A Punker's Notes [Original Novel]

Part One: Entry 13

“Make a straight!” Judy Cellini orders as I steer the Cutlass in the direction of an unknown party. An empty Olde English 800 bottle rolls around in a pool of beer on the front passenger side floor.

“No go right!” Tracy Randall yells from the backseat wedged in between a drunk Robbie Blount and Mark Cellini. Robbie, from an open back window throws an empty beer bottle nailing a brand new BMW’s tail light.

“Fuck yeah!” Mark yells.

A few more turns and we arrive at the house where the supposed party is at. The five of us walk in as if we are invited guests and immediately spread out. Two teenage girls walk up to me.

“You look like Billy Idol,” they tell me almost in unison.

“Is that right?” I ask. “I kinda liked him when he was in Generation X.”

“Generation X...?” one of the two responds with a puzzled look on her face.

“Well..., they weren’t that great anyway,” I come back not really giving a shit about these girls’ musical tastes. My interest being what they’ve got between their legs. “Do you girls go ta Pacifica?”

“Why don’t you and your friends get the fuck out of here?!” a flat-topped jock interrupts. He’s instantly joined by two more idiots who are clad in Pacifica High football jerseys.

“Yeah...! Fuckin’ leave now!” one of them joins in.

Outnumbered by about ten high functioning retards, I walk outside. Robbie is close behind then our whole group is followed out the front door by the dolts.

Two of the muscle-heads are a few houses back from us as we head down the street to my car when I yell, “Motherfuckin’ bitch cocklovers!”

“Come back here and say that skinny motherfucker!”

I stand six foot three and could pack a good punch if needed, but am in no way capable of taking on these guys who appear to be linebackers or linemen.

“I’m gonna run those motherfuckers over,” I mutter as we near the Olds sticking my hand in my pocket for the keys.

I open the driver’s side door, sit down behind the wheel and wait for the others to get in. Turn the engine over starting it and rev it a bit. I pull the shifter down into drive, stomp on the pedal. With my radial tires squealing we take off down the street. When we reach the footballers I swerve at the two then steer away before hitting them.

“Fucksticks!” Robbie yells leaning out the left side passenger window.

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Photo by Benjamin Voros