MOMENTS AFTER DAN VAN SLADE AND DAVID STOLE FRED DICK'S GOD DAMN CAR AND PISSED HIM THE FUCK OFF!

Question.

...

What is violence?

Is violence when someone collides into you, rips you from your home, and breaks you apart from the collective you were so proudly an integral part of for over three decades?

Or is it when, just moments later, he picks you up, tosses you in the air, and slaps the shit out of you?

FOR SOMETHING YOU DIDN'T EVEN DO????

Minutes ago, I was the rear bumper of the Deviantmobile. A beautiful, black, 1993 Dodge Shadow.

I wasn't much. I can admit that.

But I was part of something.

Now?

Now I'm just a... broken piece of cheap plastic and aluminum.

I'm worthless.

And it's this man's fault.

This... Blue-haired fuck's fault.

Fred Dick, I heard him called.

Look at him.

Pacing around in circles in this damn parking garage, like he's some kind of desperate jackass. Ranting about his stolen car and how he's all alone in the world and how he has no friends. And ranting further about how God made him, so God has to get him out of it and how, if God refuses to help him, he will start worshipping the Devil. Does God want that? Huh? Does God want that? Because Fred Dick will do that. He promises to God he will do that.

Then he falls to his knees.

And starts to weep.

What a fucking loser.

"I'm not a loser," he says, under his breath.

...

What?

He hugs his arms around himself. Rocks back and forth. Grits his teeth and closes his eyes as hard as he can.

"I'm not a loser, I'm not a loser, I'm not a loser, I'm not a loser, I'M NOT A FUCKING GOD DAMN LOSER!!! I'M NOT A LOSER!!! I'M NOT A LOSER!!!"

...Okay, man. You're... You're not a loser.

"I'm not a loser..." He says, whimpering. "I'm not a loser..."

You know how, when a man is at his lowest moment, that's when the skies crack and the rain starts to pour?

Well, the sky does not crack.

The rain does not pour.

But, a thundering, nonetheless, begins to emerge from the depths of the parking garage.

Men, women, children, marching with signs and crying to anyone who will listen, "FRED DICK! IS A PRICK! FRED DICK! IS A PRICK! FRED DICK! IS A PRICK!"

"Aww, fuck my grandma and chop some onions," Fred Dick complains. "It's those assholes at Citizens Against Fred Dick!"

A crowd of twenty or so people emerge from the shadows. They encircle Fred, chanting that same chant. Fred looks like a wounded, wild animal. He hisses at them, positions his hands like claws, displays his sharp, canine teeth.

"Well, well, well," A man says, stepping forward from the crowd. "If it isn't the man who ruined each and all of our lives. Remember me, Fred? I'm John McCoy. I used to be the greatest pickleballer in Chicken City, before you FUCKED me over and beat the SHIT out of my KNEE with a police baton. You remember that, Prick?"

FRED DICK! IS A PRICK! FRED DICK! IS A PRICK! FRED DICK! IS A PRICK! FRED DICK! IS A PRICK!

Fred looks around. He sees their cellphones pointed at him, recording. He sees the hate in their heart and their eyes and, in many ways, he appears to understand it.

But if he truly does understand -- he surely doesn't admit it.

"I have no fucking idea who any of you people are!" Fred screams.

"Oh no? You don't remember little Ella Belle Jean Leigh here? How old are you, Ella Belle Jean Leigh?"

A little girl who looks rather sickly answers, "I'm ten."

"And who is the man who raised money for your leukemia treatment and then pocketed the money?"

It's at this point that Fred picks me up in both hands, and WHACKS me over the head of John McCoy!

People scream, the crowd disperses in different directions, and John hits the parking garage floor like a sack of potatoes.

"I told ya I don't know who the fuck you are, assho'!" Fred screams, "You should've listened! But you didn't listen!"

As an extra fuck you, Fred WHACKS ME over McCoy's knee. He screams out in pain, and immediately clutches at his knee!

"That's the same knee you beat with a baton!" McCoy cries out, as if all he can do now is point out the severe injustice of this moment.

"I done told you," Fred says. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"

BANG! He WHACKS me into that knee again, and I'm even more dented up than I was previously.

Then, Fred looks around, tucks me under his arm, and shuffle-runs away.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! WE JUST WHACKED THAT GUY OFF AT THE KNEES!!! HEE-HEE!!! HEY!!! Listen, it's just you and me now, Bumper," he says, huffing and puffing as he shuffle-runs. "You're the only friend I got now. The only friend I will ever got."

A friend?

I'm a... friend?

Something about that... you know what I mean?

Something about being called a 'friend.'

