“6mile & Davidson Series” VOL # 2”
This part of the “6 & Davidson Series is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The author assumes no responsibility for the loss of consciousness, life, bladder control, loved ones, or sanity.
ANY resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living, dead, or anywhere in between, IS ENTIRELY COINCIDEENTAL.
Due to the content of this story…it should not be read by just anyone:
you agree that this story and related materials will not be rented, leased, loaned, sold, transferred, assigned, broadcast in any media, publicly exhibited, reproduced, copied, recorded, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise.
It has course language
Adult situations..
And just bad-crazyness.
It will be rated accordingly
…stop reading now!
"Vicky'S Bloody Dive" by: Roberto Dilemma
“The Kreskie Crib”
Now this is not the old Doctors offices that we used as an apartment in the last story. “Close enough”.
This is at a place that everyone “fondly” referred to as, “The Kreskie Crib”. (“Cause that was the name of the street it was on)
It was a big old farm house built in 1890. A big red brick two story home, nice big covered front porch. Lots of big windows. It had a beautiful Mountain Ash Tree in front. We let it grow wild. It hung down low close to the over grown hedges that we also let grow wild. At some point in this house’s history, someone had a very big rose garden. These we also let grow wild. They were quite beautiful, there were a lot of them. All over the side and back yard. Sometime they would get so plentiful, after, “Mourning Cleanup”, I’d cut some and put them in the nicest jar (or whatever) I could find and set them on the kitchen table. The only thing we cut was the grass, I was never much into controlling nature. Wild is often beautiful.
Plenty of privacy. Maybe that was farmland back then. (1890) Now it was built up and near an intersection called, “French Rd. & Grasshit”. Total ghetto. (new I-94)
We were often hungry there. This was not a good place to be hungry. There was a potato chip factory across Grasshit. “Better Made”. (Good chips) They had big semi-trucks full of potato’s. They use to pull up on this, “Thing”. It tilted, so the semi looked like it was doing a wheelie. That’s how they dumped all the potatoes off the truck. They went into a chute of sorts. When they started to make those chips, god-damn, it smelled so good. Fuckin’ get your stomach just groaning.
Down the way, just one an a half blocks down Grasshit, there was a soda pop factory, Faygo.
They must have made a flavor a day. Because when they made orange, that’s all you smelled all day…into the night. Grape, same thing. Etc. I think you get the picture. Well if we were hungry all we could think of was chips and soda. This house was in the north where the people call it, “Pop”. Not soda, like in the southeast.
There was only two houses on the little part of the street where we lived. A smaller house, with a little old couple living in it. Then there was our lot, which was pretty big. Then our house, on the corner.
In front of our house, across the street was a daycare.
Yes, place where people left their small children while they went off to do whatever? It was called, “Sleepy Hollow Child Care Center” It was painted, grass green. The back, of the day care faced the front of our house. There was a little patch of grass behind it, with an eight foot chain link fence with four strands of barbed wire, and razor wire rolled around that. The front of, “Sleepy Hollow” was on Grasshit”. We never seen anyone out there. As a matter of fact we never seen anyone, anywhere around the building. We speculated as to why the fence? Maybe divorced parents would come and snatch their kids back? But…we never seen any kids? Maybe the kids were super wild? How fuckin’ wild could they be? Anyway it was a never ending source of wonder for all that lived there and visited. Everyone started calling it, “Sleepy Hollow Concentration Camp”.
Across the little side street from that, “kitty Corner” from our house was a little house where, “Vicky” and her man lived.(we never knew his name) This I mention because she would be the only neighbor that we ever really knew. The little old man and his wife that lived next to our lot, we cut his grass, shoveled his snow. He thanked us very politely but that all we knew of them. Not even their names.
When we moved in we met the landlord. He was a lawyer. He ran for circuit court judge and won.
So he was also a judge. His Name was Lumley. He told us his first name, but I don’t remember it . We never used it. That’s what he wanted us to call him. But I pinned the nickname Chumley on him and it stuck. You see I thought he was “fucked up in the mind.”
