The Legend of Marty Errols, Episode One

The Legend of Marty Errols
By Andrey Meshcheryakov

There were men who were so physically imposing that they demanded fear from all those around them. There were men who treated world-class boxers like they were footballs. There were even men who made Hercules look like a chess enthusiast, in the sense that chess enthusiasts are puny clumps of ever-atrophying bone bags. Then there was me; Marty Errols, pain-dealer extraordinaire.

People are always doing stupid shit around me. It’s like they want me to hurt them. I didn’t ask for this responsibility, it has been bestowed upon me by some higher power. Like this one time, down in Tijuana. It was a Thursday. I was in a puke-reeking bathroom in the back of a bar, washing the blood and tooth chunks off my knuckle-length black leather gloves. They nicely complemented my vest. Not that I would know anything about that. I’m not some queer. The snake tattoo on my arm makes me look damn sexy, though. No, not sexy. Badass. Yeah, that’s right, badass.
I was nearly finished admiring myself when a slick-haired Mexican dude walked in.

“Hey, man, that was crazy,” the Mexican proclaimed. “You really messed those guys up.”
“They touched my mullet,” I said, giving each word special care. The Mexican got it. “What, you wanna wrangle?”
“No, no, no” the Mexican stammered. “I’m Chico Valente, man, I run a fight club over on Adamo Nervo.”
“Not interested.”
“Aw, come on, man.” Chico put a hand on my shoulder. Big mistake. The next second that sorry sumbitch fight club owner found himself sailing over my left shoulder and into the sink that the blood from my hands had just finished draining down.
“Don’t like to be touched,” I explained

I ambled out of the bathroom to utter silence and a bunch of flabbergasted, gaping eyed bystanders. I snatched a cigarette from the mouth of one of those sheep and ground the business end into my forearm. Nobody here would forget this day, no matter how drunk they were. No sir, every wetback pussy in that shithole would remember the day they saw the whoop-ass can opener that is Marty Errols in Schwarze-fuckin’-negger action. Thousand bucks says a collective sigh of relief exuded from the bar as the door closed behind me.

The next week, I was out walking Cupcakes, my pet Doberman. I was trying to teach her not to attack every single person she saw. That was when they struck. It was the cholo ninjas. A tranquilizer dart hit me in the neck. That was nothing. I put more sedatives in my morning coffee. I spun around and started acquainting my fist with a bunch of eminently smashable faces. Another 12 darts and 35 ninjas were spent before the sweet drugs managed to knock me out.

A welcome dream enveloped me while I was catching some z’s. It was about a world in which not everyone begged me to kick their asses. That fantasy realm vanished away all too soon, though, as I was wakened by water splashing on my face. I was on the deck of a yacht, tied up like a hog.

“You think you can mess with Mikey Barrera?” asked a white-suited Scarface wannabe, apparently Mikey Barrera. His left arm hung in a sling. One of his ears appeared to be missing. “Know what happens to muchachos who mess with Mikey Barrera?”

“Let me go. Now.” I threatened.
“You’re in no position to be making demands, my friend… We have your dog.”
“You have Cupcakes?”
“No, you fool. We don’t have any delicious pastries. Even if we did, you wouldn’t get any.”

Goddamn it. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to give that fucker a screwdriver lobotomy. I leapt to my feet like Liu Kang, hopped over to Barrera, and head-butted him directly in his baboon nose.

“YOU GIVE ME CUPCAKES RIGHT NOW!!!”

Barrera dropped to the ground and curled up in a ball, trying to protect his tender ex-ears. Animalologists, or whatever they’re called, will tell you get in the fetal position when there’s a bear attacking you. I ain’t no pussy ass bear, though.

“I told you, we got no cupcakes, man. Please, don’t hurt me, please!”
“MY DOG!!!”

I was about to turn his brains into pancake batter when one of Barrera’s goons pushed me from behind. Caught me off balance. Went right over the edge into the water. Oh motherfucker no, they weren’t about to get away with that. The boat was moving. I was getting sucked into the propeller. That is, until I stopped that shit with my teeth. That’s right; I bit the propeller and tore it in half, then used one of the shards to cut myself free.

I climbed right back on the yacht. It was bigger than I thought. Also, it was gonna be in the bottom of whatever body of water we were in. First target; every single thug between me and the engine. Second target; the engine. One unfortunate vato found himself going face-first into some cogs and gears, or whatever. I’m no engineer, don’t ask me to explain it.

Time to finish what I started. Barrera had just renewed his subscription to Pain Quarterly. Chief editor: Marty Errols. En route to the deck, though, everything started exploding like a hamster in a microwave. When I got there, that scumbag Barrera was already escaping in a speedboat. It was on now. Well, it was on before, but now it was really on, and there would be no turning it off.

“BARRERA!!!” I bellowed.

