Blood N' Dust In The Steerts of Dayton

Blood N’ Dust In The Streets of Dayton….
By Edaurdo Jones.
Sunday, September 26, 2009- I’m cramped in the backseat of the Canuck’s car on a rainy day. We’re off to cover some sort of drunken bicycle race. It’s unclear to me at this point exactly what the rules are, but from what I’ve gathered it involves racing at top speeds to area bars that double as check points. The racers must check in, pound a beer and down a shot before they are able to depart to the next check point. It should make for some rather spectacular introductions of bare flesh to wet asphalt. I have no way of knowing how the hell I’m expected to cover this. I highly doubt I’ll keep focus on the races. I already know the real story lies in the sex, drugs, and debauchery that surround such things as pedal bike races, underground midget knife fights, and all the other assorted activities that only strange freaks seem to follow or partake in.
My contact, once in Dayton, is a world yo-yo champion known only as “Bubba.” A strange hillbilly gorilla pimp with a taste for techno-geekery and ultra-violence, I’ve known this savage fuck for quite some years now. So I know I can count on him to get me to the seedy underbelly of the pedal-bike racing circuit, or at the least provide me with some soft female flesh to dance the horizontal mambo with by the end of the night. That meeting is still about an hour away.
At the current moment I’m listening to the Canuck and Skinny blabber on about God only knows what as the radio pumps out a song about “California being ok and somebody needing to check my brain.” “Check my brain?” is this some sick subliminal message the machine is pumping into my psyche? My brain is fine isn’t it or is it?? Damn, the Subliminal Corporate Media Greed Machine (SCMGM) is yet again trying to distract me from the task at hand. But I will fight it, by tooth and nail I will fight it. I must get to the bottom of this…
One of the fuckos I’m riding with keeps releasing foul methane from their puckering sphincter. I suspect it to be that foul Canuck. The Canadian’s are not known for being well mannered people at all. A foul race of beer-swilling, ice-fishing, toothless hockey players even the French refuse to claim as their own! Despite the afore-mentioned facts, she’s been a distinguished colleague of mine for years now and has made for the most excellent of resources in my search for the freaks one needs to meet in situations such as these.
Well we’ve just exited interstate route 70 and should be rendezvousing with Bubba and his strange pack of bagmen, whores, and bottom of the barrel dope-fiends with their wild shifty eyes and questionable motives; good people, my type of people. Not exactly the types John Q. Public would find himself surrounded with. But then again, my name’s not Johnny Public and we‘re just one exit away from Wonderland. It’s on this car ride that I again have the epiphany; I am a savage mutant, hellbent on unearthing truth by any means necessary- even if that means tying poor fools up in chairs and hooking a car battery to their testicles to get it out of them.
Our band of rejects from the isle of misfit toys has safely made it to our “Top Secret” destination, Bubba’s compound. After successfully navigating our way through the minefield, scaling barbwire fences, and traversing the alligator infested moat which surrounded his mighty fortress of solitude, I suddenly realized I’d forgotten the secret password. Fuck! After a few minutes of debating with him through a small window in the door, my associates and I were finally granted entry. The scent of sweet ham and beans baking filled my nostrils quite instantly. My stomach began growling.
“Shut up, you foul beast. The time will come, patience, patience.”
Hello’s have been said, introductions made, and the mood is easy. Skinny quickly makes himself busy, editing footage of last year’s race. It’s being aired at the various check point bars. Bubba has informed me that I should fit in perfectly with this crowd and getting to the bottom if it all should be no problem. It’s still two hours until race time and I’m preparing in my usual way to get total “Gonzo” coverage. One question does fill my mind as I prepare. What would the good doctor do in a situation like this?
I’m not exactly sure how, but I missed the start of the race. I decided the beginning would mean nothing. A race is all bout the ending. After all, it’s not how you start the race, it’s about how you finish it that counts. So I made my way to the Century Bar. The location that would serve as the finish line for the riders. I would witness the victor in all his glory as he towered over ground zero. The rest of my crew missed the entire damn race. They spent the duration of the race trying to find the route, so Skinny could film it. The tape of their escapade should make for interesting viewing.
As I stood sipping a glass of Crown Royal in the doorway, I noticed my colleagues had finally landed at HQ. I began making my way over to them as a man steps to me and says,
“ Do you like money?”
“ Of course I like money! What the hell kind of question is that!?”
He then proceeded to hand me what looked like a crumpled up dollar bill. “Jesus, this must be some kind of set-up.” ..naturally, was the first thought to enter my mind. He didn’t look like a junkie trying to score; he looked more like, “some-middle-aged-homosexual-who-hides-his-dildo-under-the-mattress-from-his-wife” out maybe cruising for some late night sodomy. Then I looked at exactly what the hell he handed me it was a small book of religious propaganda. The right wing Christian type. I began reading aloud from a random page. “Sex is only for those in the unity of marriage if you engage before marriage in sex you are a fornicator and a sinner.”