Well... It just makes you feel real good inside your heart. And yeah, I know I ain't got no heart, or a chest for it to beat inside of. But look here, we all know that isn't what we really mean when we talk about someone's heart, anyway. The term isn't referential to a blood-pumping organ in shape or form but in name alone.

So when I talk about my heart, I concede, biologically, of course I ain't got one of those.

But spiritually, who's to say?

And all I mean to say, is that it makes a shitty, old bumper like me feel real good.

Good enough to forgive a man for ripping me away from everything I've ever known.

Because for thirty years I've been a part of a team.

But I cannot recall for the life of me being a part of a single friendship.

So what does the past matter, anyway?

I'm a friend now.

I'm an only friend.

Bumper.

Fred Dick's only friend.

Ha.

Who'd have thunk it?

Into the night we run, and my friend's mood has changed completely since our rocky introduction. He continues to laugh giddily and, though I have no mouth to laugh with, and certainly no funny bone to speak of, I too am quite amused.

"We made a good team back there!" Fred says.

I agree.

We are a good team. We're like thieves who prayed to any gods who would listen, "Let us get away with anything we want, amen amen and amen!"

And tonight, our prayers have been answered.

We made a friend. We assaulted a man and stole his knee from him.

And for the first time in thirty years?

I FEEL ALIVE!!!!

Hahaha. God damn, man. Suddenly, it feels like everything is coming up Bumper.

FRIENDSHIP RITUAL I - Getting Our Faces Done

New York City. Saturday Afternoon. 2/18/24

This must be what the cross that Jesus Christ carried through the streets of Jerusalem felt like.

In any case, it's certainly the closest I'll ever come to it.

Not to say that Fred Dick is Jesus, per se.

But boy howdy did he save me.

Today, we're going to get our faces diiiiiiiiid.

It's going to be hype as hell, y'all.

So like... First we stop in to this little spot where a bunch of folks were getting their nails done, and I'm just like, oh my god I don't even have fingers and he's getting me nails? That's awesome!

But, like, I totally just misunderstand the situation. That's my bad. Of course he's not getting me nails. That would be crazy.

Fred carries me into a backroom where a man smiles and tells him to lie down.

What the hell is going on?

What's this guy gonna do to my friend?

Fred lies on his back.

"Thirty dollars," the man says.

"You take card?" Fred asks. "A deviant bastard stole my car. Had my cash in it. In a little pill bottle. Where I keep my Adderalls. And my shrooms. It had my monies, my Addies, my shroomies, and my condoms in it."

"Condies," the man says.

Fred snaps his fingers, points at him, laughs.

The man does the same thing to him.

They laugh way too long in that pose.

I am a jealous piece of cheap plastic and aluminum.

The man takes Fred's card. Swipes it. Then he puts some crap on his eyebrows. Some paper. This is fucking weird. Then he...

OH MY GOD HE JUST RIPPED MY BUDDY'S FUCKING EYEBROWS CLEAN OFF! A TWO HAND RIP!!! ONE ON THE LEFT EYEBROW AND ONE ON THE RIGHT!!! OOOOOHHHH YOU ICE COLD SON OF A BITCH!!!

"MOOOOOOOOO-THERRRRRRRRRRRR..." Fred screams, then gasps.

"FUUUUUUUUUUUCKERRRRRRRRRRR!!!" He finishes.

Then, the man lording over my buddy and ripping his eyebrows clean off gets to work with tweezers. Fred weeps immediately. It hurts. He's being a little bit of a baby, maybe, but also, hey. How about stop making my friend cry? How about, if I had arms and legs, I'd kick your ass?

By the time we leave, Fred has a red band streaking across his forehead and thinner, more handsome eyebrows. When he doesn't look like he's been crying anymore, he'll look really good.

NOW IT'S MY TUUUUURN!

Fred calls an Uber. We stop by a drug store. He tells the Uber driver, "Hey, Car-dick. I'm gonna leave Bumper in the car. I'll be right back. Don't fuck with him. I'll tip you big. I'll give you all the stars. Just one more stop bro. But don't fuck with him."

That's m'dude.

Anyway, he comes back out of the drugstore with a Mattel ouija board and a white paint marker.

"Ight, to the Ramada."

The Uber driver takes us there. He lets us pick the music. Boys of Summer, obviously.

Anyway, Fred uses the white paint marker and draws on my face.

He takes a picture on his phone and shows me:

ツ

Oh my god..

I can't believe it.

Am I...

Am I the handsomest thing alive right now?

Hehe.

Is this the best day of my life?

FRIENDSHIP RITUAL II - THE SEANCE!

Ramada Inn. Saturday Night. 2/18/24

Candles sit around the room.The Catholic ones. Long, glass candles with Mary and Jesus and everyone else on them.