The last thing I remember was that nagging chortle. The next moment, the whole fucking ship blew sky-high. As I sailed through the air, it was one of those moments where time slows down all dramatically. I looked down, or up. Either way, I was looking at my feet. My size 15 steel-toes were singed. I liked those boots, damn it.

REJECTED!!!

I met this girl down by the bridge
Asked her name and she said Midge
I said "you're cute, we should get some coffee"
She flipped her hair and whispered softly
"No thanks"

REJECTED!!! Uhh, uhh, REJECTED!!!

I was sittin in class starin at this girl
She had a nice ass, the nicest ass in the world
She looked at me and said "Whatcha starin' at"
I said "That blouse, but you shouldnt be wearin' that"
A look of outrage had crossed her face
She slapped me real hard and put me in my place

REJECTED!!! Uhh, uhh, REJECTED!!!

Last week I went to the A&P
saw a nice girl working at Aisle 3
I walked up to her with a playboy in hand
She scanned it but did not understand
She said "Whats this for? Are you lonely or something?"
I said "I just read it for the articles, I don't do no hand-humping"
She smirked at me as I paid her the money
I really didn't think that it was at all funny
Anyway, I decided to take the chance,
So I asked her "Can I get in your pants?"
I probably should have displayed more maturity
Because the next moment she called security
Now I'm getting thrown out of the store
And I dropped my playboy on the floor

REJECTED!!! Uhh, uhh, REJECTED!!!

When I got home I took the stairs
Met some chick with blonde hair
She was going down, I was going up
Her bra size must have been a D cup
My eyes were glued to her humongous hooters
She looked at me like I wanted to shoot her
Before I had the chance, to say a word
She ran off at speed absurd
Now I'm home, making love to my right
And I'll be up all goddamn night
Feeling...

REJECTED!!!

Love Me for My Jeans

Middle of the night, I wake up from a dream
It was about you loving me for my jeans
I couldnt comprehend, I couldnt understand
How do my jeans make me the man?
Do you love me, or do you love my pants?
Every time you see my jeans you go into a trance

Love me for my jeans, you just love me for my jeans
Love me for my jeans, you just love me for my jeans
I just wanna scream, you just love me for my jeans

I say let's go out, lets go to the movies
But all you wanna do is stay in my closet and do me
All you ever do is just stare at my thighs
I feel like a whore, won't you look me in the eyes?
Our relationship is all based on a fashion trend,
But if the style changes, would our love end?

Love me for my jeans, you just love me for my jeans
Love me for my jeans, you just love me for my jeans
I just wanna scream, you just love me for my jeans

I want something more, I wanna know about you
But when I start talking it's like it's taboo
You just tell me shush up and strut my stuff
Well guess what, *****, I've had enough
I don't wanna be stylish, I wanna be tacky
Well our relationship is over and I'm putting on some khakis

Love me for my jeans, you just love me for my jeans
Love me for my jeans, you just love me for my jeans
I just wanna scream, you just love me for my jeans

Taylor Swift Monologue

Here's something I wrote a while ago, and is kinda old news, but it had a good reaction so I'm posting it here. Betta recognize.




I can’t believe this… What – an – embarrassment… I finally achieve something, after years of working and toiling, and it gets cut down right in front of me. That is so typical of a boy. Always has to be the center of attention, doesn’t he? Nehh nehh nehh “I’m really happy and I’ma let you finish” duhh “But Beyonce had the BEST VIDEO OF ALL TIME!!!”

How rude! I had my shining moment stolen from me. All I wanted to do was go get my award, I won a VMA for Christ sake! … Terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to take Christ’s name is vain. It’s just that he gets me so riled up every time I think about him. Argh! That moment haunts me. It just plays in my head… Over… and over, and over AND OVER AND OVER!!!!! “BEST VIDEO OF ALL TIME!!! OF ALL TIME!!! OF – ALL – TIME!!!” It’s like a poison, coursing through my veins, my mind…

What right does he have anyway? Isn’t this the same guy who threw a temper tantrum a few years ago when he didn’t get a VMA of his own? He just always has to get up on that stage and stir things up, doesn’t he? What an attention who -… Watch the language, Taylor. He’s not worth it. But he’s just so frustrating… And so cute.

I’m just lying to myself. The reason I’m letting him get to me isn’t because he made me look bad in front of all those people. It’s because I want his approval. In fact, I love him. That’s right! I LOVE KANYE WEST!!! I want him to love me, I want to marry him! I want to be the mother to his children!!!

Kanye and Taylor West… Mr. and Mrs. Kanye West. .. Mrs. Taylor West… Doctor and Mrs. West… Oh, I swoon at the thought! If I ever had him , my life would be complete. I’d quit my singing career, I’d throw away all the awards, the VMAs, the money, just to be with my Kanye.

I don’t care who knows! I’ll shout it to the world! Kanye West and I are meant to be! I love him and he loves me! Hey… That’s a good lyric for a song… I’m gonna write that down. Maybe if I sing it to him, he’ll see the way I feel and he’ll feel the same everlasting love. Oh yeah… We’ll be happy forever!!!

