THE LOST BARZ (CERTIFIED HOOD CLASSIC) The Mixtape: Track 1 - Heaven's at the Bottom of a Bog in Illinois

Let me sing it like Chris Cornell:

On a cobweeeeeb…

Afternoooooon in a room full of emptineeeesss 

Fred Dick's fat ass lies on a waterbed, butt ass naked with a fan spinning right towards his crack.

“Face down, ass up, that's the way we like to feel sorry for ourselves.”

- The 2 Live Crew

So it was written. So it had come to ass.

The room’s as dark and sad as a stick of black licorice. That's the way Fred likes it when he feels like a loser. Between the ounce of blood that EMTs had pumped in his body (the only A+ he'd received in his entire life) after his match with Paxton Ray, and the match result itself?

Nah, leave the damn lights off.

“I'm a loser," Fred whispers. "I'm a fat fuggin’ piece of DAWG SHID!’

Suddenly, a knock on the door.

“MAMA DICK.”

“Go away STRONKY baby, Mama’s tryna rest his eyes.”

“OK.”

Fred adjusts himself, closes his eyes.

...

…But something doesn't feel quite right.

“You still there, ain't you?”

“YES.”

Fred sighs.

“Well stop it. Okay? Your mama’s a loser!”

The door slowly cracks open, and light from the hall invades the room, exposing Fred's pasty-white, manatee-esque form to STRONK’s eyes.

“I SAID GO AWAY!!!” Fred screams. He turns his hands into cat claws and hisses at STRONK. “YOU HAVE SEEN ME IN MY TRUE ESSENCE!!!”

Fred hisses again, and stands up. His embarrassment absolutely skyrockets through the roof as he realizes STRONK can see his little, SPAM-meat-looking wiener. Panic washes over him, and in a haste driven by a pure fight or flight response, he charges towards the bedroom window, fully intending to crash through the glass and fall to his death.

SPUH-LAT!!!

But Fred's body only collides into the window, making the same sound as if you slapped a raw, ground beef patty on a kitchen counter. He rolls backwards, uses the momentum to climb back to his feet, hisses at STRONK again, jumps in the bed and covers himself up with the blanket.

“What the hell do you want, son? You're embarrassin’ me!”

“STRONK AND MAMA DICK HAVE BEEN INVITED TO WRESTLE IN A TOURNAMENT.” STRONK declares. “YES. FOR THE TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP BELTS OF PRIME. BECAUSE STRONK AND MAMA DICK ARE GOOD WRESTLERS AND STRONK AND MAMA DICK ARE BIG AND STRONG AND WEIGH OVER THREE HUNDRED POUNDS.”

“YOU might be a good wrestler,” Fred says. “But I ain't. I'm ‘bout ta fuggin’ retire. God damn Paxton Ray! GOD DAMN HIM TO HELL!!!”

STRONK casts an empty, but almost concerned glance at Fred.

“STRONK THINKS MAMA DICK NEEDS A VACATION.”

Fred sighs.

“Laaaawwwwd yes,” Fred says, fanning himself with his bare hand. “Laaaaaawd YES I need me a vacation. Some beautiful place somewheres. With lots of water. Fine ass honeys as far as the eye can see. Big tiddy benches just showin their biddies, and me bein’ like, ‘ooooooooh weeee lookadem biddies!’”

“STRONK KNOWS A PLACE LIKE THIS MAMA DICK,” STRONK says, sits on the edge of the bed. “DEEP IN THE WET. FISH HUMAN WOMEN. WITH GIANT, SAGGY PECTORAL MUSCLES.”

Fred lifts an eyebrow. “You talggin’ mermaid pussy right now, STRONK?”

STRONK squints.

“Mermaid clam,” Fred clarifies.

“YES.”

Fred grins a stupid-looking grin. His entire life, he'd always dreamed of having sex with mermaids and mermans of various species.

A beautiful dream.

And now, STRONKY baby?

He was going to help Fred fulfill that beautiful dream.

Y’know who fulfills their dreams, don't cha?

Winners.

“Well, slap my ass and call me Moby,” Fred says, that stupid grin on his face growing. “Because I'm about to be a giant dick in the ocean!”

