I swear when I told Pretty-boy Pete
this, he nearly lost his shit.
My dad’s all stern—he’s got those
frown lines pronounced so you know he’s
serious—and he says to me, “What happened to you? You were at the top of your
class in high school. You were always on honor roll. You were always on the
dean’s list. And now here you are, drinking, drugging, driving drunk. What
happened to your brain?”
I smile—I can’t help but smile—and I say, “It drowned in bourbon.” And I just
laugh my ass off. My dad keeps trying to lecture me and I just laugh louder and
louder.
So when I tell my buddy Pete this—I
always do—he busts a big old gut and he says, “Ain’t that a fuckin’ hoot.”
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That’s what it was—our catch phrase.
Any time we found something entertaining, the phrase ‘Ain’t that a fuckin’
hoot’ was sure to follow. It had such a dirty twang to it. It sounded like one
of those phrases that some greaseball says in some old-time seventies or
eighties movie. So it just kind of stuck. You know those little inside jokes
among friends. Try to explain it to someone else, and people will look at you
all mouth agape and stupid; but say it to your best buddy, well, you two will
be rolling on the floor.
You see, we were able to see what
nobody else could see. Pete ain’t too bright, but he at least accepted this
truth: the world’s a fucking joke. Nothing more. It’s just a joke, and if
you’re not laughing, then why the hell even come to the comedy club. You stop
laughing for more than a day: well, you oughta end it right there. Slit your
wrists and exit stage right.
You see, Pretty-boy Pete got his
nickname for his looks, if you’re too stupid to figure that out on your own. He
ain’t got a lot upstairs, but his looks were enough to get his dick wet. And
that’s where he got his laughs. Find one slut, do what you need, then move onto
the next. I swear, he went through more cases of chlamydia than one of those sniveling
twerps with bad allergies goes through tissues. He used to have the nickname
‘Penicillin Pete’ for a while, but he didn’t like it. So I had my laughs and
then backed off.
See, I wasn’t so lucky. Sure, I
wasn’t fuck-ugly or anything, but I had to work for it. I’ve had a couple of
fine pieces of tail, but I really had to work the game. It’s hard, but a little
manipulation goes a long way.
So another night I come home so
shitfaced that I bump into my pop’s car. Rich schmuck paid for a brand new one,
so you bet your ass he’s fuming. He’s shouting at me, “What the hell is wrong
with you?! Are you fucking dense?!” It took all I could muster to stifle my
laughter.
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So then he calms down, and begins
his old lecture again. “What happened to you?” He’s all nauseatingly sincere
about it too. I can’t decide whether I should bust a gut or spew. “You were at
the top of your class in high school…” You know where this is going. He must
have given me this speech about a hundred times, so I zone out until it’s my
turn. Then he says my cue, “What happened to your brain?”
“It got lost on its last acid trip,”
I belt out and roar another round of laughter. Man, I had a new response for
every time.
Then he starts slapping me, but I
can’t help it. I can’t stop laughing. And his feeble attempt to stop me only
adds to the hilarity.
I tell Pretty-boy Pete that one and
he laughs so hard, the bourbon shoots straight out of his nose. Then he says,
“Ain’t that a fuckin’ hoot.” And we laugh some more.
I’m twenty-four and I see what
nobody else sees. Everyone’s breaking their backs trying to put food on the table.
Dipshits who forgot to wear a rubber have children to feed. Everyone’s wasting
their time working and growing up, when they miss out on the fun. Meanwhile,
I’m cruising down the road with a bottle in my hand laughing my ass off.
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So this one time I’m in the car with
Pete. He’s got one spliff in his mouth and one tucked behind his ear, and he’s
taking huge rips off it. The road’s hard to see with the smoke accumulating on
the dashboard. So I roll down the window, take a swig of Jim Beam, and press
down on the pedal.
“Hey,” I say to Pete, “hold this and
give me a hit.” I hand him the bottle and he gives me the joint.
I take a good long rip. Then I take
another. Then another.
“Quit fuckin’ hoggin’ it,” Pete
complains.
“You got one tucked behind your
ear,” I tell him.
