Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure a fairground where children are running around and people are preparing food shouldn't be set right between a landfill and a nuclear plant. I didn't even know the town had a nuclear plant. Are we in Springfield? This would explain all the Simpsons-esque shenanigans that comprise my life, but I'm sure Disney will sue us if we imply anything related to their intellectual property.
Not that the Simpsons have an ounce of intellect behind their plot since season 7. Eat my shorts, Michael Mouse!
But seriously, this place stinks. And not because of the piles of fresh trash juice brewing on the summer sun, or the radioactive river, or the dead fishes lining said radioactive river, or the towers of smoke from the burning trash that is lowering my I.Q by the second. No, it's more of a proverbial stink, seeing that most of the booths and attractions are made of ice cream sticks—most likely scavenged from the landfill behind us—and held together by spit and duct tape. And not the good kind, like the one the nice meme man sells on the internet, but one fashioned from tar and used hospital bandages—again, most likely scavenged from the landfill.
For normal people, that might be fine. It's their God-given right to be as dumb and reckless as they want. But for us, two bad boys that are very prone to plot-driven accidents, this place might as well be a minefield.
Truly, this is the shittiest fair. A perfect place for a first date. That is if we get out of the truck in the first place.
Hayden and I are sitting in the Dick-movil, staring at the people mingling around in the maws of tetanus and possible gangrene that comprised the various rides, mulling the string of terrible bad choices that have led us to this piece of hell in the middle of Bumfuck, America. On one hand, I believe that swimming in a river full of used needles would be healthier than stepping foot in this radioactive wasteland—and believe me, if I wanted to swim in such a river I have one very handy in front of me—but, on the other hand, holy shit, holy shit, pinch my nipple and call me Betty, I'm on a date with Hayden and I wanna be loved and spoiled and have lots of forehead kisses.
I've never been on a date, period. I don't even believe in calendars. I'm torn between safety and love, and I'm pretty sure neither is willing to budge.
Speaking of things I want to tear me in half, Hayden. He's sitting there, all tensed up, hand on my thigh, gace drifting into the distance, the other hand over his mouth in pondering. I can't read his mind, but I can bet he's thinking the same as me.
"You know," I say, squeezing myself towards him, "we don't have to do this if you don't want to. It's not the most romantic place for a first date, after all."
Hayden squeezes my leg harder, as if just remembering I was there with him. "No, no. I wanna do this, babe. I really am."
"Seriously, bear-bear, we can go if you're not comfortable," I say.
"Who says I ain't comfortable?" he says, clearly uncomfortable, his teeth grinding with every pause. "I'm super hella comfortable. Fo shizzle. I'm just... In awe, that's all."
"Babe, you're talking like a SoundCloud rapper, you're clearly not comfortable."
Hayden clears his throat, shifting in his seat. "Really, Imma... I'm fine. Besides, we already spent a lot of gas getting to this part of town. We are going to step out of the Dick-mobile, and we are going to have one swell of a time, ol' chap."
"Now you're talking like an old-timey British person," I say. I close the gap further, coiling my arm around his. "C'mon, baby. We can have our first date later. Let's just go home."
Suddenly, Hayden takes a deep breath and puffs up. His grip is so tight that my leg is starting to go numb. He's so hot. "No, don't worry. We are here already. Besides, it's not where I am, it's who I am with, and I'm with the man that I love. Besides, look at the bright side. There are not many lines, there's a petting zoo, and even though we are in a heatwave, there's a nice cloud covering the sun. That's sure to make things fresh."
"Babe," I say, almost slithering on his shoulder, "that's not a cloud. That's a swarm of flies from the landfill."
Hayden starts the Dick-mobil and shifts the gears to reverse. "We are getting the fuck away from this sanitation nightmare!" he yells, and I kind of agree. When a date ends in anal tingling, it usually means some funky hanky-panky action, not tapeworms. Yuk.
One person who doesn't agree with this assessment is the crazy hobo-looking individual who is currently climbing Hayden's Dick-mobile and smacking the window until something comes out. This thing being Hayden's last shred of sanity as he screams in terror, slamming the gas in the process. Keen readers will remember that the car was set to reverse. The Dick-mobile roars with the sound of our screams as it darts backward, followed by a snap, a crackle, and a huge pop, stopping dead in our tracks. We either ran over a trio of cereal leprechauns, or, most likely...
"Fuck my shitting dick bitch!" yells Hayden as he kills the engine and leaps out of the vehicle, defying every Wattpad language guideline. I do the same.
Yep, the bane of every Jock bad boy has come to fruition: he crashed the Dick-mobile against a metal trash bin. Credit where credit is due, the Dick-mobile can take a pounding. The problem with a dick-pounding, as not many people know, is not the shaft, but the balls. Very delicate things. And what are the balls of the Dick-mobile but its wheels? One of them, like when your creepy uncle Bryan tried to do that sick kickflip back in the 90's and accidentally landed groin-first on a park railing, popped flat. Poor Uncle Cyclops. That explains the pop sound and lack of leprechaun blood.