STRONK places a hand on Fred's shoulder. Meant to comfort, he actually slaps the god damn SHID out of Fred.

“YES. LET STRONK TAKE MAMA DICK TO THE WET. STRONK WILL SHOW MAMA DICK A WHOLE NEW WORLD OF FISH HUMAN FEMALE CLAMUSSY.”

Fred tears up, wipes the salty water from his eyelids. “You're the best son a mama could ask for.”

STRONK nods matter of factly.

“YES.”

DAYS GO BY AND STILL I THINK OF YOU

A 2003 Mitsubishi Eclipse zips down a Peruvian highway.

“Days Go By” by Dirty Vegas sets the tone perfectly for this moment.

Days go by and still I think of you Days when I couldn't live my life without you

The Eclipse expertly weaves through traffic.

We cut inside the car.

A fat, mangled-looking, ugly ass foot STOMPS on the gas pedal.

Fred Dick. He's driving.

Days go by and still I think of you Days when I couldn't live my life without you

In the passenger seat, STRONK is absolutely feeling the music. He does a style of basic white girl dancing from the early aughts that involves a lot of voguing, a lot of robotic movements, and a lot of popping and locking the torso.

Fred Dick casually looks over at STRONK. But STRONK doesn't look back at him. He's feeling the music. He's locked the fuck in. Fred smiles, shakes his head a little, turns his eyes back to the road.

They speed through the night like thieves who prayed to the god of luck and deception that tonight they could get away with anything they wanted, and their prayers were answered.

Fred stomps the gas again –

NYEEEEOOOOWN~!!

Days go by and still I think of you Days when I couldn't live my life without you 

And soon enough they've reached a shipping harbor.

A ship sits docked and ready to leave port, but one shipping container remains open.

Fred spots it. He slows to a stop. Revs the engine. Just enough to hear that sweet engine purr. Yeah, that's a V6 right there. Hell yeah.

“Buckle your seat belt boy,” Fred says, looking at STRONK. “There's a high possibility one, or even both of us, gets completely fucked up from this. To mermaid pussy, right? WHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWW!!!!!!”

Days go by and still I think of you Days when I couldn't live my life without you

Perhaps you think at this time that Fred and STRONK are going to drive into the ocean to bang mermaids. You're wrong.

In fact, neither one of these gentlemen have considered the fact that the water stretching as far as their eyes can see is the very water whose floor STRONK traversed for eight months.

Days go by and still I think of you Days when I couldn't live my life without you Without you Without you 

Perhaps you think that this is going to end poorly for them in some way, shape or form.

Fred hits the gas pedal like the gas pedal hit his mama, and they go FLYING towards the boats.

WHOOSH!

That was Fred driving off the edge of the fucking docks at 160 kilometers per hour.

KAKLUNK!

And that was them landing safely on the boat.

The shipping container closes.

It didn't go badly at all, except for the fact that they might starve to death.

Days go by and still I think of you Days when I couldn't live my life without you Without you Without you 

THE DARK

For ten long days, Fred and STRONK sat in what STRONK came to know as the DARK.

The shipping container was their home, their prison, their love chamber, their war chamber, and everything in between.

No one will ever know precisely what went on in those ten days of the DARK.

“Have you ever… heard about the time my mama made me eat English peas?”

…time became muddy…

“STRONK NEEDS MEAT.”

“I've got gadgets and gizmos aplenty! I've got whozits and whatzits galore!”

…time became lost altogether…

“MAMA DICK… STRONK IS NOT FEELING GOOD.”

“OW! I FEEL GOOD. DUH NUH NUH NUH NUH NUH NUH. I KNEW THAT I WOULD.”

…and STRONK became hungry…

“STRONK IS STARVING FOR MEAT!!! STRONK WILL EAT MAMA FRED!!! MAMA FRED HAS SUCCULENT BREASTAGES!!!”

“NO! Not the tids… look. If you gotta … fuck, man. If you gotta eat… some… of me… FUCK dude. If you HAVE TO… stay away from the BREASTAGES. Ok?... Take a look at this ace though.”

No one knows…

-Exactly-

What happened.

