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THE DAY THE PROVERBIAL SHIT
FINALLY HITS THE FAN
“Ricky Brewer and his wife were arrested
last night for possessing a large amount of heroin
and cocaine with intent to sell. They are in scalding
hot water right up to their white trash asses!”
Chief Mason had us lined up in front of the
boathouse and was reading from some sort of Navy
press release. Although I don't think the "white
trash" and "asses" comment was actually in the
written statement. The crew was standing at
attention in the warm Hawaiian sun. The Chief
looked like re-fried shit. Badly hung-over and
acting like he had just gotten his own ass chewed by
the command, which I'm positive that he had. It was
time to be very careful. He could be very dangerous
in this situations. Like stepping on the tail of a Gila
monster.
“He’s really got his balls and his wife’s tits
in a wringer this time. They could maybe get twenty
years or longer in the slammer for this high
horseshit.”
I felt like I could drop right there in the
parking lot. Holy Christ! Could I be the reason
Brewer and his lovely bride had been busted?
Chances were starting to look good that I at least
had a minor hand in it. About a week after our
weekend orgy, Reggie had mailed me a note.
Fucking mailed! Not even a goddamn phone call. I
got a fucking Dear John letter out of the blue and
she wasn't but five miles away from me.
...Joe and I have decided to give our
marriage another shot. I will always remember you
and our times together fondly. Please don't try to
contact me. It would be too hard for both of us.
With much love,
R
I tried to call her at work a couple of times
but she hung up when she heard my voice. The urge
to blow my brains out or hang myself had been
almost too much to resist. I drowned my sorrows in
two bottles of some cheap champagne, and a
Quaalude. In a rage, I threw a punch at a giant
Samoan bouncer in a downtown shithole bar and
was rewarded with a return punch that blackened
my eye and knocked me on my ass. Upon my return
to the base I downed a bottle of MD 20-20 and I
tossed all the outdoor furniture off the deck on the
roof of the Pearl Harbor barracks. I woke up the
next morning under one of the ship piers where I
had passed out in a pool of (my own) vomit and
feces. I was torn in half. Figuratively that is -
although I really did feel like shit. I now knew that
something with Reggie was dirty - why had she
been so interested in Brewer all of a sudden? Was
she more than just a enlisted secretary and
stenographer for the Naval Investigative Service?
But I wouldn’t let myself believe that. I couldn’t let
her go. There was certainly hard evidence of that.
When I got back to the barracks after waking up
under the pier, I discovered a fresh tattoo on my
chest. Directly over my heart was another bright red
heart that was torn in two. “Reggie” was inscribed
between the two torn pieces. It was hard to believe
that I had actually been in a tattoo parlor and
couldn't remember a second of it.
“Hey! Fuckstick! Are you listening to me?”
The Chief was glaring at me with murder in his
eyes.
“Yes, Chief.”
“Good! Because you need to be listening
because every motherfucker here is going to be
effected by what I’m about to say.”
This wasn’t going to be good.
“I had my dick handed to me this morning
by THE Admiral himself. The goddamn fucking
Admiral! He’s not very fucking happy about what
in the hell has been going on with his crew down
here in the last month or so. First there was
Janine...”
Janine, one of the two females at the
boathouse, had caught a case of the clap from some
sailor who worked on one of the tugboats over in
Pearl. Before it was diagnosed, she passed this little
treat on to the Captain from the USS Badger (in
quite a coincidence, it would be determined at
Brewer’s court martial that he had gotten three
pounds of China White heroin from the cook off the
Badger. It was brought on board on a West-Pac
cruise somewhere in Asia and had been smuggled
back to the states on the ship and then stored it in
the ship’s galley cold storage) who promptly passed
it on to his wife. Then, not a day later, she screwed
a pilot from Hickam Air Force base that she met
while whoring around for drinks at the officer’s
club with the exact same results. Pending her
Captain’s Mast hearing, Janine had been pulled
from the boathouse and re-assigned to the Pearl
Harbor chow hall, I have no idea why there of all
places, which promptly had a 40% drop in sailors
dining there.
...and we all know what happened to Rose.”
After Janine’s stunt, Rose stepped up to the
plate to add some more drama. Flash back in time to
what I mentioned earlier, Rose had been holding out
cash from her pimp, Harold, who had finally
decided to beat the ever loving shit out of her for
this transgression. Well, this was the month, of all
the months he had to pick this one, that it happened.