“Well, Jesus H. Christ!, I’m a fornicator, imagine that? Sorry chief but I kind of love fornicating, debauchery, and madness a little too much for this shit.”
“ Well I was the same way a horrible sinner, crazy as hell, but then I found Jesus.”
“Where the hell did you find Jesus? I’ve been looking for him for years!”
“ I found him in Illinois.”
“ So that’s where that bastards been hiding! That fucker owes me a bunch of money! Next time you see him, tell him he can’t dodge me forever an I’m coming to collect!”
With that his face twisted into disgust and he walked away. I love fucking with radical religious types. Don’t get me wrong it’s not that I don’t believe in higher power or whatever but I don’t need people pushing their Dogma on me like it was crack cocaine. So a little sheep’s mind being fucked never hurts.
Within this time the winner of the race came speeding on his chariot, dropped his bike to the ground and sprinted towards the entrance of Century. Suddenly a group of savage freaks appeared their eyes full of wild fiery mischief, throwing a white powdered substance all over him. Could these be terrorist committing an Anthrax attack? or perhaps some geeked out fiends fresh off a burn throwing copious amounts of cocaine in the throws of some form of a savage drug induced psychosis, but alas it was only flour. The gold medal flour posse continued performing this act of terrorism on every last contestant making their way across the finish line.
Soon I discovered the next event was double-decker bike jousting. A truly savage event for warriors with nerves of steel. As they made the call for participants one of my associates decided to register yours truly and the white spy to my black spy, the Mayor of scum-ville….. Tito to do battle in the joust. I’d consumed enough liquid courage by now and gladly agreed to the challenge, regardless of the fact I’d never really even seen a double-decker bicycle, never mind ridden one. After a quick tutorial on how to mount this mechanical steed I was up and peddling this towering cycle of doom around a vacant parking lot.
By now it was high time we departed from Century and made our way to the jousting field. I listened to the music bumping through the night air as I surveyed the battle field. The air was alive with the electric blood lust of the gathering crowd preparing to watch these brave warriors do battle. The crowds chatter about the contestants buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps as they gathered along the sideline, sizing up the contestants and placing wagers.
I watched the first two combatants mount their war machines and grasp their lances. I watched as they barreled head long at each other. The rider on the bottom end of the field aimed his lance at his opponents left elbow. It hit it’s target squarely and knocked the riders arm violently to side causing him loose control and crash to the unforgiving pavement. This was slightly more dangerous than I had first thought. A fall to pavement from four and a half feet in the air combined with the velocity of your opponent’s strike would not tickle.
Soon it was time for me to do battle. I watched as my adversary prepared himself. He was clad in a gold sequined sleeveless top. Was I about to duel Richard Simmons? My trusty corner man Mr. Martin gave me some last minute instructions as I mounted my mighty stead. After a quick conformation from my opponent and I that we were both ready, we were off. Adrenaline surged through my veins like white lightning as I focused on my opponents eyes. My aim was not true as his, his lance caught me square in the shoulder knocking me backwards but not hard enough to flip me off my steed. I landed squarely on my feet my lance still in my hand. The crowd roared and demanded a rematch. My opponent and I gazed into each others eyes and nodded in agreement. Once again I mounted my steed, and barreled at my shiny golden armored enemy. This time my aim was true as his, our lances slamming into one another, the ends ricocheting, and barely grazing both our faces. We both rode on and the match was declared a draw.
Next up was Tito. His Joust was not a long one he careened off into the crowd ten feet away from his opponent. He blamed his loss on mechanical issue’s and an inattentive crew. Other’s argued he lacked the sack for such high risk brutality. No one, but- Tito knows for sure.
The matches continued on and soon a late night pyrotechnics display alerted the pigs to our gathering. Soon the man was there in full force questioning our motives. A few moments of explanation as to our activities from Mr. Martin and the head pig in charge said we could continue on with what ever the hell exactly it was we were doing provided we didn‘t discharge any more fireworks. Then the pigs loaded up in their patrol cars and made off to the local donut shop. But not before Tito challenged the female officer who showed up to a duel, She refused on the grounds that she was too great a physical specimen to engage in bicycle jousting with someone who obviously was not in the proper shape to battle such a phenom as her self.
By this time we’d had our fill and made our way back to the mighty fortress of solitude to say our good byes. A sleep deprived Canuck some how got us home in one piece and I’m about to shadow box with the sandman now. All in all it was an exciting day full of madness, mayhem, and good friends…..