But we do know that, around Day Seven in the DARK?

STRONK stopped talking altogether for a few days.

And Fred Dick couldn't find a way to sit comfortably.

DAY 10 - END OF THE DARK

The shipping container opens up.

Fred starts the engine.

Days go by and still I think of you Days when I couldn't live my life without you Without you Without you 

Go, you Rare Boys! Sally forth, you Big Dick Stallions! 

To destiny!

They drive off the boat, onto the dock, through waves of blue collar harbor workers who kick and scream profanities towards the vehicle.

It was a long drive to the ocean going that direction.

Or, well, wherever the hell they were going.

IN SEARCH OF ATLANTIS, OR BOG BOYS DOIN’ BOG BOY SHID

Somehow, STRONK and Fred Dick took several turns and detours and found themselves parked in the middle of a dense forest, overlooking a disgusting, fetid bog about the size of a standard in-ground swimming pool. The sun is hot, and a faint, sharp tang of ammonia mixed with the overpowering stench of decay and rot makes the air almost unbreathable.

Not that Them Rare Boys care a lick about that shid. Breathe through your mouth like a real man and taste the flavors of the great outdoors!

Their 2003 Mitsubishi Eclipse, sporting a rust spot on the quarter panel shaped like a flexing bicep or misshapen penis, sits parked on a stump, with one side of its tires suspended above the ground.

The bog seems to breathe, its putrid breath rising in slow, sinister waves.

A father and son stand on the far side of the bog, catching frogs. Their expressions shift from curiosity to unease as Fred strips down to his tighty-whities. STRONK slips his arms through the straps of a baby carrier, securing it onto his back.

“And you're sure there's some hot babes down there's?” Fred asks, nonchalantly scaling STRONK and climbing into the baby carrier.

He shouldn't fit—really shouldn't—but somehow, he squeezes in. The seams begin to pop, and his legs instantly begin turning a troubling shade of purple. Despite this, he's in there, creating an unusual sight that defies common sense. The Big Dick Stallions flex, pose, and stomp around, warming up their muscles.

The father and son bolt for a nearby path, eager to distance themselves from the two strange men.

“YES. FISH HUMANS POSSESS LARGE ‘HITTERS.’ SAGGY PECTORAL MUSCLES WHICH MAMA DICK LIKES.”

Fred nods, applying a nose clip and donning a faded, NASCAR bathing cap. “Couple of landwellers like us," Fred says. "Handsome as hell and makin’ money, we’re gonna be up to our throats in CLAM! I’m’a dose it in that sweet oyster sauce! Ya think they watch the PRIME down there?”

The Human Brick Shithouse thinks. He looks at the bog, then contemplates how television works—a mystery he doesn't comprehend. He knows it involves electricity and wires, and from his experience, water and electricity make spicy water.

“YES.”

“Shiiid, let’s go then!” Fred says as the bog belches, and a skeletal hand rises to the surface, its knuckles breaking the water.

The Big Dick Stallions notice but don’t acknowledge it.

STRONK begins to march toward the bog, his legs steady despite carrying a man nearly his own weight (and four inches taller) on his back.

Suddenly, Fred shouts, as if the thought has just struck him, “WAIT! HOLD YER HORSES ONE SEC, BABY BOY! ... How’m I gonna breathe underwater?”

STRONK pauses, pondering Fred’s question. He never considered how he managed to survive walking on the ocean floor for six months, or how unusual his ability to breathe underwater actually is. Many still don’t believe it, calling it PR spin or just plain old hype. To them, it’s a myth.

But STRONK doesn't see why anyone would lie about it. It’s not like he deadlifted a mountain or ate a grizzly bear from ass to face while it was still alive.

He just...

“SUCK IN. BLOW OUT.” STRONK demonstrates, hauling in a deep breath and then expelling it powerfully. “MAMA DICK’S INSIDE CHEST MUSCLES WILL HURT AND HURT WORSE THAN INSIDE CHEST MUSCLES HAVE EVER HURT BEFORE. THAT IS GOOD.”

Fred shrugs. “Aiiiight, son, that’s easy! Let’s get in there, it’s hotter than bawls and the water’s lookin’ fiiine!”

