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Said "asshole" that was duct taped down in
his wheelchair was former Boatswain's Mate First
Class Richard "Ricky" Brewer AKA "RB". The last
time I had seen or heard him until about two weeks
ago had been back in late seventies when we were
stationed together (both his legs worked then) at the
CINCPACFLT boathouse over in Pearl Harbor.
Ricky had been your typical Navy "lifer." He was
an a alcoholic of Kennedy-like proportions. Would
ingest any type of drug - illegal or legal - as long as
he could catch a decent buzz from it. And was
married to a scrawny, white trash, Tennessee,
trailer-trash whore named Blanche who would fuck
sailors for cigarette money while Brewer was
standing duty at the boathouse. The couple, who of
course had also spawned three children, were
constantly broke because they spent their meager
military income literally like drunken sailors on
cigarettes, booze, drugs, and Elvis memorabilia
{both were huge Elvis freaks and both feebly
fashioned their appearances in a vain attempt to
look like The Pedophile King and his young high
school bride} so they were in hock to dozens of
people, some who if werenít paid on time liked to
break knees and ankles in lieu of payment.
In an asinine move to get their asses out of
deep debt, Ricky and Blanche began to deal heroin,
cocaine, weed, and speed out their house which was
located in Navy housing in Ewa Beach. Of course,
some snitch eventually dropped a dime and a full
scale SWAT team, doors being broken down,
automatic weapons drawn, ďget your fucking asses
down on the motherfucking floor with your hands
on your goddamn head, asshole!Ē raid had been
professionally executed at the Brewer homestead.
The last moment I saw Brewer until the
week of Hurricane Rita was at his general court
martial as he was being led out of the courtroom in
shackles after being found guilty on a astounding
variety of charges, the worst being the possession of
narcotics with intent to sell. The dumb shitís hair
was still dyed jet black and slicked back Elvis style
and his sideburns which were still borderline too
long for Naval regulations. Facing charges that
would send him to Leavenworth prison for a long
goddamn time - and did - the ignorant peckerwood
hadnít even bothered getting a regulation military
I personally didnít give a shit and actually
was quite overjoyed to see him go. And thatís
because even though Brewer got his ass in a twist
over dealing dope and was going off to get his
skinny white ass turned-out at the slammer for the
next twenty or so years, he had even bigger
skeletons hanging in his closet to worry about. Shit
that Iím sure he was as relieved as I was that didnít
somehow pop up in his trial.

Duty at the CINCPACFLT was considered
ďcake dutyĒ back then in the Navy. CINCPACFLT
stands for Chief in Charge of the Pacific Fleet. The
admiral who that title was bestowed upon ran the
whole goddamn Pacific Fleet of the United States
Navy and with a job like that you get your own
yacht and a boathouse to keep it in. The only time
the yacht went out into the harbor is when the old
man had an urge to entertain either bigwigs or his
fellow (high ranking only) officers. That was only
once every couple of months or so, so when we
weren't waxing his yacht or the "barge" as it was
called, we ferried "important" tourists out to the
Arizona memorial and back. Some of the guests that
were taken out on VIP cruises included: President
Carter's daughter, Amy, Jack Lord of Hawaii 5-0
fame, Don Rickles, and Don Ho. Pretty heady stuff
for the Navy but you wouldn't think it by the crew
that was stationed down there. A sorrier assortment
of losers you could not imagine. Even though I was
one of them I could never figure that one out.
The chief in charge was Boatswain's Mate
Chief Marty Mason. A highly decorated veteran of
the Viet Nam war who was also a world class lush
and white cross addict. A giant of a man with twin
propellers (screws in Navy language) tattooed on
his ass, he was mean as a snake and wasn't above
physically assaulting members of his crew for
infractions such as smoking dope or even giving the
perception that you weren't listening to him. These
assaults normally happened when the Chief was
either drunk (often), suffering from a hangover
(very often), or a combination of both (constantly).
"I'm so fucking salty that the last whore who
sucked my cock told me that I had salt crystals on
my nuts," he would scream out as he walked around
the boathouse kicking people in the ass and
smoking - and inhaling - Roi-Tan Falcon cigars
even though one of his lungs had been shot out in
Viet Nam while serving on a river patrol boat.
