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It was just a small mistake, yeronner. I ditn't mean to hurt nobody. Me n' Bobby n' Paulie was eatin' some pink bathtub crank, 'cuz Paulie read somewheres that its better to eat it than snort it or spike it, and Bobby tells us about a big box of firecrackers in his basement. He figured it was from his grandpa, who used to work at the armory back in the 50's.
Hell, I joined the Marines to blow shit up. Now I ditn't get all the way through basic training, 'cuz o' that little "night-time" problem of mine, even though I only cracked the skull of the putz in the next bunk and I didn't figure they'd kick me out for trying to kill somebody. I thought they WANTED killers! And how was I to know they'd boot my ass for wetting the bed, even if it was somebody else's?
Something about a box of firecrackers sounded fishy, though. I already knew a lot about it from running pyrotechnics with the bands I been working with for years. So when Bobby mentions "firecrackers from the 50's," I can just see fingers flying through the fucking air.
Anyway, I goes to Bobby; "yo, Bobby, go get 'em." So he's like; "No, I think you oughta look at 'em where dey is, 'cuz there's this goop onna box..." Whoa," I says. "Dat ain't good."
So we goes down into his basement and it's like all dusty and shit and smells like Paulie's room 'cuz his mom is retarded and don't clean up none. It was like nobody had been down dere in years and years. And under Bobby's Grandpa's old workbench there was dis box, wasn't very big, with a whole bunch of black stuff kinda oozing out of the bottom. I goes "Holy Shit!" and real careful-like I lift up the lid and sure enough the fucking thing is full of dyn-o-mite.
"Bobby," I says, "this ain't fucking firecrackers, you moron, it's road flares!" See, I told him that because if he knew it was dyn-o-mite he would want to blow the shit out of everything. That's why I don't let him help me run pyro for the bands any more, not since I had to take an emergency whiz during a big show at the Adelphia Theater and the dumbfuck goes over to the control board and starts flicking toggles.
I was pissing my brains out in the bathroom and allofasudden there's these huge explosions and tiles start popping off the wall, and all the urinals drop onto the floor and I couldn't stop pissing, so I'm just kinda making big pee-circles, wondering what the fuck is going on, and the music stops and then people come running out of the joint screaming and crying and shit. A total blowjob, that turned out to be. Fucking everybody was ripshit, the cops, the bands, the owners. What a fucking mess.
Anyways I told the insurance guys that it was this mongoloid kid they had working security, gettin' sodas for the gorillas who worked the barricades, musta snuck up to the board and messed with something. They bought it, and I never brung Bobby with me no more.
I sure as shit didn't want him to know he had a box of explosives under his grandpa's old workbench. So I told him I'd get rid of 'em for him.
Since I can't work the Adelphia anymore, I found out my favorite band to work pyro for, 'Wally One-eye,' was going to do this big show for some city center bullshit, some kinda war hero shit they was planning. The Governor and some Senators was gonna be there, and everybody who is anybody up in the hoity-toity part of town. So I just put two and two together and called up Gino Rigattonio, Wally's manager, 'cuz he's my Uncle Sal's niece's second cousin on my Mom's side, to see if I could get the pyro contract for the show.
Turns out he's from Jersey and don't know nuttin' about the Adelphia blowjob, so I'm in. So far so good. He invites me down to hear the band rehearse, so I can get cues and shit. Now he don't know that I don't work off cues. I just kind of FEEL it, y'know, and pop off whenever I want to. I'm so good at it they don't know I'm not using a goddamn computer or nothing.
Hell, if it's one of those nasty goth bands with all the tattoos and piercings or big-hair dipshits with the seven-string guitars that sounds like they're trying to play through a box of cornflakes, I'll just put on my headphones and listen to Frank or Perry or Tony. It don't fucking matter.
I can be listening to "Somewhere Beyond the Sea" or "Moon River" on the phones, and the band will be trying to make people's ears bleed and they're holding their fucking guitars around their knees, throwing their hair around and shit, and I just know when the "money-shot" is to pop off some 30 foot "ass-cleaners" (that's what I call the big jets of flame straight up from the stage. Fucking guitarist don't watch where they're standing, it'll clean their ass, alright.)
So I go back to Bobby's with Paulie later that night with a gym bag and some saran-wrap. We goes down in the basement and I open the box, and every stick I takes out I have him wrap up with the saran-wrap, so the nitro don't get on your skin. It'll give you a motherfucker of a headache and if you soak up too much it'll fucking kill you.