Two tanned and unshaven men accompanied each other around a smoldering campfire in an arid wasteland. To the east was nothing but cacti and lost dreams. Somewhere, a tumbleweed was brushing past an old ox skull. To the west was their next target. The “Infamous” Dirty Dave Piggins, as he liked to call himself, laid on his back, a flask resting at his side. One foot was drumming to the melody of some ragtime tune he heard in the last town’s saloon. The spur made a pleasant jingle with each tap.

They had camped on the outskirts of town for a week, taking turns going out and pillaging what meager food they could find from the surrounding farms. Only a couple of days were needed for preparation, but Dave had enjoyed the ambiance. The haunting whistle as the wind flowed through the canyons calmed him.

“So, let’s go over this one more time,” said Gregory, Dave’s lackey of the month. He sat rigidly, staring nervously into the dim flames, which reflected off his meticulously clean spectacles. His hair was always neatly combed and taken care of. Dave wished Greg would just keep his mouth shut. He didn’t need the constant questioning and doubts.

“Dammit, Greg,” Dave croaked before eating a spoonful of peyote from a jar he kept in his saddlebag, along with a box of .45 Long Colt bullets, a bag of rolling tobacco, and a can of beans he had been saving. His voice was hoarse from all the years of smoking and malnutrition. “I told ya more’n I can even count.”

“No, I know, I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“Step one. We’re goin’ inta town. We go inta the bank.”

Greg grunted in understanding.

“Step two. Wait, no, this is before step one. Yer gonna strap a bomb ta yer chest.”

“Why do I have to be the bomb guy? Can’t you do it?”

Questions, questions, questions. Maybe Dave should have kept his last crony. Bishop never asked questions. Sadly, it was not a possibility. Dave never had a partner for more than seven heists. This was lucky number seven for Greg.

“Why, cuz I’ll be the one restrainin’ everyone and whatnot,” Dave replied, “We don’t want any heroes. Ya ain’t got the eyes ta watch everyone. Big town, ya know. Big bank.”

“But, we’ve never used TNT before.”

“Like I said, big town. There’s bound ta be alotta lawmen. They’ll be less likely ta shoot ya if ya got a bomb.” Dave clapped a reassuring hand on Greg’s shoulder “Don’t worry, pal. We’re gonna be richer’n ya thought possible in just a few hours.”

Dave was being unusually friendly tonight. Greg thought Dave was just giddy at the prospect of making so much money. Dave rolled two cigarettes and offered one to Greg. Greg declined.

As the sun was setting, the two bandits saddled and mounted their horses. The bank would close in about half an hour. It would be emptiest right before closing, and the bankers would be opening the safe soon, putting away all the funds for the night.

Old Ugly Buffalo, population six hundred and fourteen plus one. Main street held a barber shop (which Greg had insisted on visiting during their first casing of the bank), a general store (which Dave had insisted on shoplifting some tobacco from), a saloon, jail, post/telegram office, hotel, and of course the bank. Two old men would sit on the stoop of the hotel and squeeze the asses of the whores who constantly went in and out. A blind Negro walked up and down the road, scrounging for change.

They rode into town. Greg frequently adjusted the dynamite tied around him, as it would constantly drop. Dave made them stop to make sure the explosives were firmly secured. As they drew closer to the bank, Dave began to hum Ride of the Valkyries, like he always did when he was planning bloodshed. They hopped off of their horses and tied them to a post. Greg went ahead. Dave untied Greg’s horse before following.

“Alright, everybody get on the floor!” Greg shouted, revealing the bombs underneath his duster. Several people screamed. Within a few moments, everyone was on the ground, save for one man who tried to reach for his gun before Dave fired with his trusty six-shooter, The Desperado. He didn’t know what the name meant, it just sounded bad. It looked even more bad. Nickel plated, with an ivory handle engraved with an image of an Indian chief in a ceremonial headdress. Dave found it fitting, since Natives were his favorite thing to shoot.

Greg made his way to the rear, hopping over the counter and vanishing into the vault, then returned two minutes later with several bags full of money.

“Alright, let’s get out of here” Greg said, handing a bag to Dave.

Dave let Greg run past him, so that his back was to Dave. Dave fired a bullet into Greg’s spine. Dave’s accomplice hit the ground, screaming in agony.

“Why?” Greg said

“Shut yer mouth,” Dave said, reaching into his pocket for a lighter, “Stay still.”

“Bastard”

The bandit grinned widely, revealing his rotten, blackened teeth. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

Dave flicked his lighter, then put the flame to the fuse of the dynamite. Grabbing all the money bags, he began to jog outside of the bank. As he mounted his horse, he heard a loud boom from inside the bank. Satisfied, he rode away. Time to get outta Dodge, wherever that was. Greg needed a successor. Someone without ideas of his own. Maybe Dirty Dave would let the guy stick around this time. Who the hell was he kidding? That wouldn’t be dirty.