His second in command was the previously
mentioned Ricky Brewer who had yet to get sent up
to the big house. The chief engineer was Engineman
First Class Darin Brooks, a incredibly racist black
man who was married to a white woman and who
was always talking about how he'd like to fuck
young white boys in the ass when he was at sea and
who obviously made all the young white boys in the
crew nervous.
The rest of the revolving and transient crew
were made up of castoffs from the many far flung
branches of the Navy. Everyone stationed at the
fucking place had some sort of history - drugs and
alcohol abuse was the norm and sexual deviancy ran
a close second.
The two women stationed there were well
known base sluts, although Janine, a white trash
babe from Georgia, really gave it her all to stand
out. She fucked the entire crew of a submarine, gold
and blue crews, including the XO and CO. In less
than a year! Quite an accomplishment since
submarines are normally at sea six months out of
the year. But that even couldn't beat out Rose's
accomplishments. Rose was a beautiful, doe eyed
babe, and the daughter from a mixed marriage
(Native American and black) who moonlighted as a
high dollar prostitute down in Waikiki. She even
had a pimp (without a heart of gold) named Harold
and who she was always holding out on. This type
of bad business behavior eventually resulted in the
suspicious and volatile Harold (who used both a
blackjack and pool cue) beating the shit out of Rose
to the point to where Rose needed to be flown out to
the mainland for her personal protection else Harold
may have decided to eventually pour a bottle of
Drano down her throat like that pimp did to his
whore in Dirty Harry.
Then there was Malcolm, a seaman who was
perpetuated by bad body odor and ringworms and
who lived at the boathouse and was suspected of
banging the boathouse dog, Brownie. I think you
get the idea of what the crew was like.
I myself had been busted for possession of a
small amount of marijuana after the dogs had been
run through the barracks. I had previously been
assigned to the office of Naval Intelligence where
my job description entailed mainly drinking coffee
and ferrying messages between the many offices of
CINCPACFLT. Upon being busted for weed I was
stripped of my security clearance and banished to
the Navy's version of purgatory. The only thing that
kept me from being sent first to the brig for a short
stint of bread and water and second to the fleet
where I would spend the rest of my enlistment
painting and cleaning shitters, was the fact that I
had been selling bags of high quality Hawaiian
weed to the base personnel chief, a giant black man
with a massive afro who closely resembled NBA
great, Wilt Chamberlain. He also banged Rose on
occasion and knew that I was aware of this so I
think he thought it would be prudent to transfer me
to somewhere more of my liking in case he needed
some more good reefer or if I decided to spill my
guts. It probably would have been better for me in
the long run if I had gone to the fleet.
I was on duty. When you had duty - about
once every six days - you had to spend the night at
the boathouse where you made sure that no boats
sank or any local lowlifes broke into the paint
locker to huff paint and break into the vehicles. It
was about ten at night, I was high on a combination
of Hawaiian Bud and Primo beer, and I was
watching Brewer and Malcolm screw a pig. About
twice a year the admiral would throw a shindig at
the boathouse for the beautiful people (again only
high ranking officers and their wives) of
CINCPACFLT and this always included some kind
of slaughtered flesh, usually a roasted pig but
sometimes a calf. A crew of three or four locals
would bring the sacrificial hog down and would
string it up by it's feet, slit it's throat, and bleed it to
the death while catching the blood in the bucket
which would be used later for a blood sauce. This
event always included lots of beer, weed,
sometimes narcotics if they were available, and was
always proceeded by Brewer (and this time
Malcolm) sodomizing the poor bastard before it's
neck was cut. Brewer considered this act to be his
way of sticking it to the man although I'm sure the
pig didn't think of it that way. The local Hawaiians
thought this was rather strange but always laughed
so damn hard I thought they'd shit their pants.
"Those bastards are blowing me by proxy
when they eat this goddamned thing," Brewer
bellowed out above the squeal of the pig. It was a
more horrifying scene than watching Ned Beatty
getting it in the ass in Deliverance.
"You going to get in on anything of this?"
Brewer asked me as the Hawaiians cheered on
Malcolm as he took his turn. By this time the pig
had finally had enough, and Malcolm who barely
weighted a hundred pounds, was stuck inside the
pig and was hanging on like it was a fucking rodeo
as the hog ran around the pen.
"I think I'll pass, but thanks anyway."
"Suit yourself, but you don't know what
you're missing. It's almost as good as a woman.