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“Yeah, but it’s my weed,” he says.
“Oh, who gives a shit?” I say.
“Give it, man,” he says.
I blow out a cloud and concede,
“Fine, you fucking fiend,” then I hand him back the joint.
We drive a bit longer and I feel the
cold wind whip my sweaty scalp. The pot blows in my face as if Pretty-boy Pete
is trying to tempt me with it. Fucking asshole. I take another swig of bourbon.
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“Say, know what we should do?” I say
to Pete.
“What?” he says.
“Let’s go fuck up Ron’s car,” I say.
You see, Ron’s this asshole we used
to know. He always used to pick fights with me for no reason at all. He just
had some grudge against me. I don’t know why he singled me out, but I ain’t
somebody who forgives easy.
“Ron?” Pete asks and I nod. “Why Ron?
I haven’t heard from him in years.”
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“You got something better to do?” I
raise an eyebrow.
He shrugs and says, “Whatever.”
He didn’t seem too enthusiastic at
first, but the moment we took the baseball bats out of the trunk, he looked
like a kid in a candy shop. We fucked that car up: broke his tail lights,
busted his hood, shattered his windows; ain’t nothing in that piece of shit
mobile was untouched.
We start driving back fast, fleeing
the scene, just cracking up. “Ain’t that a fuckin’ hoot,” Pete says, and we
laugh some more. We haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. So then the
laughter dies down, and Pete says, “You sure that was Ron’s car?”
I look at him, then start to grin,
then we both start laughing louder than ever. Was it? I thought it was. But I
haven’t seen or heard from him in almost five years, so maybe he moved. God
damn. Ain’t that a fuckin’ hoot.
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So we’re feeling that nice
crossfaded buzz—just cruising with the pedal down—and damned if we didn’t
finish that entire fucking bottle of Jim Beam. We must have also killed an
eighth of bud too. We’re all numb and tingly and warm and fuzzy and not entirely
sure if we’ve pissed ourselves or not. But one thing was for sure: we were
laughing our asses off. That’s the way we were: always laughing.
So then my song comes on: it’s “Blinded
by the Light”. God, I love that song.
So I turn to Pete and I say, “Roll
another joint; this is my smoking song.”
“We’re out of bud,” he says.
“What do you mean we’re out of bud?”
I ask.
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“I mean just what I said,” he says.
“We smoked damn-near an eighth.”
“Well give me a cigarette,” I say. “I
need to smoke something.”
So he hands me a cigarette,
and—you’re gonna love this—I’m so fucked up I light the filter. What a fuckin’
riot.
So I get another one and succeed
this time. I tell you, lighting a smoke while driving when you’re seeing double
is no small feat. So I spark the square and keep driving with my eyelids at
half-mast.
Right when we get to my favorite
part of the song, it happens. Right after Paul Jones tells his momma where the
fun is for the last time, and Manfred Mann starts his iconic keyboard solo, our
car comes to a violent halt.
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We smash right into another car; I
have no idea how many miles per hour we were going. Pete wasn’t wearing a
seatbelt—I told you he ain’t got a lot upstairs—and he goes flying right
through the windshield. Can you imagine that? Just broke through the glass
headfirst and flew through the air.
The airbag explodes in my face, and
the car crumples and shatters my leg in three places, and the empty bourbon
bottle shatters and imbeds itself all throughout my busted up leg. I mean, what
are the fucking chances, right?
So when I finally am able to drag
myself out of the car, I see Pete lying twenty feet in front of the car dead as
a fucking doorknob. I walk up to him, crying my eyes out, dragging my bum leg,
and he smells rank. And—get this—he literally shit himself. I’m not making this
stuff up! A complete bowel discharge! I’m screaming in tears. I’m devastated. My
only friend is lying there stone-dead. I mean, what are the chances?
So now I’m sitting in a courtroom
before a judge. I’m facing vehicular manslaughter, reckless endangerment,
driving under the influence, and the prosecutor is pushing for life. You see,
the car that I crashed into was carrying a husband and wife and their only son.
The mother is still in a coma, the father only suffered a few broken bones, and
their son died in the accident.
