The Crazy Chicken (404 hits)
Category: RomanceRating: -1.16 on 16 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by briokid666.at.hotmail.com (View user info) at 2007-06-12 12:20:14 EDT
The Crazy Chicken
"I mean, do you think they make more than, say, the regular old hookers?" Martin asks me.
"It's kind of a two-way street, I guess..." I try to explain,"Look at it this way-she's obviously got a more specialized talent than your average run-of-the-mill whore, so there's that, you know, higher demand in a career field that not many chicks could stomach. Then again, she works less, she has to, you can't go fucking a donkey every night, it's gotta be much more physically demanding than just doing some college kid."
I'm surprised I can process the logic so coherently after vomiting tequila on the table in the Zero Zone.
"You're probably right," Martin agrees.
"I'm willing to bet it's much more of a stable profession, I mean financially, to be the um, star of a donkey show. You probably get paid per show, like a salary kinda thing, as opposed to the hourly wages of a hooker. I bet she has a booking agent and regular gigs and stuff. She collects door money, with percentages and shit going out to her handlers."
"Yeah, but you also gotta think, what about the cost of upkeep on the donkey? You gotta feed them shits, you gotta stable them and shit. And then there's transporting the thing..."
"Well, if she keeps her business pretty localized, she can just walk the donkey around, or even fuckin' ride the thing. Feeding it's no problem either, donkeys can eat anything, tin cans and whatnot."
"Dude, that's goats."
"Mexican donkeys are tougher than American goats," I reason.
This sets Martin off laughing, and he almost falls to his face on the cobblestone street. We're in an alleyway trying to find the correct door along the wall, the one with "Pollo Loco" painted on the sign. The short guy with the rat tail at the Zone said we could find a donkey show at the place, so we set out in search of the Mexico that's not in the Cancun brochure. There are slumped figures in corners taking the last pulls from their bottles, and at least four young girls offer us dollar packs of cigarettes and five dollar sex on the way. I pass. I've got a half-full pack of Marlboros and no use for some wacky Mexican STD. That, and I don't have the heart to fuck a twelve-year-old girl in a damp alleyway. I'm a degenerate, not a monster.
"I kinda don't know what to think right now," I say, "Not like cold feet or anything, but I just don't know how to feel. The nihilist in me can't wait to see the lowest form of human behavior, but the animal lover in me is more than a little disturbed."
"Fuck that, don't worry about the donkey, he's getting his cookies-I'd be more concerned about the welfare of the fuckee. It can't be good for someone to take a whole donkey cock, and then there's the sanitation issue to consider-you think a mexican 'performing' donkey is clean and tested?" Martin asks, perhaps rhetorically.
"Do you think donkeys have STDs?"
"I dunno, AIDS came from monkeys, right? What makes any other animal different? I just always assumed that any animal could carry VD."
"You're right, man, the only difference between a donkey and a monkey is the first letter in their names."
"First of all, that doesn't make any sense, and second of all, there's like a billion differences between donkeys and monkeys, you fuckhead." Martin's right, there are many differences between donkeys and monkeys. I have to change the subject.
"There it is," I say, pointing to a red wooden door with a picture of a chicken in a noose painted on the door, "The Pollo Loco..."
"Let's hit it."
I light a cigarette and hum a few bars of "Gloria" by Van Morrison, just like I always do before I'm about to enter a building which I might leave with fewer body parts or more blood on the outside of me than in. One must figure out ways to trick himself into feeling tough before he goes into a seedy Mexican bar to watch a woman fornicate a mule. You can't just tighten up your fanny pack, take the lensecap off your camera and pay your five at the door-this is no place for tourists. You have to make yourself feel like this is a weekly gig for you, like what the fuck else would you be doing on a saturday night?
I dig a five out of my sock and give it to the man at the door. He takes it with a shaking hand. He's about a head shorter than me, with a black ponytail and no hair left on top of his head. He's wearing a pink tank-top that extends almost to his knees, with the words "Corazon de Oro" painted in fading dayglo green across his stomach. His eyes are set so far apart they're almost on the sides of his head and his teeth look like little lumps of butter in his mouth when he says "Gracias, senor, bienvenidos..." He is barefoot. I get the sneaking suspicion that he's not employed by the bar at all, he's just standing outside collecting a door fee that doesn't exist to anyone but sucker Americans like myself. Whatever, he needs the fiver more than I do. Martin hands him a dollar bill and gets the same greeting.
