You have some balls on you, huh? Mr. Big Balls, tossing cheese at the boss.
He’d already fired me by then, so I didn’t give a shit what he said. I threw onions at him next and he comes barrelin’ at me, angry as a viper on a hot day, wrapping his sweaty, hot-doggy hands ‘round my throat. I only laughed, starin’ him down. I got the eyes of a bull when you try to hurt me. Hell, I did that bull face in a mirror once and I even scared the shit out of myself. If old Edgar is dropping them bull-eyes on you, best get in your car and drive home, hombre.
And what happened next… well, this is the reason why I took to wanderin’ again.
A wandering man gets himself in a heap of trouble, from time to time, which is to be expected, and then he gets his cowboy boots clippin’ and a’cloppin’ before The Man with the star on his chest comes and sticks his finger up that ass. Sometimes, a sign shows itself and, sometimes, you just know when your time is up. Sometimes it’s a mix of both and I think this was one of those times.
I took to stranglin’ him back, only a whole lot harder than he did me, more like I mean to kill him and then I see his face realizin’ that. Kyle thinks he’s gonna die and I can’t help but feel excited about that. I love when they realize that I’m not just playin’ tough. His face went all eggplant-purple and veiny. I’d been strangled plenty of times, so I could take the punishment a lot longer than he could. I had callouses the shape of man-hands all around my neck, what with people always trying to strangle my ass for one dang thing or another. Him and me were stranglin’ each other hard, getting harder every second, but he didn’t have the strength in his forearms like I did. Like I still do. I could have snapped his neck with one flex of my arms.
Instead, I asked him: You hungry?
His eyes bulged out of his head like he was a cartoon character that just saw a pretty lady struttin’ by with her skirt hiked up to her pinkish lady zone. That happens when you’re stranglin’ on somebody real hard. You kinda think that maybe—just maybe—one of them big steel anvils is gonna fall on their head. If one of ’em ever actually does, I swear I’ll stop strangling them because I’ll be laughing so hard.
You look mighty hungry. So here y’go, I said.
I shoved one of the buns into his mouth. When I put it in, he tried to bite down on my fingers, but I pulled ’em out right quick. He wasn’t too quick, ‘cause he was probably seeing all them pretty stars in his eyes, trying to stay awake. Kyle knew if he passed out that I would kill him and piss on his corpse. The bull-eyes… they tell you that once you see ’em on my face. This wasn’t peddlin’ hot dogs. No, this was some real warrior shit goin’ down.
A couple people stopped on the sidewalk, gawkin’ at the two of us, dressed up like assholes, strangling on each other and gagging on hot dog buns (well, one of us was gagging on a hot dog bun). One of the bastards in the growing crowd took a picture.
I shoved a cold hot dog in Kyle’s mouth next, and then another. He started gaggin’ like he was gonna lose it, so I put two more in. Then I started thinkin’ to myself about how many hot dogs I can fit inside before he dies. Sort of like a game, but instead of screamin’ “BINGO!” at the end, he’d fall down and die on that there street, lookin’ like a street vendin’ asshole for his trip to Jesus’ side. Although, I bet if you die with a hot dog in your mouth, you go to Satan instead. Zing.
The guy with the camera on his phone took another picture, so I turned and looked at him. I smiled. I ain’t smiled like that since I took school pictures when I was a kid. I picked the laser background. It was cool as hell.
Truth is, I shouldn’t a’been smiling and drawing all that attention on my ass, but I couldn’t help it none. I wondered if the picture taker (a blond guy in his twenties with a baseball cap on his head) would put it on that place where people put funny pictures up. I wasn’t allowed on those websites no more, mostly because they always kicked me out of the libraries for lookin’ at fake boobs online. I don’t even bother with computers anymore—never liked ’em anyhow—but maybe this fella will put me out there and I’ll be famous.
I smiled again, this time showing my teeth. I always had me some nice teeth.
I crammed one more hot dog into Kyle’s mouth but I wasn’t sure any more would fit. His eyes were bulging out so far now that he didn’t even look like the real Kyle anymore. He looked like one of those paintings they do where they make your nose super big, and your ears, and sometimes your lips. Carric-chures I think they’re called.
The camera kept flashing. It wasn’t too wise, in case you’re wondering why I’m such a fuckin’ idiot in this story. People start taking pics of you, and then the police know who to look at after they find this fuckhead’s body on the curb, right next to his hot dog cart with my fingerprints all over it, all over him. That’s all some bad news for a wanderin’ man, but I wanted to give this guy the funniest picture he ever did see. The world is cured by laughter. I believe that. So true.
I set my mind back on my unofficial world record. It was tough, but I got one more hot dog past his teeth, probably because he had one slidin’ all the way down his throat, makin’ some extra room now. He slumped down by my feet, grasping at his neck. He let go of me completely, staring at the ground. His fingers twitched. Somebody help him, a lady with a pig-face and three chins cried out.
Another asked, Anybody know the Hym-lick? Whatever the fuck that is.
Kyle fell on the ground, six or seven hot dogs peeking out of his mouth from all the way down that motherfucker’s gullet. I gave him a good kick in the ribs, and then I loaded up my gunny pack with all the fixings and dogs from his cart. I took to leavin’ but on the way by, I smiled for the camera again. Them people were terrified of me, but I still posed for them proper. I would have signed my autograph if somebody asked me.
Hell, I was bound to be famous. Back then, I was. Not so much today.
So here I am, eating fake-ass hot dogs with Marianne.
What a road I done travelled. I can’t help calculatin’, I can get eight or nine of these rotten baby fingers in her mouth before she croaks. They’re smaller than regular hot dogs, so maybe I can even get ten of them in. If there’s a will, then there’s a way, ya’ hear?
“Hey, Marianne?” I ask.
She looks at me, licking away barbecue sauce from her finger while one of her cats licks the thumb on her opposite hand. She’s really gross with them there cats, like I told ya’. “Yes, dear?” she asks. I ain’t known her long, but I already hate it when she calls me stuff like that. Jesus Christ, spare me from this woman. Can you hear me Jesus? I swear I’ll kill her if you don’t change up her ways real soon.
“How many hot dogs you reckon you can fit in your mouth?”
She laughs at the question, thinkin’ me kinda silly. I don’t laugh. I like to laugh, for sure, but it don’t come easy. “You’re such a card,” she says to me.
Her house smells awful. I’ve made a big honker of a mistake coming here.
There’s cats everywhere, pissing on every bit of the rug, climbing on all the cabinets and furniture, making the whole joint smell like a litter box that ain’t been cleaned in three years. I don’t even think these mangy little shits even have litter boxes. I think they just piss in Marianne’s bathtub. Or maybe they just piss in her mouth. She’s nasty like that.