Drennen And Joey's Sick Adventure #5

Drennen and Joey’s Sick Adventure

by Del Jackson

Chapter 5: Quinn Change

          “Do you come here often?”

            That she did, he knew damn well. The head bob, the voice filled to the brim with dad’s cologne: a cockatoo strutting his stuff, a man—a mammal, all tall—on the prowl. The fool’s gold name badge on his chest reading:

R. Kimball

PNC Bank Associate

            He was putting the moves on one Martha Maciejewski, age 25, quite possibly the most beautiful Polish princess—a princess, all woman—in all of neo-Chicago. An understatement, that.

            Martha was there to withdraw a humble two hundred and fifty dollars, but what was R. Kimball doing there, really? He was a Kingfisher of a man, tall as the trees but as lithe and graceful as a prime Michael Jackson. He was snakes in a can, a fish out of water shaking the desperate shakes of separation anxiety, death; liable in an instant to do the most explosive physical comedy, his hair, ever wet with sweat, punctuating the madness—a shock of hair lending him the affect of a bruiser, a meat packer straight out of Upton Sinclair.

            They busted in, guns blazing, better late than never: Joey Romaine and Drennen Quinn, flanked by Irwin Rommel, Joey’s bombastic cat and sometime dance partner. They were all three dressed as clowns (Irwin, so cute!), but—what the fuck? Drennen and Joey looked like they were melting, sweating bullets and streaking makeup. Gasping for breath.

            “Everybody freeze, this is a robbery," said Joey, heat stricken. "Just like in the movies!”

            R. Kimball was on him, a lunging wildebeest, a force of nature, before Joey Romaine could say “Hot Pocket!”

            “You saved me!” Martha said.

            “Martha! What are you doing here?! I saved you!” Joey said, lost.

            “She meant me, lunch meat! Now, time to machismo rape you for your insolence.”

                                                                    * * * 

            Gary Richardson, the legendary wheelman. His knuckles the humps of a camel on the steering wheel of his legendary ride, a 1989 JBA Dominator Mustang.

Stay the fuck out of my way, his life’s mantra. How was it again, that he got mixed up with these two bozos?

                                                                    * * *
              After some debate, it was Joey that pressed the doorbell on Gary's bungalow; Drennen flyin’ high, too high.
♪♪ BING bong, bing BONG. BING bong, BING bong ♪♪
The door swung open. G-Rich.
"We want to rob a PNC bank, Quick Change-style, you know?" said Joey. Quick Change style! "We were sorta wondering--"
Gary hovered backwards, into darkness; the Grim Reaper was never colder.

"Does he want us to come in?" said Drennen.
                                                                    

                                                                    * * *

       Vintage Ray Bans on Gary. Michael Jackson's "Dirty Diana" blasting on CD: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqsKYmqLV80

 Drennen and Joey were hunched over a laptop in the backseat.

“She wanted to date me in college, no joke. She asked me out," said Joey.

    "No way," said Drennen. "She's beautiful."
     Irwin Rommel rode shotgun--Gary's orders.
    "Wow," said Drennen. "You messed up."

    "I know, dude, I'm such an idiot," said Joey, eyes swimming amidst the garish clown makeup, clawing his hand through his orange fro, done up Bozo style.
    "Martha, Martha, Martha... The one that got away, huh pal?"

    “Such a dummy…”

    “The video for The Clash’s “Rock the Casbah” is my favorite,” said Drennen.

“Good point, but I’d say Julianne Moore remains one of Hollywood’s natural beauties… Gary, I'm in mourning here, could you turn that down?"

    SCREECH! ‘Stang to a dead halt.               

Get the F outta my ride

Drennen and Joey in shock: Gary hadn’t opened his mouth. That shit was telepathy!

"…Did you hear that?" Drennen whispered.

“Yeah, it was like it was in my head. You heard it?”

“Yeah… What should we do?”