After her ass-kicking, Rose, who looked like she
had gone a rough three rounds with Smokin’ Joe
Frazier, was immediately shipped back to the
mainland for her own safety on the first jet burning
towards California. In a related and somewhat
suspicious event , I had read in the paper just two
days ago that Rose’s "business manager" also
known as her pimp, Harold “Sweet Cool” Jones,
had been shot dead on a Honolulu street corner.
Caught one right between the eyes as if the shot had
come from a sniper on the roof of one of the
downtown buildings. A strange way for a pimp to
buy it, for sure. There were no witnesses and there
were no hot leads in the investigation. As if anyone
cared.
...the Admiral is sick of this bullshit and he’s
made his mind up. He’s going to change out the
crew. Everybody here will receive transfer orders in
the next six to eight weeks.” He turned and kicked
Brownie, the boathouse dog, in the ass as she
strolled by. The mangy beast ran off shrieking.
Malcolm, further strengthening the rumors of
bestiality, broke ranks and chased after her.
“I tell you what. I have never been so
motherfucking humiliated in my entire life. I’ve
been in this man’s Navy over twenty fucking
years,” he screamed, his face as red as the
proverbial fire engine, “I’m a salty motherfucker.
I’m so goddamn salty that I’ve got salt on my nuts!
I've got two goddamn purple hearts and a silver star
and I have to put up with this shit? My fucking dead
grandmother's ass I will! Not get the fuck out of my
face and get back to work you lazy assholes!”
THE HORROR, THE HORROR
Brewer pled out guilty to the charges. He
was a regular fucking Prince Valiant in a couple of
respects though. The Feds agreed to drop all
charges against his wife and leave her with custody
of their kids if he'd take the full fall. And fall long
and hard he goddamn did. Twenty to thirty in
Leavenworth. Chief Mason still had a bug up his ass
and made us all attend the sentencing for some
reason know only to himself. Probably some scared
straight bullshit. The sentencing didn't take but
twenty minutes but you could cut the tension in the
air with a knife. Brewer barely made eye contact
with us, he merely glanced our way as he shuffled
off in full restraints - cuffs, leg irons, the whole bit -
you would have thought he was Charlie Manson.
I'm not gonna lie to you and say I was sad to see
him go. I had been terrified the whole time thinking
that he was going to try to make some deal
concerning the departed NIS agent Charles - turn
the whole thing around so that it was me or
Malcolm that smoked him and not him - and how he
bought the farm but it didn't happen.
The Chief leaned over to me, the son of a
bitch reeked of gin even at this hour of the morning,
and nodded to a side of the gallery with his chin.
"Isn't that the bitch that came down to the boathouse
with NIS when they interviewed everybody about
that agent getting shot? I thought that cunt was
enlisted. I wonder what the hell that was all about?"
I tried to look over without turning my head
and hoping not to see what I knew I was going to.
"Oh, sweet mother of fucking mercy," I
groaned to myself.
There sat sweet Reggie. The former love of
my life. The woman I thought and would have
killed for. All decked out in her full dress uniform.
Wearing the bars of a lieutenant junior grade Naval
officer!
"The bitch must have been undercover the
whole time she's been stationed here," the Chief
kept on babbling, "what a lowdown sneaky fucking
whore. But I tell you what there old son, I fuck her
till the cows came home if I got the chance. Oh, yes
indeedy. I'd eat the peanuts out of her shit. Hump
her till her nose bled. How about you?"
He viciously slammed his elbow into my
ribs and chortled sadistically - his one lung
sounding like an out of tune accordion - I didn't feel
a thing.
UNDERWAY IS THE ONLY WAY
"You'll like the seagoing life. I always did.
You don't have to take as much shit as you do on
shore duty. Shore duty is for fucking pussies! The
worse day at sea is a hundred fucking times better
than the best day ashore. That's what I always
fucking say." Chief Mason raised his ass off his
barstool and let loose with a thundering fart and a
loud belch at the same time. He was shitfaced drunk
and surprisingly in a very good mood. I was
pounding them back myself but had fortified myself
earlier with two jolting lines of crystal meth and the
alcohol wasn't even close to cutting through that
yet.
