THE LOST BARZ (CERTIFIED HOOD CLASSIC) THE MIXTAPE: TRACK 3 - LOWELL IS GOLLUM

BACK TO BASICS

At ReVival 52, the Big Dick Stallions faced their first defeat in their historic tag team run.

STRONK took it in stride, his mind unable to process or reflect on the loss. Failure is unacceptable, that much he understands, but the result of every match, win or lose, is very quickly forgotten.

In contrast, Fred Dick reacted … dramatically, locking himself in a sauna and ugly-crying for hours. His tag team partner and stablemate eventually broke down the door with a meaty shoulder check to rescue him, finding Fred dehydrated, baked to an internal temp of 125 degrees; y’know, otherwise near death.

After recovering over the course of a few days, Fred’s lobster-red skin transformed into a rich, orange tan. Anyone that saw him would say he looked better than ever.

He’s still slovenly, beer-gutted, oddly shaped with a strange mullet and evidence to his poor decision-making tattooed all over his face, but now … also tanned. 

While he was sexy and golden brown on the outside, inside…

Fred remained an emotional wreck.

For the first time in his life, STRONK used his minimal executive function and decided they must move out of the fancy Airbnbs and luxurious hotel rooms.

They’d gotten soft. They’d lost their predatory instincts.

He arranged for their bunk beds to be transported to an abandoned soup kitchen in the bad part of town, joining a band of miscreants who already called it home.

Now, inside a dilapidated soup kitchen on the ground floor of a crumbling two-floor building, the Big Dick Stallions have built a new life together.

They’ve stripped themselves down to the white meat and bonez, focusing on what truly matters: WINNING THE TAG BELTS.

Leaving behind their hoity-toity ivory tower, they descend to live among those in squalor, reconnecting with the roots of their determination and grit.

When it rains, they get wet. Because their bunk beds are completely unsheltered. Roofs are for privileged folk.

When one of their neighbors crashes out and starts tryna light themselves and others on fire, they volunteer for the Smother Squad. First line of defense. Because the dilapidated soup kitchen is their community.

Everyday, they dine on meat lightly charred over unclean oil barrels; they scavenge for roadkill and workout with improvised weights. They fight hobos in blunt object brawls and willingly lose so as to remind themselves of the feeling of abject failure and motivate them to work that much harder.

Doesn’t all this discipline and concentration seem a bit unusual for Them Rare Boys?

Lowell, who joined the Big Dick Stallions at the soup kitchen, and who was made to sleep in a chest of drawers his first night before Deaner the Carpenter built him a disjointed, nail-riddled bed, has been injecting them with a cocktail of steroids combined with a mild amphetamine. Fred Dick, Lowell observed, responded remarkably well, training relentlessly like an absolute BIG DAWG while managing to stay out of trouble (for the most part).

If you were to ask Fred, he’d just say he felt calm. Calm for the first time in his life.

The mystery concoction administered intravenously even helped him stay still and attentive long enough to devour three novels in Dr. Seus’ acclaimed bibliography.

He’s become a bit of a knowledge sponge. Thirsting for it. Asking the Big Questions, like, why would one hop on pop? Why were the eggs green? His eyes scanned expertly crafted lines of dense prose for subtext, and pondered whether the Good Doctor dug out a lot of sour-ass benches in his heyday, which, no doubt, he did. Man was a complete cooz hound, for sure. But then, why wouldn't he be? It was natural for good ol’ Doc Seuss. The way Fred figured it, he'd have a lot more girlfriends too if he knew 573 words that rhyme with “pussy.” But Fred had only known one. “CLAMUSSY.” A word that led to great distress in many facets. Thinking back on it, Fred was pretty sure that those mermaids were trying to send him to hell.

And Fred was even more sure that one of those mermaids was Lowell Dot Com, in a big tiddy, underwater disguise.

Some might think that's irrational. But Fred would argue they should try and step outside of their comfort zone, think outside the box. Ever since STRONK had become Mama Dick's Baby Boy, Lowell had been attempting to come between them – typical SKANK tryna come between a mama and his baby. Way Fred saw it? Lowell had the means, and Lowell had the motive.

In fact, the more Fred thought about it, the more he drew connections to everything bad that had happened in his life and Lowell’s existence. What troubled him was that there was no way to prove that Lowell WASN'T involved in every tragedy Fred had faced.

Fred'd made up his mind. Next chance he got, he was nippin' it in the butt

Just so happens, that chance is now. The night is young, and Fred has a hankering for violence. He looks down from the top bunk at STRONK, who sleeps real peaceful, real nice-like, even as the rain absolutely pummels them from the heavens. Fred gently climbs down from the top bunk, revealing a cherubic, butt-ass naked, rubenesque body.