The skeletal hand sinks beneath the surface, as they begin to approach the bog.

STRONK feels something plop down on top of his head.

“WHAT IS THAT?”

“Freedom fries cooked absolutely t’shid so they hard as a dwarf corpse’s lil pecker, and smothered in beef fat and burnt ends and lawd knows what,” Fred says, pinching several fries together and shoving them into his maw. “I make ‘em at home. …Ya want one?”

“YES.”

“Allllrightttt, but we better scarf these sumbenches down AND QUICK or the shids gon’ get SOGGY,” Fred says, grabbing a bunch of fries and piloting the starch plane through the air and landing it safely on his tag team partner / hetero lifemate’s outstretched tongue.

They munch on the fries from the paper basket perched atop STRONK’s enormous cranium as they wade into the water, first up to STRONK’s knees, then to his chest.

“This the thing you walked across?” Fred remarks, not thinking much of a bog that only extends about twenty feet from one side to the other.

STRONK'S head is already fully underwater.

“And it took ya six months? Siiiiiiighhhh, baby boy probably got good and lawst without his Mama’s German Shepherd-like sense of dir—ahhh OOOHHH MY NIPS that’s COLLLLDblurbbb bluRRrB!”

As they submerge into the murky bog, Fred’s hand rises above his head, defiantly clutching a single greasy fry smeared with an unknown brown substance, the last thing visible before they vanish completely.

Bubbles swiftly ascend, breaking the surface of the water, which is so dark and filled with grime and sediment that nothing is visible beneath.

THE SOGGY BOTTOM OF THE BOG

The cold embrace of the bog’s depths makes Fred feel… disoriented and uneasy, as if he’s experiencing something completely alien, breathing air while submerged in water.

He recalls the sensation of water on his bare skin, the decomposing bird he inadvertently dove into as his head submerged (somehow floating just beneath the surface), and that first, impossible deep breath he took.

All your life, you’re told that people can’t breathe water; they breathe air. Science isn’t open to new and innovative ways of thinking. The crusty old Establishment seems content to let people drown, for reasons that remain unclear.

It was as if Fred blinked (…following an excruciating three minutes of intense pain, confusion, and panic…) and was instantaneously transported to a new, wondrous, underwater locale!

Like magic!

“Hollllyyyy shiddd, STRONK, you weren’t foolin’!”

No sign of STRONK; must’ve gotten separated on their way to the bottom.

Fred observes his surroundings: a beautiful, glowing city off in the distance, much too far away to logically fit inside the tiny bog, but he casts that thought aside, and makes his way toward it, bouncing across the bottom of the bog like an astronaut on the moon.

He enters the city, and sees that there are thriving small businesses lining each side of the crystal road. There’s a sandwich shop, a porn theater, a tax accountant’s office, even a Wendy’s.

Might have to snag a Baconator.

“Hey Fred! Good to see you! What took you so long?” a seemingly-friendly voice cries, but Fred can’t locate its source.

“Ayyy!” Fred calls out. “Anyone see a strappin’ young boy walkin’ around here? He’s about… three bills and some change?”

No one answers.

Fred thinks about how nice it is being in the water because it keeps his chaffed assho' hydrated. Which is good. Last thing you want is to be digging in there when three beaaaaaauuuutiful mermaids sidle up to you and start running their webbed hands all over your giblets.

The three mermaids fuss over the King of Wrong Style, paying special attention to his red mullet.

“Y’all must be the welcum waggin’,” Fred says. “Y’all seen a STRONK anywhere?”

“He’s in there, Fred,” one of them says in a strangely seductive tone, pointing to a glowing tower that extends upwards for thousands of feet from the middle of the city, “STRONK’s been welcomed into the Palace.”

“Ahh great! What’s the quickest dang route t’get me there?” Fred demands.

The mermaids turn to one another in a partial huddle and giggle like mischievous schoolgirls.

One says, “But Fred, you’re not Palace material.”

“Whuuuuuuttt??”

“The Palace is for good people,” one of the mermaids adds. “And you are not a good person, Fred.”

“You’re a very bad person.”