“…Gary, my man, we gotta get to PNC, you can't dump us out here.”
 Irwin Rommel wrinkled his nose as if to say, “Me, too?”
 But there was no further response from Gary, no further anything, and after several minutes, there was no other choice but to exit the ride. Gary peeled out and was gone.

“Great. Just great,” said Drennen.
 “That’s a spicy meatball! It’s hot out!” said Joey.

“You are the worst.”

“♪♪ Sharif don’t like it,” Joey sang. Hard to stay mad at him.

Drennen And Joey's Sick Adventure #3

by Del Jackson

Chapter 3: Karaoke Quinn

      “This must be the place,” said Drennen Quinn, rolling up curbside in the Japanese district of neo-Chinatown, his knuckles white on the steering wheel of his El Camino. He was gripping it hard, nervous for his big moment tonight; the stage, the lights, the crowd, the song. The glory.

            Drennen Quinn lived for karaoke night.

            Joey Romaine, on the other hand, was too busy fooling with Koosh balls to notice. He had something planned, too, of a different variety entirely. Always a meta-farce with Joey, always looking for opportunities to drop his pants and fire a rocket. Erwin Rommel, Joey’s bombastic cat and sometime dance partner, was in another astral dimension, curled up, a Metroid ball, slumbering.

            Neon lights and Asian girls dancing everywhere, tempered with Buddha statues and pagoda-style architecture; incongruous sights, incongruous night.

            They might as well have been in Japan.

* * *

           

            Distinct murmurs, a veritable buzz, had started as soon as Joey Romaine lumbered into this basement dive bar/karaoke lounge.

            “Sore ha kamo shire nai ka? [ Could it be...? ]”

            “…sentakusa re ta tsu… […the Chosen One…]”

            “Akira!”

            The whispers continued to grow in pitch as Drennen and Joey enjoyed some saki, chatting, oblivious. In a dark corner of the room, no mistaking it, sat several Yakuza, black suits and black skinny ties, black Oakley sunglasses. All business.

            “Harris Yulin is our greatest living actor,” said Joey.

            “Who?”

            “What do you mean who? The judge in Ghostbusters 2. ‘The Scoleri Brothers!’ I caught you taking a peek at me in the shower this morning.”

            Drennen snickered.

            “That’s ridiculous.”

            “OK, maybe I didn’t, but you were on the verge.”

            “I was checking to see if you were still in there. How long does it take you to shower?”

            “Thirty five, forty minutes.”

            “That’s crazy.”

            “When else do I get a chance to read? Hey, you’re up.”

            On the flat screen, clearly: Creed – Higher.

            It was DQ time.

* * *

            The applause was instantaneous, raucous, insistent. They said with their clapping: Who is this Drennen Quinn, native of Hotlanta, cool personified? And how can we find out more about him? The applause was still going as Drennen, with his languid gait, made his way back to the table. He felt alive.

            Joey was on deck. What a clown show they were in for now. Joey Romaine, the orange bastard, buffoon comedy.

            The light, humorous strains of “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh (A Letter from Camp)” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ea2EuozaJ7s&feature=fvwrel) started up. Joey took the stage, already bellowing:

                        ♪♪

           

                        Hello Muddah,
                        Hello Fadduh.
                        Here I am at
                        Camp Granada.
                        Camp is very
                        entertaining.
                        And they say we'll have some fun if it stops raining.

                        ♪♪

All the while flinging Koosh balls into the crowd, Rosie O’Donnell style.

            “You’re all a buncha cutie-patooties!” Joey roared.

            Utter, hushed silence. Primordial, really.

            One by one, and then in numbers, they began to bow to him, these Japanese, convinced that he was their god, their orange, golden god.

            All except for Boss Kimball, of the Yakuza, who would not be fooled, and who took none too kindly to the Koosh ball—SPLASH!—swimming in his Shirley Temple. In fact he was outraged, gun drawn.