My orders were in. I was going to Long
Beach to catch out on some Navy garbage scow
called the Dixie that was in the yards there for a
major overhaul. The remaining crew from the
boathouse were giving me my final send off at some
dive in Pearl City. Behind the bar there was a
gigantic cage full of squirrel monkeys who
seemingly non-stop ran around shrieking, gobbling
peanuts, throwing feces, and jacking off.
"You don't want to blow me cause you're a
motherfucking racist bitch! You know that? You
fucking slut! Racist cracker twat! Why don't you
just call me a nigger and get it over with!" We
turned around from the bar to watch Brooks as he
chased off some brunette bimbo with huge jugs that
had been stupid enough to sit down with him. So far
he had driven away three woman and the majority
of the men with his ranting.
"Petty Officer Brooks! At fucking ease! Is
that anyway to treat a lady?" Mason chastised him.
"Bitches! Goddamn fucking bitches!" he
cried out as he slid down into his booth, his head in
his hands. "Bitch was probably a guy with a tit job
anyway." Brooks sobbed into his hands.
Mason turned back to me excitedly. "That
reminds me of a helluva story..."
I was stationed on this cruiser out of Boston
and when we were in port we used to go to the
combat zone to go to the strip shows, get drunk, and
maybe pick up a hooker. One Friday night we took
a new guy fresh out of boot camp along. I think he
was from Iowa or somewhere but all I remember
was his name. Billy. Well, charming Billy got all
loaded on draft beer and struck up a conversation
with a transvestite. Since he was hitting it off so
well we all decided not to tell him that the chick he
was hitting on was really a dude! They must have
sat there for an hour or so while Billy kept buying
the him-shim vodka and Cokes. We could hardly
contain our giggles and grins when Billy announced
that he was going to go out to the alley for a
blowjob which he had paid fifty dollars for. But the
funny part was just beginning. When Billy came
back in he had a grin like he had been eating shit
sandwiches.
"So how was it, Billy? As good as you
thought it was going to be?
Billy gave this big mid-western grin. "Better
than I imagined. When she started to blow me I got
so turned on I told her I'd just had to have her
pussy. But she said that she was on her period so I'd
have to screw her in her rear and it would cost
another fifty bucks but I didn't give a shit."
"So you cornholed her?" asked one of my
prankster shipmates.
Young Billy chugged down his Schlitz and
slammed the mug down on the bar. "Big time! I
nailed her so hard she'll call her Mom to tell her all
about it."
"Was it like screwing a sheep back on the
farm?" yelled out one wag.
"Better." Billy responded.
"Well you just fucked a guy in the ass!" We
had all screamed out at once. Billy had look on his
face like we had just told him that his dog had died,
but it was all in good fun.
Then the Captain's clerk started dancing
around chanting "Billy fucked a him-shim! Billy
fucked a him-shim," until Billy freaked out, ran out
of the bar, and jumped into a cab. We stayed in the
bar and partied until closing and then staggered
back to the ship. It wasn't until the next morning
that we had heard that Billy had gone total bugshit
when he got back to the ship and threatened to burn
the goddamn thing down to the waterline. He had to
be restrained and sedated by a corpsman and was
carried off on a stretcher.
I wonder what the hell that was all about?
We never saw Billy again. He was a good guy and I
always missed him after he was gone. Last I heard
was that he was locked up in some Navy mental hospital
ward somewhere.
"Holy shit, Chief! That's quite a story." This
bastard was psychotic. This asshole himself needed
to be locked up in a room with padded walls.
"Those were the days. Those were the days."
He tossed back another shot of Jack Daniel's and
sighed. "It's all gone to shit now. Especially with
Rose and Brewer gone."
What in the hell was he talking about?
"What's gone to shit?"
Mason slammed down the rest of his beer
chaser and signaled for an encore from the barkeep.
He exhaled wearily. "We had a good thing going.
We were gonna make a lotta cash when it was over.
Then those two stupid shits had to fuck it all up. All
for some drugs and then that goddamn pimp had to
get hooked up in everything. But then again Rose
was stupid enough to hold out on him so she
probably deserved what she got." Christ, I thought
the big redneck was going to start weeping.
"What are you talking about, Chief?"
He leaned over on to the bar on his forearms
and looked at me with a sneaky grin. "Guess I can
tell you now with you shipping out tomorrow.
Wouldn't hurt much I guess." He did an exaggerated
look around the empty bar. "Past couple of years me
and Brewer and Rose were taking snapshots of a
bunch of visiting dignitaries and high ranking
officers when they were fucking Rose."
