fuck you buddy," or something like that. And another one sort of laughed and flipped him the bird as hopped out of the truck.

Well Harry Handfuls--let's just get one thing straight here, as narrator to reader: Harry Handfuls is a badass. He doesn't take shit from anybody, except his loving wife, who is a schoolteacher and probably like the lady at the bank drivethrough because she's sweet and reminds him of his grandma--didn't take kindly to these puckerlovers taunting him or talking back to him. Hell, they had probably not even paid their taxes last year and that made him really pissed off, being the responsible taxpayer that he was.

So, 3/4 drunk on Jack Daniels whiskey, and 1/4 drunk on some sort of Jagermeister concoction that Dick Kinisky kept ordering for him at the bar, Harry Handfuls started tearing these boys apart. The first one, their leader, looked a lot like that fucking Dauber guy from that show Coach who also does the voice for that stupid starfish on SpongeBob SquarePants--kind of a big galoof with thin blonde hair and just about awkward as hell. Harry punched this goofy motherfucker about three times before the guy could even flip the silly hair out of his eyes. He went down screaming and blood squirting out of his eyes and nose and probably his ear, too, but since I'm not totally omniscient I can't really tell or couldn't remember or something. Give me a break, I'm trying to remember. It all happened pretty fast.

Right about this time, one of the other guys, a wiry fellow who looked a lot like how a person would look if a demon made Abraham Lincoln knock up Carrot Top and they had a baby together. This dude was a huge turd. So, he grabbed his skateboard and swung it at Harry Handfuls from behind him. Harry knew it was coming, and he spun around and threw his arm up to shield the blow. The skateboard shattered on Harry's massive forearm, which looked like flesh colored granite or some other kind of strong rock. As the boy started to weep, he said, "My skateboard, it's shattered."

And Harry said, "Your face, it's shattered." And he punched that kid right between the eyes, and tears came squirting out in all directions. And blood too. Copious amounts of blood. It was funny. The kid kind of went weak-kneed and just collapsed like a tree that had been cut down or something even more pathetic than that.

Then Harry grabbed one of the parking meters and ripped it out of the sidewalk. I told you he was tough. And I think he must have had some super powers or something, too, because some of the shit this guy gets into later is really messed up, let me tell you. So, he grabbed this meter and started swinging it like a baseball bat. The rest of the guys started backing up, and saying things like, "Whoa mister we don't want any more trouble," and that kind of stuff all clicking away their switchblades and setting the safety back on their pistols.

Harry had so much DNA on his fist from the two guys he punched out that he could have made a frigging clone army. He wiped his hand on his jeans and said, "I hope you boys have learned a valuable lesson today: Don't fuck with Harry Handfuls." They were all like "Yessir," and "Mm-hmm," and just scrambling to get back in the bed of the pickup truck which probably like belonged to one of their dads or something. Idiots.

Harry walked to his Nissan Sentra and unlocked the door. He was pretty responsible, and he knew he shouldn't drive home since he was so drunk. Even though he could probably drive hell of better than most of the people on the road anyway. But he thought, Well, fuck it, I'm in the mood for a run. So, he put his car keys back in his pocket and took off running down the street. His muscles flexed and jiggled with his running pace or something.

Um let's see for the setting. Oh yeah, there were like some cars driving on the street. And lots of trees. I don't really know or care to know much about different types of trees, but they were probably some maple trees and a few oak trees. And of course people had yards with grass and flowers in them. It was a nice day outside. But there were dark clouds looming somewhere up there . . .