“Stick-fighting is church, and Violence is my God.”
-Erique Watson
This novelette shall be the prize for the reader who guesses the correct number of Harm City deaths for 2015. The first half of this children’s favorite will be serialized here, on the site. Please keep in mind that the experiences of Jay Jay Brooks are based almost entirely on those of the author, up until the point where he is speaking with Fat George Mason on page 17. From there on the book is what I wish dearly that I had done when I was Jay Jay’s age.
Menthol Rampage is available as an e-book at our site store, and in the anthology, Rise, from Nerd Church.
The Four-by-Four
Mister Martin and Fat George Mason were hauling in the lumber behind him as he finished scraping the old mortar from the aged brickwork. He had only been in the trade for a year now and was self-conscious; trying hard to make sure he worked clean. If he laid in this frame, his first wall frame, there would be no glob of ancient desiccated mortar to ruin his flush.
This is going to be the flushest frame ever set—not even du—Oh, God!
Jay Jay was on his knees and the floor was spinning. He could hardly hear a thing.
Now all he could hear was the ringing in his ears. No it was a waterfall…
He was sitting down while Mister Martin, the owner, cradled his head. “You okay, Jay Jay? Can you hear me, Jay Jay? Jesus, George, I’ve got no freakin insurance for this shit!”
Fat George was jawing away, “Well the skinny twerp should’n ov stepped back. What is this nursery school?”
His ears rang lower but he could hear nothing else now...
…Mister Martin’s wife was there, walking him to her Camry, being real nice. When the door shut he could hear again. She was so sweet, but not as hot as his girl, Bessandra. At times like this hot did not matter, sweet did. She patted his forearm warmly. “Jay Jay, I will pay for all of your bills. We are going to the emergency room. I will take care of the paperwork. You are going to be okay.”
He meant to say thanks. Then he threw up all over her dashboard…
Mister Martin’s wife was on her cell phone screaming at his boss, calling him ‘Steve,’ the entire drive to the hospital. Finally she got him a seat, and eventually a doctor. He felt really bad about her car and hoped she would not be sore with him. The actual time in the hospital he could not recall very well. It just all blended into a bleach-white and powder-blue haze.