When we were first moving our furniture in we found some nasty magazines. Now these weren’t your run-of-the-mill fuck books, “Playboy” or “Hustler” or any of that semi-normal shit. These were expensive, Hundred dollar, snuff, torture, gross cut your titties off “sick ass shit.“ Not, “fancy knots”, tie your lover up, even that would have been much, “Saner” then this trash. I never seen anything like it before, or since. I could barely look at the pictures, and I was an grown man.
In the room where the magazines were there was a wood burning stove, and a over stuffed chair. (We threw that out later.) We took a very heavy hide-a-way bed/couch up there. It would make a nice sitting room. It had two very nice, rather large windows facing the front of the house. They over looked the branches of the ash tree. Anyone that has ever owned a couch/bed knows they are a pain in the ass heavy!
So a friend and I carried it up. I seen those nasty, gross, fucked-up magazines and being really busy moving. I just shoved them under the couch with my foot. I was thinking I’d throw them away later. I didn’t want anyone to see that sick shit.
Well later that day, while we were setting every thing in place, Chumley comes in excited to the point of almost being frantic.
He says, “did you find my magazines, they’re really expensive, I hope you didn’t throw them out, do you know where they are. I forgot them here”
Remembering sliding them under the sofa/bed I say, “those fucked up nasty, snuff, shit rags”?
Since I was used to truthfully speaking my mind, I went on, “you’re a sick mother fucker if you get your nut checking that fuckin’ bloody torture/murder shit out, and you’re a fuckin’ judge, figures, gotta be the straight ass lookin’ meek, lawyer mother fucker that ends up being a psycho piece of shit with legs”.
He blurts out, “you didn’t throw them out?… They are very expensive and hard to find magazines”!
Only my friend that helped me carry the couch up saw them. Everyone else in the house didn’t have a clue what the fuck the “new Landlord” was babbling about.
Now I want this idiot to calm down, take his sick ass books and get the fuck out of my sight.
I say, “calm the fuk down, I’ll get them for you, no one threw them out”.
He seemed relived. I know he would have dug through garbage for them. He stands there quietly, looking around nervously, while I run upstairs and get them. I give them to him. Very red-faced, he quickly leaves.
Everyone’s, like, “what the hell was that all about”. I explain. There a lot of, “oh no shit“... “And wow fuked“, being mumbled around the room. He’d probably get a fire going. The enclosed back porch was well stocked with split oak. More cords of it in the yard. He’d get it nice and cozy in there. Pull out his sick books, and spend the evening tuggin’ it in his comfy chair.
Now this surprises me. Yea they had some high dollar prices on them. But fuck!!! This guy’s in a panic over loosing this freaky shit. If I was into something that sick and disrespectful toward life, I don’t think I’d want my new tenants to know. Fuck the money. He’s a judge & lawyer, he’s got money. I would have thought they were someone’s that worked on the house, or the person that lived there before. At that moment I lost any respect I might have had for him. From then on he would be called Chumley, and treated like the “asshole” that he was. In the future he would prove, time and time again, this assessment was correct.
It seemed no matter his title, he was either used to being treated like the piece of shit he continuously proved he was, or (I can’t believe this) maybe he just let me, my brother, and our friends get away with treating him disrespectfully?
Chapter 2 I’m Getting there
Well this house was picked out for a Few reasons. Number one, it was nice looking, homey and comfortable. Number 2, We could make a lot of noise.
Number 3-It was big. It had a lot of rooms. We were going to have a band, R&B, Rock & Roll band.
These genre’s were eventually twisted into our own thing. Our own thing was loud, very fast, sloppy and soaked in, “various, Misc. Assort”. Which was a term we coined as meaning=Cheap wine, Usually, “Wild Irish Rose”, cheap booze & beer (generic/the kind that was $6.00 a case had a white label on it that said, “BEER” in bold black letters on the bottle) Swag weed, spicy Mexican, or 13 mile road choke weed. We smoked the shit out of it. Last but not lest, cheap hallucinogenics. Micro-dot LSD, Mescaline (3 for $5.00) a very fun drug. Shrooms (when we could find them. ) Some members of the band were into prescription drugs. Anything that anyone could get fucked up on, or even the slightest buzz went very quickly. This left the script pill user left with only the necessary medication for a, “Condition”.