            “Kono hi no yatsu wo o shiharai itashi masu! Watashiha otokorashisa no goukanno geijixyutsude jixyukurenshita yo! [You will pay for this, Bozo! I am skilled in the art of machismo rape!]”

            Outside, in DQ’s El Camino, Erwin Rommel stirred. Stretched. And went right back to sleep.

Drennen And Joey's Sick Adventure #9

by Del Jackson

Chapter 9: Halloween Drennen Dream, or Trick-or-Treat, Ringo!

                “JFK’s ghost is a mean and vengeful ghost—”

            “JFK’s ghost is no joke—”

            “He spoiled my lunch. Swear to God. Haunts our bungalow and spoiled my lunch—“

            “We don’t live in a bungalow, ma’am—”

            “JFK haunts our bungalow,” Joey said.

            What a pair, these two. They were shouting over each other, hoping to get a word in edge-wise—over each other—to argue the same point, eventually pointing their fingers accusingly. Wheeler dealers on high, racketeers of old, swindlers.

            As if this poor old lady in her pumpkin vest disagreed, or as if she understood thing #1 about what they were saying, or trying to say.

            “I see,” she said. “And what are you two supposed to be? The Beatles?”

            Joey’s face lit up like the porch jack-o-lantern; it was showtime. He was over the moon with himself, his costume, his dream.

            “You read the Bible, Mrs. Crabapple?”

            “Why yes, actually.”

            “Well there’s this passage I got memorized, sorta fits the occasion. Ezekiel 25:17?”

* * * 

            They were making out like bandits; Jules and Vincent never did it better. Candy up the ying-yang, a regular raid on neo-Lincoln Square, Halloween 2015. And how old were they again?

            Approaching the end of the cul-de-sac now, Drennen took pause, pensive. Whether it was the taste of his Almond Joy, or the evil foreboding of the mansion ahead, something was just not right. He tucked his hair behind his ears, adjusted his suit and skinny tie. Drennen Quinn, dressed to kill.

            “That’s Crazy Old Man Kimball’s mansion,” Joey said.

            “Did you ever listen to The Whitey Album by Ciccone Youth? It was a Sonic Youth side project,” Drennen said.

            “Let’s get into character,” Joey said. He was on; he would not be off tonight. Erwin Rommel, Joey’s bombastic cat and sometime dance partner, followed closely behind.

            Crazy Old Man Kimball’s gate creaked open—dilapidated, spooky, all funky juju—and they made their way inside. Must have triggered a sensor somewhere along the way: “Monster Mash” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pVbZRdNoSc) sounded sonorous on stealthy surround sound speakers; strobe lights; a spume of smoke sputtered out into the crisp October air of All Hallows Eve. And there on the porch rail, could it be? It most certainly was, yes, a Jackie O’ Lantern.

          “Cute,” said Drennen.

            A bowl full of candy with a sign: “Just Take One.”

            “Sorry kids, Papa’s gotta eat!” Joey said, pouring the candy into his bag.

            A rebel yell and a shotgun blast the door through. Crazy Old Man Kimball, bearded, deranged, wearing a Chris Bosh jersey, on a rocking chair and visible now through the freshly gaping destruction of the mansion door.

            Joey Romaine was killed instantly. Dead gone dead, never had a chance... is this the promised end? But he got something he always wanted—he was a cartoon ghost with cartoon wings now; and what more was Joey Romaine in life other than the Great Gazoo, anyway?

            But irony is not without a sense of fate. No sooner than Joey had begun to realize his lifelong dream of a cartoon ghost afterlife, another ghost approached, bad vibes galore.

            “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask how I’m going to ghost machismo rape you, Joey Romaine!”

            Somewhere, Drennen Quinn, he danced. Erwin Rommel did, too. And the Groovie Goolies sing:

♪♪

They did the mash
They did the monster mash
The monster mash
It was a graveyard smash
They did the mash
It caught on in a flash
They did the mash
They did the monster mash

♪♪

Drennen and Joey's Sick Adventure #14

by Del Jackson

Chapter 14: You have the right to Romaine silent.