Sometimes better." Brewer turned to walk to the
beer cooler. "Oh, by the way. Don't get too fucked
up tonight. Blanche has my car so you're gonna
have to give me a ride home after we get done
killing this fucking pig and cleaning the place up."
Way after midnight we were flying on a
back road that led into Navy housing. I was in the
backseat of the government truck, Malcolm was
passed out in the shotgun seat, and Brewer who was
blind drunk, was at the wheel. We had left the
boathouse unmanned, an unbelievable regulations
violation, to give Brewer a ride home. Malcolm and
I were about equally loaded and the rationale was
that both of us would take Brewer home and the one
that had sobered up the most in the half hour ride
would drive the truck back to the boat house. It was
obviously going to be me as Malcolm had already
puked down the side of the truck once and was
already in a alcohol and Valium induced coma.
Blue lights were flashing behind us! I could
see Brewer's eyes as they flashed up into the
rearview mirror. "Jesus fucking Christ on crutches!
Cops! Do you pricks have any dope on you?"
"No!" My response was immediate even
though I did in fact have a small bit of weed in a
baggie in my front pocket. But I knew why Brewer
was asking. If I said yes, the crazy prick would try
to outrun the cops. We were in a huge government
issued pickup - the kind with four doors and a full
backseat - we couldn't outrun a fucking Volkswagen
much less a cop car with a shitload of horsepower.
"Does Malcolm?" Malcolm was still passed
out with the top of his head sticking out the
passenger window.
"I don't think so!" That tight bastard never
had any of his own weed. Malcolm was the biggest
goddamn Bogart that I had ever met.
"All right, I'm going to pull over. Just keep
your mouth fucking shut and let me do the talking.
I'm going to throw the admiral's name around here
and hope this cocksucker buys it."
The cop was out of his car and heading our
"Get your hands in the fucking air where I
can see them!"
"Yes sir! No problem. What's this all
about?" Brewer had pulled over half off the road
half in a slightly declining ditch. We were about a
half mile from the Navy housing complex. The cop,
plainclothes of some sort, was standing out in the
middle of the road with a huge pistol, looked like a
Colt .45 government issue, held in both hands like
he was out at the range shooting at paper targets. He
looked real young and real fucking nervous. In one
motion I slipped my hand into my pocket and threw
the dope baggie under the backseat.
"I said hands in the fucking air!" The door
closest to me was thrown open. "What did you
throw under the seat, asshole? Slide all the way over
and stick both your arms out the side window! You
move and I'll blow your goddamn head off!"
I quickly slid over and did as I was told.
"Yes sir!"
"We work at the CINCPACFLT boathouse,"
Brewer piped in.
"Shut the hell up, lean forward, and put your
hands through the steering wheel! I don't give a hot
turd who you work for, punk!" The officer began to
climb in the backseat, keeping his eyes on me, one
hand on the pistol that was only about two feet from
my head, the other hand began to probe under the
backseat. Up close, the officer was probably not a
couple of years older than myself. And he looked
just as scared. He was trying to be the badass. The
tough guy. It was a mistake.
Suddenly Brewer spun completely around in
his seat and shoved a chrome .22 semi-automatic
pistol against the officer's head. The two shots were
no louder than a couple of large firecrackers. Blood
and bits of skull spattered about the back cabin of
the truck as the officer stood straight up - slamming
his head on the top of the cab and then crumpling
down on to the road.
"Ricky! What the fuck are you doing?" I
opened the door and ran around the back of the
truck over to the officer. A large pool of blood was
already forming on the road around his head. His
eyes were open and looking up at me as his mouth
moved like a fishes does when it's out of water. And
Brewer was already down next to the officer
going through his pockets and found his wallet.
"Fuck! This asshole is NIS!" He took the cash out
the wallet and threw it back down on his chest and
then leaned over and picked up the now known
agent's .45 and stuck it in the front of his pants.
"Come on! Grab one of his legs, we have to pull
him off the road and down into the ditch!"
"You're fucking crazy, dude! What the hell
do you think you're fucking doing? You just killed a
goddamn NIS agent!"
Brewer stood over the agent staring at me
with bloodshot, snake-like eyes. "Yes, I fucking
did! And your ass is along for the ride! All the
fucking way, so shut the hell up or I'll do your ass
next! Now grab a leg and help me get this asshole
off the road before anyone shows up!"

To be continued....

Scott L. Anderson

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The following comments are for "Salt On The Nuts Ch. 3 (R)"
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