It had taken Spermwhale Whalen to pry Francis Tanaguchi from Roscoe Rules’ throat that first night, and as Roscoe threatened to kill Francis, it was Harold Bloomguard who explained to Calvin and Francis that the new kid on the block had brought three fifths of Scotch to choir practice which they could expect at any future choir practice Roscoe might attend.
After hearing that, Francis and Calvin became very tolerant of the insufferable prick and Roscoe Rules was an accepted choirboy. He was able to sit now at this memorable choir practice and not think that nobody liked him. And he could pinch Ora Lee and Carolina just like the other guys.
While Roscoe remembered his first choir practice and felt all cozy and secure because now he belonged, he started talking to Sam Niles who was already mightily pissed off because one of the lenses on his glasses got scratched when Ora Lee slapped him in the face with a tit.
“Niles, we just gotta get the department to give us good ammo,” Roscoe began. “You see, high velocity shock waves’re like sonic booms and they burst the veins and arteries. But they don’t stop like the hollow points and the blunt nose. A copper casing holds the lead together. Centrifugal force breaks up the lead. You only need a pointed projectile for accuracy. Get it?”
“I get it,” Sam sighed.
Then Roscoe said, “I ever tell you what I used to do to all the pricks in the juvie gangs when they turned eighteen? I used to send them a Xerox of the page of the LAPD manual which tells about shooting at adults only. With the page I’d enclose a dumdum bullet and a greeting card. On the card I’d write, ‘You are now, by law, an adult. Have a nice eighteenth birthday, asshole.’”
“That’s about as interesting as a night in the drunk tank,” said Sam Niles, who lay back smoking, looking at the great star while the bourbon went to work on his entire body, turning it to rock.
“Looky here, Ora Lee,” said Calvin Potts as he was starting to think that the fat girls weren’t so repulsive after all. In fact, depending on how you looked at her, Ora Lee was starting to get downright gorgeous.
“Looky here, what?” asked Ora Lee. “You boys aren’t interested in us girls tonight. You’re all sitting around like that bunch of fruits hangs around the other side of the duck pond.”
“Well you know, consenting adults!” said Francis Tanaguchi, kissing his partner Calvin Potts who pushed him away.
“… and I been thinking about buying this baby falcon,” said Roscoe Rules to Harold Bloomguard. “I live out in the country with decent people. Room for an eagle even. I could train him to kill on command. Shit, how many guys own a hunting hawk?”
“Last guy I know of was William the Conqueror,” said Baxter Slate.
“Would really be great!” Roscoe mused. “Your own killing bird!”
“You could feed him raw meat right out of your hand,” said Baxter.
“Sure!” said Roscoe.
“And to save feed money you could train him to fly over the kindergarten and carry off kids,” Baxter Slate said.
“You know, I never liked you, Slate,” said Roscoe Rules, turning sullen.
“Roscoe needs his steel plate buffed!” Spencer said gleefully.
“Are you trying to incinerate that Roscoe belongs in the funny place?” asked Harold Bloomguard, taking pleasure in the thought that someone else might be going there with him someday.
“What’re you trying to say? What’re you trying to say?” Whaddayamean Dean blurted, still propped against the same tree, a pile of rib bones on his lap, a half empty bourbon bottle resting on his chest.
“I don’t think it’s fair,” said Father Willie, arguing a point of law with Spencer Van Moot. “In these unlawful sex cases a boy of thirteen can be booked as opposed to the old statutory rape charge where he couldn’t. Who enjoys it more, the ear being scratched or the finger scratching?”
“If they’re doing it in the ear they deserve to be booked, the perverts!” said Carolina Moon as Spermwhale Whalen threw her down and kissed her again.
“I’d give anything to direct this scene!” cried Francis Tanaguchi.
“You know she wouldn’t do nothing in front of everybody. They’re just kissing,” said Ora Lee Tingle as Spermwhale kneaded and squeezed every inch of Carolina’s ample body.
“Why doesn’t a Jap have a camera anyway, I’d like to know?” Roscoe remarked suspiciously. “Maybe Francis is really a Chinaman. A Commie, no doubt.”
“I’m a Mexican and you can go scratch your ass,” said Francis Tanaguchi.
“I’m gonna have you defrocked, Padre,” Ora Lee giggled when Father Willie groped her.
“Anybody gets frocked it better be me!” Carolina whooped when Spermwhale let her breathe.
Just then Harold Bloomguard staggered a few paces away and threw up. He was the first. Everybody jeered and hooted and he walked ashamedly down to the duck pond and washed his face in dirty water.
“… so this guy demands his rights when I arrest him,” said Roscoe Rules to Whaddayamean Dean who hadn’t the foggiest idea what Roscoe was talking about. “And I say, ‘You’ll get your rights and a few lefts too, asshole! Bang! Pow! Splat!’”
Whereas Spencer Van Moot only whined to Father Willie Wright when he was sober, he was now whining to as many assembled choirboys as would listen now that he was drunk.
“This dirty scummy rotten bitch that lives next door…”
“Watch that fuckin language,” said Spermwhale Whalen who was passionately kissing Carolina Moon a few feet away in the shadows while Francis Tanaguchi knelt beside them, grinning.
“Sorry, Spermwhale. Sorry girls,” said Spencer who belched sourly and quickly took a few sips of beer. “Anyway this bitch always wears these short shorts and comes out by the fence when I’m down on my knees trimming the grass. So finally after three months of this I kneel there and look right at her bird and up it goes!”
“A blue veiner?” asked Father Willie.
“A goddamn diamond cutter!” said Spencer and Ora Lee said, “Ooooooohhhhhhh, Spencer, that’s sexy!” and fell over backward as Francis Tanaguchi pounced on her and smothered her with kisses.
“Why do you wear those sissy faggy mod clothes, Spencer?” asked Roscoe, beginning to turn mean. “And why does a man your age have one of those kiss-me-quick haircuts?”
“Lemme finish my story, goddamnit.”
“Spencer’s so mod he wears flared jockey shorts,” said Harold Bloomguard who was trying to stand with the aid of a broken willow branch.
“Why do we need a motel?” Ora Lee said to Roscoe who whispered something in her ear. “You can beat off in a nickel toilet, you cheap little fuck, ya.”
“Anyway,” Spencer continued, “my neighbor sees my diamond cutter and she runs into her house. Runs. And I mean after she’d done everything but rub my face in it. She runs in and calls my wife and tells her that I’m going around the yard looking at her with a big hard on.”
“Probably a libber,” said Roscoe Rules. “All these cunts’re like that these days. Wanna be truck drivers. I say back em up and give em a load, they wanna be truck drivers.”
“You ain’t got a load, Roscoe, you dirty mouthed chauvinist pig!” said Carolina Moon, coming up for air, while Spermwhale Whalen looked around, saw double, got dizzy and had to stagger away to relieve himself.
“Who asked you? You a libber or something?” Roscoe challenged.
“I know you ain’t got a load,” said Carolina, taking a drink from Calvin’s bottle. “You walk into a wall with your little hard on and you’ll break your nose.”