He surveys the moonlit soup kitchen, noting the gaping hole above their bunk beds, as large as a residential swimming pool, cutting through the ceiling and the floor above.

He tiptoes about six steps, over to Lowell's bunk, climbs in the bed with him, spoons him – big spoons him, presses his ween against Lowell’s cut-off jean shorts, his tids against Lowell’s bare back.

“Sssssshhhhhhh,” Fred says.

Lowell groans as he wakes up, and in childlike confusion, he says, “Uncle Pete?”

“Naw,” Fred whispers. “This here's Fred.”

“...Why the fuck are you spooning me, Fred? And why are your tits so… moist and cold? Are you sleepwalking again?”

Fred coos softly in Lowell’s ear. “I just wanted to let you know that I see what you're doing. I see you tryna drive a wedge between me and STRONK.”

“Is that what you think?” Lowell asks, whispering a laugh. “I thought you were trying to drive a wedge between me and STRONK. Isn't that funny?”

“I am tryna drive a wedge between you and STRONK,” Fred whispers. “And it ain't funny. See, some night, on a night just like this one righcheer, I'm gonna sneak into your bed just like I did tonight. And I'm gonna cut you, Lowell. Cut you from ya acehoe to ya elbow. Heh, I really am. I swear to God I am. And you won't scream, because you won't be sure if I'm intendin’ on killin’ you or not. Truth is, I won't know yet either. Not right away. Not then. But it won't matter, see. Because I'm gonna cut a pair of zipper britches right into your cock. Nawmean? I'm gonna slice your gooch like a pizza. Namsayin? Twelve pieces of Lowell gooch in a large box with extra sausage toppins. My phone gonna ring, and I'ma say, ‘Welcome to Pizza Hut, home of the Lowell Gooch Pizza, how can I help you today?’ And the purdy woman on the other enda the line’ll say, ‘Yessir, I'd like to order a big, sausage pizza for delivery. Extra sausage.’ Then I'll take ya gooch, slice it twelve ways, stick my wiener through the middle, and deliver the damn gooch pie to her. Your gooch pie, Lowell. Your gooch pie. I'm gonna break all ya fingas, and all ya toes. I'm gonna black both ya eyes. I'm gonna break ya legs. I'm goin’ to fuggin’ hurtcha, Lowell. Worse than you've ever been hurt in your entire life. On a night just. Like. This’n.”

Fred kisses Lowell on the cheek. “Anyway, good night.”

Lowell waits for Fred to get up and walk away… but that ain’t Fred’s style. He’s gonna stew in it with Lowell. Lie in it like a freshly pissed bed at a sleepover; ride it out ‘til morning.

He sleeps all night behind Lowell, clutching onto him, snoring like a chainsaw, hitting that deep, DEEP sleep cycle, while Lowell clutches his pillow and imagines his poor gooch pie being annihilated on an endless loop.

Probably won’t even get a ramen for it like when he was in prison. 

—

MATCH RELEVANCE

Four syringes sit next to the Muggsy Bogues bobblehead on the counter. One for each of Them Rare Boys—to keep them going, fuel their focus, and amp up their muscle growth. Two for Lowell, to keep him from dying of brutal withdrawals and turning to dust on the pavement like a vampire staked through the heart.

Two are filled with a steroid cocktail mixed with a mild amphetamine. The other two are loaded with a mix of nearly every illegal drug you can think of, plus some you can’t—mostly meth, coke, and bath salts, all blended with tequila because, well, why not? It’s Tuesday.

Lowell stands at the soup kitchen’s grimy counter, eyeing the four needles. The ones on the right are his. The ones on the left, STRONK and Fred’s.

Right: him. Left: Big Dick Stallions.

Easy.

Just as he’s about to collect up the syringes, there’s a loud bang from across the soup kitchen. A ghostly pale man and a dementia-riddled octogenarian in a judge’s robe accidentally dropped a massive CRT television set, smashing it to pieces.

Lowell curses them underneath his breath and turns back around…

Oh shit.

Shit, shit, fucking SHIT.

Left: …Lowell?

No. That’s not it.

Right: Lowell.

That’s it. Yup.

…Or is it?

Fucking homeless idiots, messing up his concentration! He had it all straight in his head. If only he’d shot up right away and wasn’t dilly-dallying around, he wouldn’t be in this mess!

Nevertheless…

Lowell extends a finger.

“Eeny … meeny … miney … mo.”

KAZAMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!

WE ARE FUCKING TRANSPORTED.