I personally was the most responsible person in the household. That says something in itself.
So I kept cool, stuck to the trip and smoke. I usually had my own stash that the pill piglets, and wake and bake crew didn’t know about. We didn’t know about the hard, expensive drugs yet. We were still green. Really what people would call kids nowadays. But…it was, then, and we were brought up somewhat ghetto.
We really didn’t have a clue what normal was. It would be many a year, I was much older before I had even a slight Idea, I had to change.
How we financed this whole endeavor is a strange story in itself. I won’t get into that at this point.
Let it suffice to say I was honest and creative. The band made money, but it wouldn’t have been enough to feed the group and our entourage of hanger-on folk that came and went. Plus get us the material to live this totally insane, gonzo lifestyle that at the time we considered a normal, Rock & Roll life.
This was like living in a strange movie of some sort, (totally unscripted) Fellini, with a mix of “The Doors” and Cheech & Chong on steroids, a dash of old Ken Russell…directed by Tim Burton. (Movie/cinema buffs will understand this. If they don’t fuk’em they ain’t hip)
Everyday was another strange and wild dilemma. Partying, Playing out, practice, inviting other bands for, “Jam Sessions”.
Bar-ba-que everyday. It’s the only way any of us knew how to cook.
We’d bar-ba-que, anytime…the middle of the night, the middle of winter. We didn’t care. We used that quartered oak, in a big old round “Weber” that was Red. (it use to be my dad’s.)
The fire dept. was about a block and a half away. Once a fireman came by, he said he could see the fire from the fire station and just wanted to make sure we had everything under control. I assured him we did. He said that’s one hell of a fire. I again assured him we knew what we were doing. I invited him to stay and eat with us. He politely declined and walked on back to the station.
This all really gets me to the story. If you didn’t understand the situation, behind this story…well it wouldn’t work.
This was a special day. We all knew it. As soon as we woke up, “mourning cleanup” was extra, “CLEAN THIS FUCKEN PLACE UP!” A detail we all took part in. Everyone that was there. Sometimes there were people in my house that I didn’t know. Well they had to help during mourning cleanup. Mostly because they were probably left over from the, nightly, “Mess Up”.
Dean was coming over. He was on leave from the service. Kevin his brother lived with us. He was about 15 years old. That wasn’t just it. I loved him. As much as a man can love another man and not be gay.
Hell everyone loved Dean. The guys wanted to be like Dean, the girls wanted to fuck Dean. He is a very cool person, to this day. (and that was 31 years ago)
Well that afternoon we heard Vicky, across the street already drunk yellin’ like a psycho at her old man.
We didn’t think too much about it. It was a common occurrence. It was a beautiful summer day. We were sounding good. (or so we thought) A friend from the old neighborhood was playing lead at the time. Dean was friends with his while family. Eight brothers and two sisters. Tim Mahoney, Bone, (Tony) had replaced his brother Leo on drums. Leo had grown up sooner then the rest of us. He was more responsible.
He still came over mostly on the weekends with his girlfriend. My crazy brother played bass, and I played rhythm guitar and sang lead. Everyone sang background vocals.
We believed in ourselves, we believed in the music. We lived for the music. Everyone around thought (at that time) “This Music Can not Go Un Noticed.” We’d be famous in no time.
Well we were collecting some serious buzz material. Locking onto a booze and drug collection for the evenings festivities. Vicky’s husband comes over with a shot gun.
He said, “hey could you hold onto this shotgun for me, if Vicky gets her hands on it she’s sure to shoot me dead. She got the shells, and I can’t have her getting her hands on the gun”.