And—this is the real kicker—they
were celebrating their son making honor roll again. Get a load of that! He was
honor role, dean’s list, top of his class, just like I used to be. What are the
fucking chances?
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My mother is clinging to my father,
and in both of their eyes it’s Niagara Falls. They’re sobbing and holding each
other for support. My only real friend is now being turned into soil by hungry
worms.
And then—get this—the judge, he
leans over and asks me, “What happened to your brain?”
Now ain’t that a fuckin’ hoot.
Liam Moran has been published in Coffin Bell Journal and Ripples in Space and his novels, ‘Saving Fiction’ and ‘Love is Delusional’, are available on Amazon. Originally from Levittown, New York, he now resides in the suburbs of Chicago. He invites fans to follow him on his Facebook page @LiamMoranAuthor or on his website at amazon.com/author/liammoran.
So here is our last installment of our AI journey exploring the idea of Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad wolf being one and the same. All of these are based upon the AI generated art and prompts using NightCafe and then created as posters in Canva. Feel free to check out Part 1 and Part 2 of this exploration if you missed them.
A non sequitur I know, but I couldn’t resist. If you picked up where we left off you’ll get it.
Seriously?! Again with the cropped off head cop out…
Finally! That was a journey. And not even worth the result, in my opinion.
Anyway, here is a bonus montage I made out of a bunch of additional Red Riding Hood prompts for an article that never happened…
Prompts for Montage:
1.) What if Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf were one and the same being? 2.) Her wolf face peering out of her red cloak, fangs dripping with the blood of another victim, lost in the forest and never found. 3.) Little Red Riding Hood closes in for the kill, lunging from her red cloak, her wolf fangs dripping with blood. 4.) I am Little Red Riding Hood. I am the Big Bad Wolf. I am coming for you. 5.) Howling within, the rage sears forth from the red cloak, discarded in the deep woods. Red Riding Hood succumbs to the lycanthropy. 6.) Heaving breaths. Dripping blood. Red Riding Hood is not what she appears. She is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 7.) Her red cloak masks the fangs hidden below the surface. 8.) It starts with a long sighing breath. Waiting. The wolf within stirs. 9.) Red Riding Hood trembles. She succumbs to the lycanthropy. 10.) The wolf bursts forth from within. It takes over Little Red Riding Hood’s mind, her body, her being. 11.) Red Riding Hood howls. She is ravenous with hunger for blood. The wolf within has taken over. Mind, spirit, body. She feasts on the blood of the moon. 12.) Big Bad Wolf Red Riding Hood ravenous blood moon feast 13.) Blood moon beckons. I. Little Red Big Bad Riding Hood Wolf. Freedom howling night curse. 14.) Beware. Bewolf. BeRedRidingHood. Betwixt. Beyond. 15.) I pad quietly as the forest dissolves around me. Red Riding Hood and Wolf, one and the same. 16.) Wolf within howling dark recesses of the mind, Red Riding Hood lost 17.) Red Riding Hood HOWL wolf bane true existence polymorph within-and-without. 18.) Red howl Riding Wolf dark existence brooding within
Continuing our AI journey from last time exploring Little Red Riding Hood herself as the Big Bad Wolf… All of these are based upon the AI generated art and prompts using NightCafe and then created as posters in Canva.
How very… Phantom of the Opera predatory… this is definitely not what I had in mind. Maybe something more cutesy?
Ugh. Maybe not.
Wow, that seems like such a cop out, cropping off the head so you don’t have to depict it. And I don’t want to lose the Little Red Riding Hood reference completely.
So no surprise there, I knew that was too many references to work.
And as promised in Big Bad Poetry, we shall embark on our next AI journey, this time looking at Little Red Riding Hood. I had wanted to depict her as the Big Bad Wolf one and the same, although maybe not so big nor bad. But it just wasn’t happening quite as planned. All of these are based upon the AI generated art and prompts using NightCafe and then created as posters in Canva.
So I actually like this even better than my original vision, it is playful and even a bit serene (especially given the Sinister style). The wolf is just being a wolf. It’s quite lovely, really. But it wasn’t what I had in mind, so I revisited the idea later to see if I could get that result…