"What the frik, dude?" yells Hayden, turning to face the tweaker that jumped out of the car the moment he hit the gas.
Kinda late to cuss after that fuckaton, but oh well.
I skip towards him just as he is walking towards the hobo, looking all goblin-mode with that menacing gaze. Shit, I didn't wanna do this... but I have no choice. I stand in front of him and put my hands on my chest, rubbing him gently.
"Hey, big boy, look at..." me, I want to say, but I feel bile raising up my throat. Nope, I can't do this with the smell of shit and decay around. I'm out. He can figure out what to do on his own.
Hayden squares up to the man, who is at least a foot and a half shorter than him, and scratching himself raw. Definitely a tweaker. "So? What the jim-jams possessed you to climb on my Dick-mobile and pound it without my consent?"
The man speaks with a soft voice, drawing the bowels a little too much for my liking, as if trying to pull them apart. "Hey, baby. Don't throw a fit. I just saw you two beautiful kids standing there on that there truck and I just wanted to ask if you wanted some coke. Ain't my fault you're both scaredy little pussycats. So, you want some coke or not? Lemme tell ya, I got the premium stuff. All organic, straight from Mexico, none of that artificial shit."
Excuse me, what the hell? I mean, I know he's a tweaker, but you don't say the bad part out-loud in these parts! Wattpad is gonna strike us down if we mention drugs!
"We are high schoolers, you sick fuck!" I yell.
The man gave us a crooked smile with several teeth missing and eyes that have seen too much, and yet, not a thought in them. "Hey, baby. This is the shit kids in the 80's were doing! It gives you more energy, tastes better, and it gives you that warm buzz-buzz in your tum-tum."
"I'm calling the cops!" yells Hayden, taking out his phone. "Assaulting my vehicle, soliciting drugs, illegal smuggling. You're a fiend!"
I'm about to tell Hayden that "Illegal smuggling" is an oxymoron, as all smuggling is illegal. It's like saying illegal theft. Kind of redundant there. However, I never get to say anything as the tweaker jumps at Hayden and snatches the phone with the speed only a cracked-up man can muster.
"Hey, hey, hey," says the man, blocking the phone with a few taps, "ain't no reason to call the po-po for this, baby. I'm sure we can work this out. If you don't like coke, we got lotsa other fun things to get the ball rolling."
"You assaulted me and tried to sell me drugs!" yells Hayden.
"Drugs?" says the tweaker, scratching his arm while licking his teeth. Or is he licking his arm while scratching his teeth? Can't really say. "Baby, I ain't saying nothin' bout no drugs."
I step in between the two, since I sense Hayden's bad boy energy going haywire. "Yeah, whatever you say, buddy. Coke is just a magic powder that makes you taste colors and be better at the stock market. Look, babe, let it go. He's just a methhead."
The man stares at us with a blankness only matched by the void expression of a bootleg Pokemon plushie before cackling like a madman munching at a mango seed on a full moon trying to get to the center. "I see what youse thought about. Youse thought I was selling you a bump of flake? Nah, baby. I'm talking Coca-cola. The good kind they sell in Mexico. You know they still use cane sugar over there instead of that high fructose syrup they use here?"
This idiot is as confusing as his mixed accent. "What the hell are you doing selling Mexican coke here?"
The man tosses the phone back to Hayden, who seems about as confused as I am. "I run the concession stands here at the Shitti Fair. The name's Dee. Dee Esposito. Short fer Dementor. Momma loved his Harry Potters. Told me I sucked the joy out of her, so it fits!"
Somehow, I can see that with a name like that, you either turn out a criminal, or a carnie. And let me tell you, I haven't ruled out the criminal part. "Ah, so you're Billiam's cousin."
The man slides right next to me and puts his arm around my neck. I swear to God, everyone in this gene pool has this gesture built-in as a feature. "Ah, yer friends with Scooter? Why didn't you say so? A friend of Scooter is a friend of mine!"
"I would prefer not to be your friend," says Hayden. "And you still have to answer for making me pop a tire."
Dee spits on the ground as he chuckles gently. "Shoot, baby. Don't you worry 'bout a thing. I'll have a new tire for you ready, lickety-split."
"Please, don't lick my Dick-mobile," whispers Hayden.
"In the meantime, why don't you go and enjoy the fair?" says Dee. "Tell Big Mike at the drinks stand that Dee sent ya. He'll hook you up with the good stuff. I'll have your new wheel set up when you get back!"
Hayden and I look at each other, neither really wanting to go. But what can we do? We are practically stranded in this landfill until this tweaker finishes up. Might as well brave the odds and have a fun time. Hayden seems to think so too, as he shrugs and offers me his hand.
After all, if he's with me, I don't care where we are.
Let's just hope we don't catch an infection while we are at it.