TO STRONK AND FRED, WIDE EYED AND FULL OF EVERY GOD DAMN DRUG IN LOWELL’S REPERTOIRE.

THEY STAND IN FRONT OF A

BIG.

ASS.

CURTAIN!!!!!

THEY WEAR WRESTLING TIGHTS THAT ARE COLORFUL AS SHIT AND FRILLY FOR NO REASON.

BY GAWD… BY GAWD THE DRUGS DONE TURNED THEM INTO 80’S SHIT HEELS!!!! Fred looks at the camera, or what he thinks is a camera.

It's actually a hobo hopped up on CRANK, holding a trash can over his shoulder, “filming” them.

Because they are on the street. The big curtain blown by the wind. Laaaaaawd, they niiiiiiice! Seems like they might just be the

“WINDS OF CHAAAAAANGE!!!” Fred screams at the camera can. “WINDS OF CHANGE BLOWIN’ IN THE AIR!!!! CAN YOU SCHMELL THE WIND, TWINS??? YA SEE, FOR TWO WEEKS WE'VE BEEN HEARIN’ THE BIG DICK STALLIONS ARE OUT OF THE RUNNING!! THEM RARE BOYS SHOULD PACK UP THEIR SHID AND MOVE. THE FUG. ON.”

Fred Dick sucks in enough wind to blow a house down, and starts yelling again.

“WELL LEMME TELL YA SOMETHIN’, JACK!!! WHEN WE HEARD THAT TWO STANKY ACE DOUCHERRRRRS WITH MASKS ON THEIR FACES AND FINGERS IN EACH OTHERS BUTTHOES, HAVIN’ LONG LOST BROTHER TIME TOGETHER, WAS LEADIN’ THIS FRIGGIN TOURNAMENT, I LOOKED AT STRONKY TONK AND I SAID, ‘IT’S TIME TO PUSH THESE TURDS OUT OF THE BUTTHOE OF THIS TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP TOURNAMENT WITH THE FARD WINDS OF CHAAAAAANGE!!!’ BECAUSE CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, FARDS PUSH OUT THA TURDS! AND CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, THE BIG DICK STALLIONS ARE PUSHIN’ OUT YEW FRONT RUNNIN’, BUTTHOE FINGERIN', FAKE TWIN-AHH MOTHAFUCKAS!!!"

Fred sneers and shouts, “BECAUSE YOU MIGHT HAVE THE BUTTHOE CLINCHED, BUT LAAAAAWD YEW DON'T HAVE IT PLUGGED!!! AND WHEN WE BREAK THAT SPHINCTER SEAL, AND BELIEVE ME JACK, WE WILL BREAK THAT SPHINCTER SEAL, IT'LL BE THE BIG DICK STALLIONS GALLOPIN’ THROUGH THAT TIGHT BUTTHOE AAAAAALLLLL THE WAAAAAYYYYY TO THE GOLD, JACK!!!”

STRONK turns away from the “can-mera,” his drugged, bloodshot eyes transfixed on the blue curtain behind him. He starts huffing and puffing, his massive shoulders rocking up and down to the rhyme of his heavy breathing. He sharply spins back around and extends his arms out rigidly, thumbs and pinky fingers jutting out. He then snaps a hand up to his jaw and stares deeply into the “can-mera.”

“LIKE THE BIG WET THAT STRONK WALKED ACROSS, A GIANT WAVE OF MUSCLE AND PAIN WILL CRASH DOWN UPON THE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS! MAMA DICK WILL DAMAGE THE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS’ INSIDE-BUTT MUSCLES! STRONK WILL SMASH AND SLAM AND SQUEEZE AND CRUNCH AND SHATTER THE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS AND MAKE THEM FEEL smoll AND frail AND QUESTION WHETHER THEY SHOULD BE CATEGORIZED AS ADULT HUMAN MALES. STRONK ASKS VERY FEW QUESTIONS AND DOES NOT POSSESS WHAT IS CALLED curiousity BUT STRONK QUESTIONS HOW THE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS BELIEVE THEY ARE OF THE SAME SPECIES AS THE LARGE RICHARD HORSES! THOSE UNDERCOOKED ADOLESCENT MALE HUMANS! STRONK WONDERS IF THE WORLD IS PLAYING SOMETHING CALLED A JOKE ON STRONK AND MAMA DICK! STRONK DOES NOT UNDERSTAND JOKES OR PRETEND OR ANYTHING THAT IS NOT THE DESTRUCTION OF HUMAN BODIES OR THE LIFTING OF IMPOSSIBLE WEIGHT! STRONK DOES NOT UNDERSTAND AND SO MAMA DICK SAYS STRONK SHOULD FEEL DISRESPECTED. SO STRONK FEELS VERY DISRESPECTED. WHICH IS A VERY BAD THING TO FEEL APPARENTLY.”