"Gracias, senor-bienvenidos..."
We walk through the door into a short, dimly lit hallway that is covered in mirrors on one side. The name of the club is written over and over, backwards, on the other side. There is a long rug on the wooden floor that could go for thousands at some trendy antique store in the States. I stomp my cigarette out on the rug and immediately light another. One man's entry hall decoration is another man's ashtray. We make our way down the hall into a small room with a bar at one end and a jukebox blasting fast conjunto music so loudly it makes my teeth vibrate. I walk to the bar and yell for a Corona. The bartender cracks a can of Tecate and sets it on the damp, soft wood of the bar.
"No Corona!" he shouts over the din.
"It'll do!" I scream back, and I slide a quarter to him, "Keep the change!"
He frowns and puts the quarter in his pocket. Martin buys a bottle of tequila and we find the table with the least amount of dried-up blood and spit on its surface. There is no ashtray on the table, so I use the floor. Cigarette butts are strewn all over the wooden floor, stuck into cracks and flattened into nothing from months of being walked on. At other tables, men in twos and threes huddle around bottles of tequila or cans of beer, smoking and muttering in spanish. Tucked away in the corner, in the only booth in the room, four men sit with a giant plate of meat and tortillas smoking joints and picking at the food. They occasionally bellow along with the music, swinging their arms in the air and tossing bits of beef and horse meat all over the place. A thick cloud of brownish smoke lingers at everybody's hairline, constantly moving and pulsing in the dusty light. There is a rush of stench that flows over the room when the restroom door is opened and shut, along with an acute slice of light spilling from the bare flourescent bulbs buzzing away over the single rusty ceramic sink and lidless toilet bowl. I try not to imagine the horrors that the toilet has seen in its time, but my mind wanders anyway. Martin and I attempt to blend in by drinking heavily and chain smoking.
"So, what's the deal now? Are you single or what?" He asks, trying to distract himself from the stares we are attracting.
"Not really, but I can do what I want, pretty much-I wouldn't consider it cheating if I hooked up with someone else," I answer, stealing a shot from his bottle.
"What the fuck does that mean? Is she your girlfriend?"
"No, not in the traditional sense-she still sees other people, and I could if it came up."
"So basically, she does what she wants and dates casually, and you pine away like a pussy?"
"Exactly-fuck you."
"I'm just sayin', maybe you should move on and find a nice stripper or something..."
"Strippers aren't nice, they're just paid well."
"Then find yourself a nice Hooters girl."
"Hooters girls are just strippers with chicken wings instead of lapdances-and some of them even blur the line."
"Touche."
The lights drop out around us and the jukebox falls silent. All of a sudden I can hear every cockroach in the building having sex and the rats filming it for the internet. The toilet is running obscenely behind the constantly swinging door. The Mexicans all continue their conversation in a whisper, and I can hear every smack and spit and slurp from the men eating in the booth. The silence is sickening, visceral. Relief comes in a wash of red light pouring over the clear area at the opposite end of the room from the bar. I hear the clop clop clop of a large hoofed animal being led from a room in the back.
"I wonder if that thing shits back there before the show?" Martin whispers to me.
"I wonder if they clean it up at all..."
A song spills out of the jukebox that sounds like the Mexican Frank Sinatra, and the donkey is led out to the "stage" by a woman who looks like a silly putty copy of Dolly Parton's corpse. She's wearing a two-piece sequined number, like something out of the old Vegas strip, but with the sequins half gone and the strap in back buried beneath an inch of overlapping flesh. She smiles and waves to the crowd, revealing a month's worth of armpit hair growth and jiggling her botched tit job. Her teeth are huge and brown, and the lower row is mostly gold. Her nose makes a straight line from tip to brow, with no curvature or indentation between the eyebrows. Her eyes appear to settle into their pits and stare into each other, and her eyebrows are sweeping, tattooed arches perched high on her forehead. Her hair is a year-old bleach job piled in a nest on top of her head, and seems to be receding even as I watch her lead the poor mule to center stage. Once he's in position, she does a flowery little showgirl strut around him a few times, waving and tripping over her own heels. Her smile seems surgically attached. Her eyes betray her lips.