What in the fuck? "How in the hell were you
pulling that off?"
"Rose would take them up to her place and
we had a little camera area set up in a crawl space
with a two way mirror in her bedroom. That fucking
Brewer is as skinny as a garden snake so he could
slide in and hide in there and burn up a roll of film.
Rose would turn on the stereo with some romantic
shit so they'd never hear the camera. Worked like a
fucking charm."
Holy shit! "How many guys did you do that
to?"
Mason tried to process that through all the
booze floating around in his booze soaked brain.
"Fuck, maybe thirty or forty guys and four or five
women. Rose didn't mind going down on a woman,
that's for damn sure." He tugged at the crotch of his
pants. "Holy shit! Was that hot to watch or what?"
I found myself wishing I had been there.
"What in the hell were you going to do with the
pictures?"
"Blackmail the sons of bitches. We were
going to wait until Brewer and I retired and Rose
got discharged. Couple more years and then we
were going to blackmail 'em all. I got all the
negatives in a big binder." He gave me a wink and
whispered, “Some of those assholes are pretty
famous. Some real bigwigs. Politicians, actors, the
whole shit and kaboodle. We're sitting on a
goldmine.” He stood up and staggered towards the
men’s room.
I thought my brain was going to explode it
was so far into overdrive. Brewer, the Chief, and
Rose had been in business together the whole time.
Did Brewer tell Mason about the NIS agent? He
couldn't be that goddamn stupid but who knows.
The Chief didn't act like he knew, but was he
holding out on me? If he did know, I don't think he
would have told me about their dirty little blackmail
business. Man, if I could just get my hands on those
photographs. That could buy me a little bargaining
power down the road if things got hinky for me.
Who knew long it would take Brewer to start
bumping his gums at the penitentiary about killing a
NIS agents and some snitch would feed that info to
the administration in hopes of an early release.
Mason and his wife, an old Filipino hooker
that he referred to as "Mommy" - "Mommy" once
blew me behind the boathouse at a wild drunken
party - lived in a shitty little one bedroom apartment
in Pearl City. I couldn't imagine that he would be
stupid enough to keep that kind of sensitive and hot
material in his house where his wife could find it.
The floor safe in his office at the boathouse! That
had to be it. The old bastard seemed to have his
head down inside of it every time I walked in his
office. And I think I knew where the combination
would be. He was too much of a rummy to keep it
memorized. I could see it in my head like I was
watching a movie. The Chief, looking pissed, would
slam the safe shut, sit up, and close the desk drawer
on his right side and then bark out "what the fuck is
it?" He then would take his keys out of his pocket
and luck up the desk with a flourish.
I waved to the bartender just as I heard the
bathroom door slam shut.
Two double shots of Jack Black and a frosty
beer chaser were waiting for the Chief when he sat
his fat ass down on the stool.
***
The Chief's car was a new model
Thunderbird and was a breeze to drive. Power
steering so smooth you could turn the car on a dime
with one finger. I had driven it many times after the
Chief had gotten too loaded to get behind the wheel.
Those last two shots of Jack I knew would put him
over the edge. Brooks was sprawled out in the back,
passed out, but still muttering racial epitaphs -
“cracker” “fucking honky” “white slut” - in his
alcohol fueled nightmares. The Chief had rested
his head against the passenger window and was
snoring lightly. I was fingering his key chain trying
to feel for the desk key that I knew was on there
when I pulled up in front of the house that Brooks
and his wife rented.
I quickly turned the car off and jumped out
and walked around the back of the car as I slid the
desk key off the ring and slid it into my pocket. I
opened up the passenger door. “Chief, I need a hand
to get Brooks up on to his porch.” Mason stood up
shakily and suddenly bent over and heaved out a
huge amount of Tennessee sipping whiskey on to
Hawaiian soil. I quickly jumped back to avoid the
splatter. “Watch it, goddamn it!”
“Oh, yes. Feeling better already.” He pulled
open the back door and pulled Brooks out by both
feet. Standing him up, we each took an arm and
draped it over a shoulder, and dragged him up to
front porch. We laid him down on a reclining lawn
chair. Brooks had a wife who was a notorious bitch
and neither of us was willing to ring the doorbell to
wake her up and hear her shit at this hour. The
Chief began to giggle and then started to undo the
front of pants of the passed out sailor.