I looked across the street. I didn’t see Vicky.
Her husband said, “Vicky went to the store”
He knew what I was thinking. If Vicky knew he brought the gun to our house she’d just come over, fucked up out of her mind, and just demand, probably armed with something; that we give her the shotgun.
I said, “sure man I’ll stash it“, then as an after thought I asked, “Is it loaded”?
He said, “No Vicky Got the shells”.
I checked it out, it wasn’t loaded. With all the bad-craziness that always went on…we NEVER kept any guns. That would have been hazardous to any, and everybody health.
A fraction of a second changes everything when guns are involved.(as long as it takes to pull a trigger) So I took the shotgun. I stashed it upstairs, under that same couch the “crazy fuck books” were under. Yes I thought…way in the back. You’d have to lay on the floor and look under the couch to see it. Good enough…or so I thought.
Pt. 3 Get The Party Started!
All the band was there. So other folk that were friends of our, that played pretty well.
We had the Bar-Ba-Que ready to light, when we got hungry. The drugs of choice were passed around. Everyone had brought something to add to the craziness. The drugs were starting to take hold.
“Ol Bro Dean shows up, now he’s got his own supply pf booze, good stuff, not the cheap shit we brought for quantity not quality. Everyone that has a girlfriend, brought her along, (if she’d come) and since we were already there for a while, it was a well know party house among the musicians, and artist in the east side; and close to the downtown ghetto area.
Girls/women came that we knew and that we didn’t know. “The rule”, if you came by and were a man, and we didn’t know you. Well…the test was to prove your cool, or that you can play an instrument.
Fuck BUZZ, the hell with DRUGS, that wouldn’t get you past the porch. We had that shit in common with the whole world. (Or that’s how we thought then) Bringing extra women…now that was cool.
But a woman, no matter how she looked, (sexy was best) but we looked inside people and believed that there might be someone here for “any” woman” and women/girls bringing good drugs, or food or drink, That was the best ticket into our world.
It seemed like everyone was there, “Dead”(a name), D.C. (Dave Cork) “Hipsters“, D.C. was a poet, singer, and he played harp. When we backed him up, we were called, “The Rangers” When we played with out D.C. we referred to ourselves as “Merlin” …D.C., AKA Dave Cork, Corky, Corky Lang…etc. etc. is a story in himself, and one day I might tell that story. This is not that day.
There were Monkey people, lizard people, freaky cousins, and super girl. The “Don’t give them the tambourine Chicks, ‘cause the bruise up their legs banging it on themselves with too much enthusiasm. People from other bands, in costume, Punks, Funks, and junkie dumps. There were also a couple, “Brothers” that we brought some drugs off earlier in the day. We done business with them before. They seemed like good people, so they WERE invited. Strange Days had indeed found us that night.
Well we went through a couple sets. Stoned people everywhere. Doing weird things in every room, BUT MINE. (Off limits for everyone except me or my private party) Sex, Secret stashes, tripped out confessions, etc. etc. Everything that you might imagine that wasn’t violent. We didn’t like violence. It was disrespectful toward life and usually brought the cops.
Everyone trying to turn Dean on. But alas, he had given up everything except, good drink, food, and fast women. This just made it even more tempting, and I do believe I saw him take a couple hits of some skunk bud.
Well… the distorted four, My brother, Zankie (a name) and another two, who I forget …shit coulda been anyone…but they had to be familiar…or they wouldn’t be that fuckin’ crazy.
They were at the kitchen table, cutting cards for downers. The looser ate one, (high card). The winner ate four, if he choose. (Low Card) I know this sounds like it don’t make sense but …fuck, you don’t know the half of it!
Vicky, The wild woman from across the street. (“Kitty-Corner”) she comes over. She never did look good. She could be almost any age, 30 to 130. Too much booze, Too many Bars, Too Many Drugs, Left too many scars. I think she was on the older side. Just that she’d been beat with the ugly stick, and now, here she was.