“And a total loser.”

“And losers go… someplace else.”

They exchange glances, as if they feel guilty about the news they’re delivering.

Suddenly, all the businesses are now shuttered, the water around Fred has turned oily and unpleasant, and the Palace is shrouded in a darkness that wasn’t there before.

“The f-fuggg… is happening?” Fred stammers. He turns back to the mermaids—but their beauty has deteriorated: their breasts hang to their stomachs like grocery bags filled with lumpy mashed potatoes, their eyes milky white and unnerving, and their aces… have shrunk to normal, basic-bitch levels.

“Losers and bad people go… down the well,” one of the mermaids whispers, pointing to an ominous well further down the road that wasn’t there before.

Now, ol’ Fred’s not the smartest guy walking the face of the earth, but even he wonders why the fuck there’s a well at the bottom of a bog.

As if compelled by an unknown force, Fred walks toward the well, fear and dread building within him as he gets closer.

“Y’all a bunch of succu-succu-…” he wants to say ‘succubus’ but his brain or tongue won’t let him get the word out. “Y’all a bunch of EVIL BENCHES, y’hear!?”

“Into the well, Fred.”

“Go on, Fred. To the Black Deep you must go.”

“Climb into the well, Fred. Do not dawdle. They’re waiting for you.”

Fred gazes down into the well… it’s pitch-black inside, radiates a dangerous energy. The well reflects all his worst memories and soul-crushing failures. He knows he shouldn’t go down the well—nothing good can come of it—but he can’t stop himself from throwing one leg over the side and climbing in.

Almost immediately, he has second thoughts and clutches at the rim of the stone well, trying but failing to pull himself back out.

The mermaids reappear, and Fred screams, “PLEASE!!! HELP ME!! PULL ME OUTTA HERE!!”

But instead, they pry his fingers loose, breaking his death grip on the well. He falls slowly, deeper and deeper into the darkness.

“AWWWW FUGGGG!! NO!!!! IT CAN’T END LIKE—”

And then he’s gone.

“COME ON MAMA DICK! COME ON MAMA DICK!”

“BLEEEERRRRRGH!!!!”

That was STRONK performing CPR and Fred Dick waking up and voiding water from his lungs.

“God damn!” Fred says, in between violent heaves to expel water. “I seent em STRONK. The mermaid benches with the big hitters. You were right!”

But now that Fred is okay, STRONK keeps looking back towards the bog, as though something calls to him.

“Them big biddy mermaids were stuck up as hell though. Talm bout, ‘oh, you a bad person, so you gotta go to the dark well.’ Oh yeah? Well, you smell like assho' you dumb bench.”

STRONK does not answer. Eyes on the bog.

“You listenin' boy?”

STRONK dives back into the bog.

“Nope. He ain't listenin'. That's the problem with his whole GOT DAMN gener–”

STRONK jumps out of the bog. That's right. Jumps out. You wish you had that level of explosiveness.

“LOOK WHAT STRONK FOUND DOWN THERE MAMA DICK!”

STRONK opens his hand, reveals a Muggsy Bogues bobblehead doll resting in his palm, covered in bog water and shitty mud and sediment.

“IT CALLED TO STRONK IN THE SMALL WET.”

“Boy…” Fred says, dread in his eyes as he gazes at the Muggsy Bogues bobblehead. “It's got a… dark, dark energy about it.”

“WHAT DOES IT MEAN MAMA DICK?”

“Laaaaaawd nothin' good! You best throw that thang back in the water! C’mon, we gotta get in the car and go win a damn TAG TEAM TOURNAMEEEEENNNNNNT!”

“OKAY.”

“Meetcha there, boy.”

Fred stands to his feet. Dry heaves a few times. Belches up a little more bog. Then he jogs lightly back to the Eclipse. STRONK stares at the bog. Then at the Muggsy Bogues bobblehead in his hand.

He did not see, or feel, the evil eye that watched him from afar.

…Maybe he wouldn't throw it in the bog.

…Maybe STRONK would keep it…

…After all, why shouldn't he have it?...

…He would. He would keep it…

…Keep it secret…

…Keep it safe… …Keep it forever.