STRONK reaches “off-screen” and grabs a four-gallon jug of raw milk. He RIPS THE FRIGGIN’ CAP OFF, TEARING THE NECK OF THE JUG CLEAN OFF! BUT NOT CLEAN AT ALL, NO! THERE’S JAGGED PROTRUBRANCES OF PLASTIC ALL AROUND THE OPENING OF THAT THING, BUT STRONK DON’T GIVE TWO FUCKS AND GULPS THAT FUCKER DOWWWWWWN. TWO GULPS. REAL BIG’UNS.

Letting out a throat-rumbling belch, he swipes his bare forearm across his lips. “STRONK IS EATING ALL OF THE MEAT AND DRINKING ALL OF THE WHITE TIT MEAT FLUID! GROWING BIG AND STRONK AND LETHAL! TOURNAMENT BULK! CHAMPIONSHIP GAINS! STRONK’S BODY VIBRATES AND STRONK’S INSIDE-CHEST MUSCLE ACHES AND STRONK SEES THREE OF EVERYTHING BUT THAT IS THE RESULT OF HARD WORK AND PROBABLY DRINKING TOO MUCH PROTEIN! THE MALE HUMAN IN WHITE TOLD STRONK THAT STRONK CANNOT CONSUME A RIVER OF LIQUID PROTEIN AND–”

Fred shakes his head, lips pursed and twisted and eyes drawn wide open, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “PFFFT! THAT LARNED FOOL AIN’T KNOW MAMA DICK’S BABY BOY!”

“OH YESSSSSSSSSS. UH-HUHHHHHHHHHH. YES.”

STRONK grabs a giant cured meat stick and snaps the end off with a giant bite, and, just like Mama Dick taught him, chews it before swallowing.

“THE ONLY OTHER IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS THAT HAVE EVER CROSSED THE PATH OF STRONK WERE STRONK’S NEIGHBORS WHEN STRONK WAS A SMALL STRONK! THOSE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS WERE BETTER THAN THE ONES MAMA DICK AND STRONK WILL CRUSH AT THE NEXT EVENT! THOSE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS USED TO PLAY WITH DOG POOP IN THEIR GRANDMAMA’S LIVING ROOM! THEY DID NOT HAVE MONEY OR A ROOF–A THING STRONK AND MAMA DICK ALSO DO NOT HAVE–BUT THEY HAD DOG POOP AND THEY MADE OBJECTS OUT OF IT. THEY KNEW THEY WERE TINY WITH WEAK BONES AND NO BICEPS AND DID NOT TRY TO DO STRONG HUMAN THINGS!”

“They kneeeewww to staaaaay in theeeey laaaaaaane!” Mama Dick interjects, nodding along.

“THE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS OF PRIME WRESTLING THAT ARE NOT ACTUALLY RELATED COULD LEARN SOMETHING FROM THEM. AND AFTER STRONK AND MAMA DICK, THE GIANT PENIS PONIES, CRUSH THEM, THEY WILL FORFEIT AND NEVER BE SEEN AGAIN! …AND THAT IS GOOD BECAUSE THAT MEANS STRONK AND MAMA DICK GAIN THE BELT WEIGHT AND EACH GET CLOSER TO FOUR HUNDRED POUNDS! OOOOOOH YESSSSSSSSSS! HEAVY AND DEADLY!”

STRONK flexes.

“GUESS WHAT, STRONKY TONK!?” Fred shouts even though Godson is, like, three inches from him.

“WHAT, MAMA DICK?”

“DON’T YA LISSSTEN TO THE STUPID GUY THAT INTRODUCES US AS A UNIT, JACK? WE ROLLIN’ INTO REVIVAL NOT THREE HUNDO POUND STRONK OR THREE HUNDO POUND FRED. OH NO!!”

“OOOOOOH YESSSSSS.”

“OH NO! ‘CUZ WHY? ‘CUZ THEM RARE BOYS ARE SIX BILLS AND CHANGE TOGETHA AND FIXIN’ TO RUNNNNN ALL OVER THE TWINS!!”

“RUN OVER THEM! AND THEN RUN OVER THEM AGAIN! AND THEN JUMP ON THEM, MAYBE, YES.”

Just then, the homeless “camera man” gives them a thumbs up.

“THAT'S A WRAP!” He says, holding his hand up for a high five.