The color of a kind of brown ash, The whites of her eyes solid yellow, bleary. Wearing a ripped red silk robe, that showed some, stained red lingerie. Too much of what people didn’t want to see. A body that scared men, and turned their penises into belly buttons. It was all showin’. Plus she wasn’t smellin’ all that good. Though you could tell she tried to cover the stench with some cheap perfume, or room deodorizer, who knows? She’s got about half a pint of cheap vodka in one hand, and a stack of 45’s (records) on her other thumb. “Barry White“, “Marvin Gaye’s sexual healing“, “Lets Get it On“, and some other Love me up, or let me strip records.
Of coarse she’s welcome! She comes in and say’s something in her most flirtiest, drunk voice to the guys cutting’ cards at the kitchen table.
My Bro, Thinkin‘, hell maybe we should just put her out, hands her about a half a dozen downers. Now you had to be used to these mother fuckin’ pills, you had to have built up a tolerance.
She sets he vodka down, offers The Guys at the table a “Nip”, giggles, coughs, sort of flashes them this tit that hanging down by her waist on one side of her ripped robe. They decline the drink, She throws all six downers back and rinses them down with this cheap vodka she’s carrying.
She heads for the living room where the cool crowd is quietly chillin’ listening to jams on the record player, and having this deep conversation….that no one can really follow.
Vicky listens for about twenty seconds, and goes and sits down right next to Dean. Dean was sitting on the floor. He’d pulled a pillow off the couch and was leaning his back against it.
Now she sits next to him. He turns and nervously looks at her.
She says something to him, I don’t really think anyone could tell what it was she said?
He laughs, obviously pretending he understood what she said.
She had set he 45 R.P.M. records next to the phonograph. I said, “hey Vicky, We’ll give these a spin”.
She coughs, and croaks some reply. I put the 45 adapter on the turntable, so the whole stack will play, one record, one side, at a time. Well, “Barry White“, croons and talks his way through a jam.
The next record drops.
Our, “friend”. One of brothers the from the hood we’d invited, pokes his head in the door and says,
“Man, I’m gonna split”.
I say, “Dude, I saw your friend, (I remembered his name then) duck outside. If the ladies are using the bathrooms, then he probably went out there to take a piss”.
The Guy replies, “Yea, I think so”. and he leaves. I don’t think shit about it.
So far…”It’s All Good”.
The next thing you know, Dean’s all relaxed. Vicky grabs his head by his ears and hair and shoves it down between her legs, holing it tight by his hair in her crotch.
Now Dean let out a holler/wail, “ get this fuckin’ woman’s hands off me, OOOOhhh god it stinksss!!!”
No!!! Vicky’s holding on tight croaking something nasty to Dean, and coughing a little in between phrases. Laughing and giggling in a demon voice.
I jump up and grab him by the legs and try to pull him away.
Dean yells, “She’s got my fuckin’ hair!!! Slow down she’s got my fuckin’ hair!!”
Well, Dead looks at what’s going on and the conversation turns to what’s to be done now. He trying to charm a youngblood girl a dozen years his junior. This will not be interfered with.
Well I know the breathing ain’t too good where my friend Dean’s nose is.. He’s our special guest, this can’t happen.
Dave Cork, Being a man, at the time that thought very well on his feet. He jumps up and is tying to pry her hands loose from Dean’s hair in the nicest most persuasive way. Even going as far as asking her to dance.
Now, “Marvin Gaye’s singing, “Lets Get It On”
Finally, although it lasted only seconds, they were stretched out to feel like half an hour.
Dean is loose, and I drag him about six feet across the floor.
Vicky is croakin’ and mumbling something to Dave Cork. She’s trying to stand up.
Dave gives her a hand, she’s looking around, confused. I’m thinking, those downers must have kicked in. I also notice she’s finished her vodka.
Well on each of the four corners of the room are big stereo speakers. Wooden, square edges, with black grill cloth.
“Ol Vicky proceeds to take one step and makes a nasty dive into the corner of the speaker.
