French Bread and French Fries

It was in that strange oceanic passage to South America, a passage that was perfectly edited to soft music, showing small video clips of The Boss and The Niles laughing and crying and randomly beating the ever-living-fuck out of Arbitrary Henchmen. There were slow-motion vignettes of The Boss and The Niles air guitar playing a compilation of hair metal songs from the ‘80s. Some of the video clips showed the S.S. Glen from 10 or so yards away, in a terrible storm; the camera would cut to visions in the form of perfectly directed staging of The Niles in a yellow rubber rain suit and matching hat at a massive wooden wheel, trying and succeeding in steering the S.S. Glen out of a damned perfect storm, all the while being bombarded with gallons of seawater that was splashing and crashing into the ship, rocking it this way and that…

“The Boss!” The Niles was yelling at me with concern. Which was strange, because The Niles never yells with concern when there’s even a chance of fitting in an extraordinary exclaim. “You’re dramatically narrating for a screenplay out loud again!” He exclaimed that time. Some bums in Memphis received a case of Czechvar, and I was immediately out of my narration.

“Scotch me,” I said drinkingly and then realized that I had said that drinkingly (meaning I was drinking as I spoke, just to clarify) and said never mind. Then I punched myself in the stomach for saying something toolish like ‘scotch me’ in the first place.

The Niles and I then proceeded to take long pulls from our respective bottles: me, from my bottle of The Glenlivet 15 Year and him from his bottle of Oban 14 Year.

I took out the foot-long piece of French bread that was leftover from the Meatloaf Raft and began nibbling, which is what a Boss does from time with leftover French bread.

“South America is right there according to our GPS.” The Niles said, pointing straight ahead at a dock that was a mere 10 feet from the ship; and one that we were approaching at top speed.

CRASH!!! Went the S.S. Glen. CRACKLE!!!! Went the dock. (Not the word for the noises, but that was the actual sound that occurred when we slammed into the dock very loudly and violently.)

The dock of South America was no longer a dock and I suddenly became very hungry, and being as drunk as The Niles at a bar, I hallucinated a fresh-cut French fry stand.

“What are you doing, The Boss?” The Niles asked askingly.

“Not now, I need full concentration if I’m going to pull this off.” I said back, not taking my eyes off the hallucinated French fry stand.

“Large fries please.” I said to the incredibly attractive girl at the counter.

“That’ll be $4.50,” said the girl, whose nametag read The Ashley. “But I have to make another batch, so it’ll be about 3 minutes okay?”

“That’s fine.” I said drunkingly. “You want anything The Niles?” I turned to ask The Niles, who was busy beating the ever-living-fuck out of the dock owner for having built a dock so close to our approaching ship.

“Four ketchup packets!” He exclaimed mid-ever-living-fuck-beating. I took four ketchup packets from the condiments bar and threw them at his cargo shorts pocket, they went in perfectly. I then drank a bottle of scotch because the word bar made me long for Richey’s.

“Here’s your fries.” The Ashley said and handed me the large order of hot deliciousness.

“Thanks,“ I said and the hallucination disappeared, leaving me standing there with my fries.

“Let’s go find Tom.” Implied The Niles (implied meaning that The Niles didn’t really say anything, but more or less just nodded and moved his eyes in a way that said (to me at least) ‘Let’s go find Tom’).

“You want a French fry?” I implied back by leaning the cup of fries ever so carefully towards him and winking heterosexually. The Niles took a few fries and one by one slid them down into his bottle of Dewars (because Dewars is disgusting piss water and only something as glorious as fries could bring some flavor to that), he then shook the bottle and followed with a miraculous chug of scotch and fries.

“Amazing!” Exclaimed Arbitrary Henchman #86, who had been lurking in the background the entire time. A bum in Charlotte got peed on.

What happened next is cloudy, The Niles and I blacked out due to sheer non-belief that an Arbitrary Henchman, especially Arbitrary Henchman #86 would even think about exclaiming in our presence. When we awoke, we were both drinking 21 year Glenlivet in a kiddy pool of Arbitrary Henchman #86’s blood, which sounds like a gruesome scene, but it was actually quite funny at the time. We all had a good laugh about it, even Ferocius – who took a break from the crying to have a chuckle.

So more implications of finding Tom were implicated or implied, fries were eaten, and scotch was of course drunk and drank drunkingly.

“Let’s check the bars.” The Niles said, pointing up the street.

“I have never heard a better idea!” I exclaimed, releasing from the sky a keg of PBR on a family of poor rednecks in central Florida.

“C’mon Ferocius!” I shouted, not wanting to waste exclaims on him.

So the three of us went up the road to the El Gracioso Pene bar to see if Tom was whoring about.

As we stepped into the bar we could just tell by the smell – a sort of orange sherbet and green bean aroma – that we were maybe or maybe not in the wrong place. So really the smell overall told us nothing about anything, it was just a strange odor that I thought was worth mentioning.

“It smells like Ferocius’ vagina.” Said The Niles.

“Hey! I don’t have a vagina, I have a penis, because I’m a guy – oh, fuck you!” Shouted Ferocius and retreated into a tissue with his tears.

The Niles and I delicately air guitared Rush’s “Xanadu”.

“Hey!” Shouted a crusty looking and familiar faced person from behind the bar. “No Xanadu here! Take that Rush shit outside!”

“Why don’t we take you outside!” I shouted, and then I realized that this has been a most violent entry, what with the kiddy pool of blood and whatnot. “Give me a 1926 Macallan Scotch and I won’t beat the ever-living fuck out of you!”

The familiar faced bar keep waddled back and we could see tears welling up in his eyes.
”What a homo, haha.” Said The Niles, referencing the crying, because everyone knows that crying is gay.

“No, I’m not crying because I’m gay – well, I am gay maybe I suppose, or just really confused I think probably – look, only one of two people in the entire world order a scotch like that, and actually expect a bartender to have it on hand, and follow the order by threatening the bartender with having the living fuck beat out of him! The Boss and The Niles!”

“Tom?” The Niles asked drunkingly.

“Well jerk me off!” Tom the Penguin-fish shouted.
”Okay, I’ll jerk you off.” Ferocius said sullenly and started walking, head down, toward Tom with a bottle of Jergens.
”Ferocius, he wasn’t serious! You’re gross dude.” The Niles and I said in perfect unison. So we jinxed each other and neither of us spoke for the remainder of this entry.

“I was only partly serious.” Tom said homosexually. “Anyways, what brings you guys to South America?”

The Niles and I reminded Tom the Penguin-fish of the recent jinxing and proceeded to convey our recent exploits on the high and vast and ridiculously mighty seas through the ancient art of charades…

-The Boss