“Get your hand away from us you fuck boi soy boi beta,” Fred says, getting in the Hobo's face. “I said GET!!! ROO ROO ROO ROO ROO ROO ROO!!!”

The barking scares the hobo away. Normally, barking at a hobo until he runs off would be cause for celebration. But, this result is achieved…

Just as…

All the drugs…

Flee their systems…

Oh, God.

The cumdown.

—

CUM TO JESUS

Fred sighs. It just seems like, every time something good starts to happen, some homeless guy pisses him off and he has to come down off a buncha drugs.

He stretches out on the concrete beneath him, stares up at the sky. The sun has only started to say goodbye. The moon, hello.

“We gotta get that possessed bobblehead back from Lowell and destroy it,” Fred says. “That's what's been holdin’ us back from our tag team dreams, causin’ us to lose.”

STRONK lies down on top of Fred like a cat. Half on top of him, half-not, somehow.

“WHAT IS A DREAM, MAMA DICK?”

Fred scratches STRONK under his chin.

"Well, they's two kinds. The first kind is like a movin' picture that plays while you're sleepin'. The second kind, well... That's the shid you scared to tell folks about, on account'a they might call you an idiot, and take a shid on your ambitions. Them's what I'm talgin' bout."

"STRONK WOULD LIKE TO EAT THE BIG ROCK IN THE SKY. STRONK THINKS IT WOULD TASTE LIKE BEEF."

"STRONK... son…” Fred sighs. “That's about dumb as hell, boy. I mean straight up stupid. Ain't nobody gonna eat no damn moon! Can I tell you mines?”

“OKAY.”

"See, my whole life, I been livin' under the thumb of a big fat bench. That bench is a serious cunt. His name, you ask? Reality. That's the fugged up part, mane. It's not enough that Reality keeps on fuggin' me right in the derriere, but I gotta live inside him, too? That don't sit right with me, STRONKY... naw. Not one bit. Reality is a bastard man, STRONK. A fat bastard. So my dream? My dream is to challenge Reality to an ace whooping contest! ONE TIME! FOR ALL THE MARBLES!!! But I gotta prove to his punk ace that I'm a worthy competitor... And tag team championship gold would be a step in da right direction, if I dusse so myself.”

STRONK stands to his feet and makes a declaration: "STRONK WILL HELP MAMA DICK ON HIS NOBLE QUEST, MAMA DICK. STRONK WILL WIN TAG TEAM GOLD WITH MAMA DICK AND STRONK WILL AID IN MAMA DICK'S HONORABLE FIGHT TO THE DEATH WITH THE SIMULATION IN WHICH ALL THINGS LIVE. YES."

"Well furst thangs furst, baby boi,” Fred says, standing up himself. “We gotta find where Lowell Dot Dickhead went and getcher precious back."

"WHERE DOES MAMA DICK THINK LOWELL DOT COM WENT?"

"Don't got nary a clue,” Fred admits. “Might not be able to find the bobblehead before we fight the twins... Lowell is a stupid bastard, but he is crafty."

"HOW WILL THE GIANT RICHARD NAGS ALSO KNOWN AS THEM RARE HUMAN BOYS EVER BEAT THE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS WITHOUT RETURNING THE PRECIOUS?"

"Hell, shouldn't be too hard, son. We more like twins than they ever were. Some say we share joint custody over a brain cell. Know what I say?"

"WHAT?"

"We is healthy coparents of that little fugger. C'mawn! Let's go find his dumb ace… just as soon as…” Fred yawns. Winces. A painful cumdown indeed. “Just as soon as we take a nap.”

—

AMONGST LIKE-MINDED PEOPLE

The plain truth was, Lowell didn't know where he was going either – at least, not right away.

All he knew was Fred had threatened to kill him. If anybody was gonna kill Lowell Dot Com, by God, it was gonna be Lowell Dot Com.

You add that threat to the fact that Lowell accidentally got Fred Dick and STRONK too high to function? He only knew of one recourse.

So he hotwired a fucking 2000 Honda Accord (new whip baybeeee!!!) and hauled ass with the bobblehead still in his pocket.

Thing was 45 dollars on eBay. Easy fucking money.

But as he hit the road and headed east from California, a thought came to his mind.

If Fred Dick wanted war?

He'd bring it to him.

Three days later, the Accord pulled into a desolate, gravel driveway. As it approached the compound, which appeared to be little more than a single-wide trailer and a barbed wire fence, he knew right away he was in the right place.

The sign read:

CITIZENS AGAINST FRED DICK

Lowell smiled ear-to-ear.

A spider hatched an egg in his earlobe. Baby spiders charged towards his inner ear. It tickled.

fin.