Suddenly, the fanfare stops and the hideous woman stands there frozen in a pose that says, "Here's a donkey! Somebody shoot me!" She holds this for what seems like the better part of a decade before a small figure comes out from the same back room as the donkey. The figure eventually catches enough of the red light to reveal itself as a young girl. She is tiny and beautiful, wearing a lacy white dress and a wreath on her long black hair, which is tied up in some ridiculously complicated braids and strewn about her small brown shoulders. She looks at the floor as she glides into the center of the light. She does not smile. She is so delicate, so out of place with her large dark eyes and perfect little knots of hair, that I have to look around to make sure that she's not a figment of my imagination. She's not, she's captured every gaze in the room. I take another shot. Martin drinks out of the bottle without ever losing sight of the little goddess. I take another shot. I wonder what's happening.
"What's going on?" I ask Martin
She's moving slowly toward the donkey.
"I dunno, I think the little girl is the one who..." he trails off and all the blood goes out of his face. He takes another pull out of the bottle.
"No way, no fuckin' way!" I hiss at him, confused and horrified by the whole world, "Somebody's gotta do something!"
"Let's just get outta here," Martin says as he slowly rises from his chair.
I slam down my last shot, consider for a moment that it might be the last one I ever drink, and move quickly to the stage, where the small dream of a girl is positioning herself beneath the large nightmare of an animal. I grab her by the arm and yank her to her feet. She lets out a yelp like a coyote and shrinks away from me, and then quickly darts into the back room. I'm standing in the middle of the stage with fifteen disappointed Mexican men and one very angry and very ugly Mexican woman scowling at me like I just shit in their grandmothers' graves. I take a step back and run smack into the burro. Apparently, he's a little put out too, because he cranes his neck around and bites off what feels like most of my ear. I howl and drop to my knees in pain, trying to stop the waterfall of blood that's pouring down the side of my neck. I look up for a moment and everything's blurry and red. I turn around in time to see the demon woman swinging some kind of sawed-of baseball bat at me, and then my eyes go white. I feel nauseous. I face the crowd, I can't close my mouth. My neck won't hold up my head any more. I see Martin move between me and a crowd of drunken Mexicans, and everything goes black....
User Reviews
Submitted by billiam5billion (user info) at 2007-06-13 16:05:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
howsabout somebody telling me how to format shit?!
I'm an old fart, I just recently got rid of my typewriter. any help would be appreciated.
Submitted by billiam5billion (user info) at 2007-06-13 16:04:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
damn you slower kids
Submitted by ilikesteak (user info) at 2007-06-13 14:56:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
This wouldn't have sucked if it was formatted (made easier to read and understand) so the slower kids can play too.
Submitted by EmissionImpossible (user info) at 2007-06-13 08:13:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
CUT AND PASTE JOB.
Submitted by HateMudkips (user info) at 2007-06-13 04:36:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
not bad
needs moar format
Submitted by Beano312003 (user info) at 2007-06-12 13:18:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by august_sobriquet (user info) at 2007-06-12 13:05:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
original concept... but the the format was so experimental as to be unreadable.
har har har.
Submitted by billiam5billion (user info) at 2007-06-12 13:03:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Christ, this thing sucks. I'll never get the hang of this Ubernerd stuff. WHAT THE FUCK IS FORMATTING!?
negative 2 for "format" and "eye-rape", negative a billion for not fitting in at all.
Submitted by congo (user info) at 2007-06-12 13:01:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Nice block of text!
I wonder what it said.
Submitted by lover101 (user info) at 2007-06-12 12:44:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
fix it
Submitted by skrapmetal (user info) at 2007-06-12 12:39:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
What did my eyes ever do to you?
Submitted by Dexter-Brown (user info) at 2007-06-12 12:30:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
copy and paste
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2007-06-12 12:30:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Seriously mate, two gigantic eye-raper text blocks in one day?
Re-format or kill yourself.
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2007-06-12 12:25:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2007-06-12 12:22:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
what he said.
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2007-06-12 12:22:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Fuck you and your giant block of text too.