          “Machismo rape,” said Joey Romaine, the curls of his orange afro lilting daintily dainting liltily in the seething sweaty sleaze of summer, the hot hot heat, “…is my greatest fear. Can you imagine what kind of sick monster? AHHHHHHhhhhhaaahhHHHAAA!”
            Drennen Quinn, ♪♪ Hair. Down. To his knee / Got to be a joker he just do what he please ♪♪, just cackled.
            A rat-a-tat-tat, way more insistent this time, on the driver side window of DQ’s El Camino.
            “Holy shnikes. Who the funk is this guy?” said Joey. “This is the tallest guy I ever seen, oh my God. Unbelievable. This guy’s walking down the street, ♪♪ LA-DUH-DA-DA ♪♪, and people are running away, Godzilla.”
            DQ was right there but far away in his own mind, at home in Hotlanta perhaps, or backstage with The Strokes. In the back seat cooed Erwin Rommel, Joey’s bombastic cat and sometime dance partner. The radio blared Ini Kamoze’s “Here Comes The Hotstepper” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7MK5Esy-L0).
            DQ, back to reality, for real this time. 12:23 AM on Irving Park and Southport.
            “Oh shit. We got pulled over,” said Drennen, staring now at the badge of the tallest guy Joey Romaine had ever seen. Officer Kimball, neo-Chicago PD.
            “Let me handle this,” said Joey, brimming with all the confidence that a Customer Service Role Model and Innovator of the Year (2016), all the confidence that winning an award like that engenders entails encourages. DQ and Joey, they somehow worked CS at GoopOn Adhesives, one of the few old Chicago businesses to successfully rebuild following the—anyway.
            Anyway, complete 58,000 tickets in one sitting like Joey Romaine had, and you’ll win a few awards, too.
            “No way,” said Drennen. “You’ll land us both in jail. I don’t even know how we got into this crazy mess.”
            “What are you talking about?” said Joey, incredulous. “I’m the best at these situations. I was almost the guy they bring in to talk people down on S.W.A.T. teams and stuff. Swear to God.”
            “No you weren’t,” said Drennen.
            “I’ll give him the old razzle dazzle, Officer and a Gentleman-style. By the way, Richard Gere in that movie, not his best. But Debra Winger, oh my God. Greatest acting performance of all time. Give her the Oscar already, that’s what I said when the credits roll'd. Meryl Streep, here’s a Sophie’s Choice for you: eat your heart out, because Debra Winger is in town, and she’s fantastic.”
            DQ roll’d down the window.
            “I’ve been waiting out here for fifteen minutes,” said Officer Kimball, pissed.
            Twenty seconds passed.
            “You two hippies know why I pulled you over?”
            “I can’t imagine what we did wrong,” Drennen said. Got to be a joker.
            “You’ll be spending a night in county. You there, Kool-Aid, you know what happens in county?”
            Joey, sheet white, a ghost biting ghost fingernails, whispered “Machismo rape…”
            My record collection, DQ thought to himself.
            Erwin Rommel stretched, indignant. There would be no dancing tonight.

            And the radio, all Rasta and Reggae:

                        ♪♪
                        Nah, na na na nah, na na na nah, na na nah, na na nah, na na nanah
                        Nah, na na na nah, na na na nah, na na nah, na na nah, na na nanah

                        Here comes the hotstepper, murderer
                        I'm the lyrical gangster, murderer
                        Big up the crew in-a de area, murderer
                        Still love you like that, murderer
          
                        No, no, we don't die
                        Yes, we multiply
                        Anyone test will hear the fat lady sing
                        Act like you know, Rico
                        I know what Bo don't know
                        Touch them up and go, uh-oh
                        Ch-ch-chang-chang
                        ♪♪