“Chief! What in the hell are you doing?” I
whispered urgently. What the hell was the crazy old
bastard going to do? Blow him?
“Go to the car and look under the passenger
seat. I got a fuck book under there.”
Pulling out the magazine from under the seat
I quickly glanced at the title. Anal Adventures From
The Beaver Trail. The cover had a buxom blonde on
it who was bent over and spreading her cheeks as
she leered at the camera from between her legs. Her
asshole was spread so wide you could have thrown
a silver dollar inside. When I got back to the porch,
Mason had posed Brooks half naked with his hand
wrapped around his dick. He set the magazine
gingerly on his lap.
“That ought to start some fireworks in the
morning for old Brooks.”
“Without a doubt.”
***
“You can drive Mommy’s Vespa over to the
barracks. Leave it at the Master of Arms office and
I’ll send someone over to get in the morning.”
We were standing in front of his apartment
building. I had pulled his wife’s scooter out of their
covered parking space and was trying to get it
started. The booze had kicked in again with the
Chief and he was having a hard time standing up.
The Vespa finally fired up - the damn thing sounded
like a chainsaw as I revved it up.
“Good luck, asshole. Been nice knowing
you. Enjoy your time at sea,” he mumbled as he
headed up the sidewalk.
“Thanks, Chief.” As I dropped the kick stand
and started to pull away I looked over my shoulder
and saw Mason leaning against the building and
taking a leak on the front door.
I pulled on to the street and headed for the
boathouse.
***
There was a guy fresh out of boot camp on
duty at the boathouse that night. Arnold something
or another. Born again Christian and world class
loser. What the hell was the Navy coming to? The
front door was locked but that meant nothing since
the boathouse was merely half a Quonset hut bolted
over a long pier. The tide was going out so I walked
under the pier and hoisted myself up into the
boathouse. I could hear the rookie snoring in the
duty room. Chief’s office door was unlocked. I
closed the door quietly behind me and turned the
lamp on that was on the desk. I unlocked the desk
and pulled out the top drawer. There sat the
combination to the safe. It was written on the
bottom of a business card to a local Korean bar
known for it’s waitresses giving hum jobs to the
customers under the table and for it's excellent
barbecue chicken. The card was taped down on to
the bottom of the drawer. 4-11-0. 4-11-0?
Goddamn! The poor alky couldn’t keep that in his
head? I pulled back the floor rug and gave the dial a
couple of spins and entered the combo. I got it on
the first try. The leather briefcase filled almost half
of the safe. The other half had a bottle of Jack
Daniel’s and a bottle of what appeared to be white
cross speeders. I pulled out the briefcase and
unzipped the sides of it. The assholes had done a
really nice job. Each future blackmail victim -
looked like damn near fifty people - had their name
typed out on a sheet of paper with the date of
his/her dalliance with Rose. There was one photo of
the act paper clipped to the side and on the other
side of the sheet were the negatives which were also
paper clipped in place. Then each package had been
neatly slipped into a clear plastic sleeve. Very
classy and well done considering that it was
accomplished by three total dipshits.
I looked at the clock on the wall. It was
almost five in the morning. My flight to Los
Angeles left in less than three hours. I locked the
desk, dropped the key into the safe and closed it up,
and slipped the case under my arm and turned the
lights out. When I opened the office door I could
still hear the watch-stander snoring.
I slipped out the front door, fired up the
scooter, and headed for the barracks.
***
I wouldn’t know until several years later that
my first and only successful attempt at safecracking
would lead to an unbelievable chain of events. I
found this out after I had bumped into Mason's
wife, "Mommy," who was working a strip club in
Long Beach that I had waltzed into after a long day
of unloading bananas down on the docks. The
morning after my going away bash, Chief Mason, in
the midst of a crippling hangover, arrived two hours
late for work. Too his horror, he would discover the
key to his desk missing. It would take him several
minutes to bust his desk open with a mallet and a
crowbar. Witnesses reported hearing a shriek of
agony followed by a string of curses and the sound
of furniture being destroyed. Chief Mason would
step out of his door, sweat covering his beet red
face, and walk Frankenstein-like - arms stretched
out in front of him as if to strangle - towards the
previous evenings watch-stander, poor Arnold the
Jesus loving sailor. His last words were “What in
the fuck happened here last night you ignorant
fucking..”
And then he dropped dead in his tracks.
To be continued...
------
Scott L. Anderson
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