This is serious business.

The overhead lights are out. Allowing the candle flames to flicker their shadows all over the wall, just real nice and pretty-like.

I sit on the bed, right across from my best friend Fred.

Between us, a ouija board.

Fred's hands are placed on the planchette.

"MAMAAAAA!!!" Fred cries out. "Through the ancestral ethernet I call upon you to stop hanging out with Jesus and come talk with me a spell. I summon you out of Heaven to come talk with me!"

Suddenly, Fred's hands tremble. The planchette begins to move.

W H A T  T H E  F U C K  D O  U  W A N T  F R E D

"I just wanna talk, mama. That's all. I just wanna talk. I won my first match in PRIME. Ain't that cool? Course, I got my ass kicked and my car stolen. But I'm 1-0."

I D G A F

Fred frowns. "Why not, mama? Don't you love me."

N O  A C T U A L L Y  I  D O N T  L O V E  U

"Why..." Fred sniffles. "Why not, mama?"

B C  I  H A T E  U

"Why do you hate me?"

B C  U  R  A N  A S S H O L E

"No I'm not! I'm a good guy! And I'm a fucking winner!"

S T O P  C A L L I N  M E

"I will NEVER stop calling you!"

L O S E  M Y  N U M B E R

"Talk to you NEXT SATURDAY YOU FUCKIN BIIIIITCH!!!!!!!"

Fred throws the ouija board into the wall. The planchette shatters. He violently hurls the hotel bed blanket over himself, nearly knocks me off the bed in the process, and cries and cries and cries.

Here's the thing. I'm his friend, but... I admit.

I saw his hands move the planchette.

Which means he's just...

Man, it's a thin layer of skin between friendship and violence.

Even when dealing with yourself.

Maybe... Especially when dealing with yourself.

It's time to talk that sweet shit.

Ramada Inn. Sunday Morning. 2/19/24

"I got a question for you, Arthur Pleasant. And no, it's not about your teeth. I'm not like those shallow assho's who make fun of the way other fellers look. No, I'd like to think I have a LITTLE MORE CLASS than that."

Fred Dick stands in loose fitting, tighty whitey underwear and knee high baseball socks, his hands clasped behind his back. He stares thoughtfully out the window of his Ramada hotel room.

I lay on the bed, and just listen to my best friend's words.

"But nevertheless Arthur, I must ask you..."

A dramatic pause from my homie.

"What is violence?"

Oof. Good question. I believe I asked this earlier.

"Is violence when you collide into someone, rip them from their home, and break them apart from the collective they were so proudly an integral part of for over three decades?"

Yep. Definitely asked this earlier.

"Or is that friendship?"

Ooooh. I like that.

"See Artie, it occurs to me that the difference is little more than a thin layer of skin."

Fred finally looks away from the window, towards the end table by the bed, with a boom box sitting on it.

"I mean, fuck me. You know? Any other time in my life, I'd tell you, hey, great job, hombre. Side with the winners. You find yourself on a team with the Almassy Tournament winner and the big bad Russian. That's pretty good. HELL, THAT'S WHERE I WANT TO BE!"

Yeah. That sounds like a good position.

"But let me ask you this, dipshit. Any of them winners you fighting with actually your friend?"

Fred walks over to a boom box sitting on the end table. He hits play.

A tape cassette of "Lean On Me" by Bill Withers starts

Damn, I love this song. I hope you don't mind if I sing along with it.

"I mean, I know you got Mama Vickie, and Daddy Ivan. But when push comes to shove, how many times can you lean on them after a loss before their own thin skin kicks in? Hmm? They may support you now... But when that pride starts clawing at that thin skin of theirs... And then they need someone to blame for losing War Games... Who do you think the fall guy is gonna be?"

Some... Times in our lives.

We all have pain...

"It's you, Artie. It was always going to be you."

We all have sorrrrroooooow!

"See, guys like you, you spent your whole life thinking violence was the answer for all your problems. If someone had the guts to tell Arthur Pleasant 'no,' you'd spill their guts on the pavement. Ain't that right?"

But...

If we are wise...

"I mean, your sadistic-ass ways had you thinking you was the toughest cup of tea in the flat for a long time, didn't you? A real bitter cup of tea. Hoo-wee! Bitter as a damn orange peel."

We know that there's...

Always tomorrrrrooooow!!

"But now, now that you're here, playing third fiddle to a couple of actual bad ass sons of bitches, and playing second chair for a real violent, Russian Bear. You know the truth... You need friends."

LEAN ON ME!

WHEN YOOOOOU'RE NOT STROOOOONG!

I'LL BE YOUR FRIEND!