Then we put each stick in a towel and real careful-like we put it in the bag. Took us four trips, but we finally got everything over to my house.
The next day I cut each stick in two with a hacksaw, while Paulie held a hose on me to keep the friction from setting the fuckers off.
Then I start planning for the big show. Now, a normal pyro would make some 8-inch PVC tubes with some "lifter" charges in the bottom and a timer fuse in each half-stick, so it would lob it up in the air before it blew. I don't have that kind of investment capital, much less the electronics experience to wire all that shit up.
I figured I'd make do with getting Paulie and Bobby (and maybe Rocky or Sammy if they promised not to do any crank that day) below stage-level, with a couple of strips of inner-tube rubber and a couple of butane torches.
The way I saw it, if we built a couple of frames, the guys could lie on their backs on the ground, pull the rubber bands back to their chests, put a half-stick on it, light the fuse with the butane torch and let it go. It would go way up in the fucking air, explode, and everybody would be happy. The crowd would get their show, the guys would have a first-rate view of the pyrotechnics, and I wouldn't have to worry about wires and cues and shit.
Well, I hadn't counted on one thing. Can you guess what it was, yeronner? I'll give you a hint; it's about three inches long, pink, is in Paulie's pants and has been up Bobby's sister's cunt about a million times since she got tits when she was about 13.
Only, Paulie didn't know that Bobby knew. And I didn't know that Bobby knew exactly what was in that box under his grandpa's workbench. His fucking grandpa had TOLD him about a million times how he had carted it off stick-by-stick when he worked as a night watchman at a construction company way back when.
Another thing I hadn't counted on was that Bobby was smarter than I gave him credit for, which was that he could barely wipe his own ass.
So the day of the big show, we all gets their early and start to build the frames and shit, and prepare. After everything is pretty well set up, and each station ready, everybody puts their walkie-talkies on their heads with rubber bands and the audience starts coming in. Then the band starts to play.
All of a sudden I see Bobby coming up the aisle toward me. I'm thinking "what the fuck?" and motion for him to go back but he comes running up anyway. Bobby goes to me, he goes; "Hey, Vinnie, I been thinking. Now these half-sticks will go off and it'll make a boom, but we gotta have some color, some pizazz, you know what I'm saying?" So I goes; "Well, this is a hell of a time to bring it up, y'know." He goes; "well, I got to thinking and I made a surprise for you."
He grabs my arm and hauls me back behind the barricades, and over in the corner he's got this big fucking frame made out of two by fours. It looks like he's got two or three inner tubes stretched across it, with a couple of winches holding it down, and there in the middle is fucking Paulie, all wrapped up in duck tape. Paulie's eyes are wide open and he's trying to scream under the duck tape, and there's sweat all over his forehead. I look closer and there's half-sticks taped all over him, and about eight of 'em taped to his crotch, with all the fuses wired together. There's also these plastic bags taped to him filled with some kinda liquid.
I turned to Bobby and go, like; "what the fuck is in the baggies?" He goes; "Gasoline, Ivory soap, salt and iron filings. Hey, get this," he says, all smiling like he was talking about making a fucking cake or something, "the gas and soap make napalm. The salt will give it a nice blue flame, and the iron will make pretty stars!"
I go to myself; "Oh Jesus on a pogo stick, what the fuck has he done?" He's got a fucking hunting knife, waving it around real casual. He goes; "Now I was thinking, for the big finale, I'm gonna light the fuses and cut the cable. I figure that'll get him up about thirty, forty feet before he blows. As long as he goes straight up, the explosion will go upward. If he flips over while he goes up, the band is gonna get rained on a little. But that's okay too, 'cuz these fuckers suck donkey dicks."
By this time I'm scared shitless, I'm breathing hard trying to figure out what to do. Bobby grabs me and puts me in a headlock, and sticks a rag in my face with something on it that stinks real bad. He's going; "Sorry, Vinnie, don't want you to miss the show, but I got no choice..." I'm trying to get loose but he's got me real good, so I'm holding my breath but I finally take a deep lungful of that shit and start to black out.
Just as my fucking brain starts shutting down, out of the blackness I hear Bobby say to Paulie; "hey Paulie, you get to be a roman candle! Send me a postcard from Uranus!"
ANTI POPEYE X FAN CLUB
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