First her face hit’s the corner of the speaker then, she hit’s the fuckin’ floor like a bag of wet cement.
She’s got this giant… I mean multiple stitches gash on her right cheek bone.
She’s also unconscious and the first thing I do is run to the kitchen and get a towel. I press it on her face where it’s busted open. I proceed to give Dave direction to call an ambulance. He does.
I check, she’s still breathin’.
The ambulance gets there in seconds, faster then I would have thought. As long as guns weren’t involved, and no one got shot, they get there much quicker.
Well they take her to the hospital. For a brief moment the conversation turns to what just happened.
Then like nothing at all went on, everything is back to normal.
Well everyone acts like this is a common occurrence, and shit like this happens everyday.
Well to be truthful I don’t like having parties where people are taken away in a ambulance.
It didn’t happen all that often, and this happened to be the first time.
No sense in letting it ruin everyone’s good time, more then half the people at the house weren’t aware that it even happened. So…carry on.
Part 4. The next mourning/afternoon.
Well I don’t know what time it was when I woke up. I just noticed someone I didn’t know talking on my phone. Now I paid that bill. I walk over to the phone and hang it up.
The guy that was talking on it says, “What the fuck, I was talking to someone, it was important, who the fuck are you?”
I say, “This is my house, that’s my phone, I’m tired of big ass phone bills, with long distance calls that I don’t know who made, or anyone that lives there.”
Then a knock on the door.
Vicky’s Husband, Lover, Old Man, I’m not quite sure of the status of their relationship.
OH FUCK!, I think.
First thing I ask is how’s Vicky?
He says, “she’ll live, have another scar, 16 stitches.
Then he asked, “how the hell did it happen?”
I tell him the truth. The story you just read up above.
He says, “well Vicky said one of your friends wanted to, GET UP ON SOME, she quoted him a price.”
“He didn’t like it, thought it was too much, and whacked her upside the head with something”.
I let him know this was totally a lie. We like Vicky, but not like that.
He was straight up, he said, “she was so fucked up when she left, I knew she couldn’t remember shit. Plus I see all the fine lookin’ women you got coming and going and I didn’t believe anyone would want any of Vicky, plus I can tell when she’s lying’”.
“Now where’s my shot gun?”
I tell him, “gimme a second, I’ll get it,”
I look under the couch, all around the room. NO SHOTGUN!. Now this worries me.
I ask everyone there. They’re all hiding back laying low. Their not sure what the hell is going to come down. Almost everyone that was there the night before were still there, laying around all over the place.
Couples cuddled up in corners, some of the inhabitants, had given up their rooms to lovebirds they knew.
NO ONE KNEW ABOUT THE SHOT GUN. THEY SURE THE HELL DIDN”T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO IT!
Upon arrival Vicky’s man was invited in, and was seated at the kitchen table. Dave offered him some coffee, he said, “No Thanks”.
He was looking around. He heard all this come down.
The he says, “I was sitting on my porch watching your place, those two brothers you had over, well one of them must have found the gun, ‘cause he lowered it out the window, it fell a little, then his friend came out and they both left with the gun”
I say, “I’m Sorry, we’ll replace the gun”
To which he replies, “don’t worry I know those Mother Fuckers, They will give me my gun back,
And I know their parents…anyway it’s a single shot 12 gauge, I didn’t pay $20.00 for it at the pawn shop. That was years ago. I might be safer to not have a gun around”.
Then I ask him, “we’ve lived here for a while now, we heard this was a bad neighborhood, no one ever fucks with us. What do you think?”
He answers, “These black folk ‘round here think you white, long haired, mother fuckers are crazy, like Charles Manson crazy. They hear that weird music all hours of the day & night (Pink Floyd?) and see them big bad ass fires. Smell shit cookin’ in the middle of the night, in the middle of the winter, they think your some kind of devil worship, sacrificing crazy Mother Fuckers, and I don’t tell them otherwise”.
Then I say, “Thanks, Sorry”
He says, “Alright”. and gets up and leaves.
-END-