"But Ivan ain't interested in having more than one friend. The only thing that big Russian sumbitch wants more than one of is an asset."

I'LL HELP YOU CAAAAARRRRYYYY OOOOONNNNN!!!

"And Vickie and JCH? They just want someone to blame for when they lose, so it can be someone else's fault."

FOR... IT WON'T BE LOOOOOOOONG!!!

"And me? Hell nah man, I ain't got no time for no friends. I only got one. Ol' Bumper here. You see him? Look at him smile!"

ツ

SOMEBODY TO LEEEEEEAN ON."

"The fact is, Artie. I'm typically too thin skinned to make friends. Seems we're just alike in that way. All my relationships... They just devolve into sadistic God damn VIOLENCE."

Please... Swallow your pride.

"Same for Vickie Hall, I'm sure. Same for Ivan, too. No doubt about that."

If you have things... You need to borrrrroooow!

"But the difference in them two, and you?"

For... No one can fill...

"The difference in me and you?"

Those of your needs... That you won't leeeeet show!

"Ivan, Vickie, Fred. Three people who got real thin skin, but a real... THICK... will."

Just call on your brother when you need a hand!

"My will is girthy as hell, bubba."

We all need somebody to leeeeean on!

"And that's the difference in winners like us, and losers like you. With all of us, you either gotta be our prisoner (See JCH) or have gone through some serious, serious shit alongside us (see Alexei) to be our friends. Our skin is too thin to accept anyone else into our folds. But when we want to make a friend out of someone..."

I just might haaaaave a problem that you understand!

We all need somebody to leeeeean on!

LEAN ON ME!

"Or an asset..."

WHEN YOU'RE NOT STRONG!

"Or a fall guy..."

I'LL BE YOUR FRIEND!

"The thickness of our will not only accepts that we do so."

I'LL HELP YOU CAAAAARRY ONNNNNN!

FOR...

"It demands it."

IT WON'T BE LONG!

"Winners, Artie, are prisoners to their will. But you? If your will tells you 'no,' you'll just spill its guts all over the pavement. Ain't that right? Just like you do to everyone else."

TIL I'M GONNA NEED...

"Your will ain't thick enough to stand up to you, let alone Reality."

SOMEBODY TO LEEEEEAN ON!!!

The tape comes to an abrupt halt, ejects itself from the boom box. Fred rips the tape out of the tray, and throws it against the wall.

Aww. Damn. I just really love that song. And it was... almost relevant to my best friend's promo, too.

"And Reality is the most violent son of a bitch in the world... Even more violent than you. Hell, even more than ME, if you can believe that."

Fred adjusts his underwear. It's been riding up his crack.

"You gotta have a real thick will to withstand Reality's violence."

A little grin spreads across his face.

"For instance, Reality says that come ReVival 44, down in fucking Rhode Island, I'm gonna take your ass, package it up real nice, put a fucking bow on it, and hand it to you."

A chuckle.

"That's just Reality, son."

A shrug.

"And your skin might be too thin to accept that, Artie. And you may attempt to get violent with Reality, because you can't make it your friend. But you will find that Reality gives less than zero FUCKS about your attempts at violence."

A dramatic pause...

"And your will ain't fucking thick enough to change Reality's mind."

Gosh... I'm just so proud of my friend.

Wait, wait, wait.

I've had enough of this shit.

Sorry, this is Reality. Fuck, my bad. God damnit! Fuck!

Fred Dick nearly tricked me into staying out of this by pretending to be a god damn broken rear bumper...

I mean, he's not so much pretending to be a rear bumper as he is... Personifying it just enough to make believe it's his friend, and narrating Fred's story.

This motherfucker gets on my god damn last nerve.

Haven't you considered the depths Fred's brain has to reach to be able to do this?

To convince himself that not only is the rear bumper of a 1993 Dodge Shadow that he broke off his friend, but capable of logic, perception, and feelings belonging exclusively to sentient entities?

Someday... Someday I might just wrestle this fucker.

To Arthur Pleasant, I, Reality, would like you to know, that even though Fred Dick was right about a lot of that...

I, personally, am rooting for you to kick his fucking ass.

But the truth is, I don't decide how that goes. That's between you two.

All I can tell you is what Fred Dick is definitely going to do.

...tonight...

sigh

In that dirty, Ramada Inn...

Fred Dick is going to make sweet love to a broken, rear bumper.

It will be passionate.

It will be sweaty.

It will be violent.

And most of all, it will be friendly.

...

Damn it, that's it!

I'm sick of this man's bullshit!

I declare war eternal against Fred Dick.

But... that thick ass, girthy ass will of his...

I must admit, it presents a formidable challenge for anyone.

Even me.