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Pop Culture Mess: The Journey Begins

SCNN has the pleasure of publishing installments from Fisherking’s memoirs. The elusive writer will be updating us on his quest for the Greatest Story Ever Written. To learn more, visit www.popculturemess.blogspot.com

This was the story. I knew this, deep in my soul. It would be the kind of event that, in the proper hands, relayed by the greatest writer this planet, this universe, has ever seen, would shake the moral structure of our great American society, all the way to its foundation. My source at the Los Angeles County Jail, a young starlet I’ll only identify by the first name, “Lindsay”, who was serving 1000 consecutive one-hour sentences for repeated aggravated driving while overly self-aware, had informed me that LAPD and members of the FBI were currently searching the grounds of a Hollywood Hills mansion owned by former NFL superduperstar Mike Vick, having already uncovered the remains of over 5,000 toy poodles, and one labradoodle. The scene she described was so grotesque that I could not shake the image from my mind, even without having witnessed it.

As we sped toward the mansion, driven by my personal chauffer, Danica, K-Ro and I sat in silence, looking out the windows at this beautiful city as we tried to think of happier things to avert our thoughts from the scenes of suffering we were about to experience.

“Stop the car!” I suddenly shouted, “Bum Fight!!!”

“Oh, hell yeah!” K-Ro exclaimed, instantly cheered.

Two homeless boys stood on the sidewalk, both holding sharp stakes, with a crowd of about fifty more homeless men, women and children encircling them. I walked through the screaming mass of smelliness to the edge of the circle.

“Who’s the money on?” I asked the closest dirty bastard. He looked at me like I was insane.

“Ain’t got no money,”the dirty bastard said, “but I got this grocery cart full of cans on the Mexican.”

“I’ll take that bet,” I said, “K-Ro!” K-Ro immediately appeared holding out a small ivory box. He opened it for the dirty bastard, revealing a sterling silver crack pipe engraved with the initials GWB. I looked at the fighters.

“Let’s get it on!”

It wasn’t even close. My guy, a skinny white kid named Billy fought like, well, a Mexican, and poor Jorge never stood a chance. I walked up to Billy and ruffled his hair. He couldn’t have been older than 13.

“Nice moves in there, kid,” I told him, motioning toward the bloodied and dying Jorge, “You earned this.” And I tossed him the sterling silver crack pipe.

“Thanks, mister!” Billy said, genuinely moved.

“Now I have a little job for you,” I told him.

“Anything, sir.”

I wrote some instructions on a card and handed it to Billy.

“Take this grocery cart filled with cans to my hotel,” I ordered, “The address is on that card, along with some instructions. Give it to the concierge when you arrive and he’ll set you up with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s”

“Gee, thanks!”

“Now get outta here, you little ragamuffin!” I told Billy. As he pushed the cart down the street I felt a deep sense of satisfaction; I always feel that way when I help those less fortunate. Just then a police cruiser pulled up behind my limo. I stepped over Jorge’s lifeless body and walked to the cruiser.

“Wow, sir, I’m a big fan!” the officer said, recognizing me, “I’ve got a couple of questions: what happened here and can I get an autograph?”

“I have two answers for you, officer: there was a bum fight and yes you can.”

“That’s awesome,” he said, “bum fight you say?”

“Yeah, see that kid over there?” I pointed the pen toward Billy, “He killed that Mexican.”

“Ouch,” said the officer, “Did you happen to hear about the scene at the Vick place.”

“That’s where we’re headed.”

“Just terrible about those poor animals,” he said, “Someone should kill that son of a bitch.”

“Maybe we should get Billy to,” I joked. He laughed aloud.

“Thanks for the autograph,” he said, “I’ll see you at the Vick place.” He waved and drove away.
I looked at K-Ro and nodded. He nodded back. We both knew it was time to continue our journey, no matter how disturbing the scene might be. A homeless man was busily washing the windows of my limo as I slid in the back seat. K-Ro punched the dirty bastard hard in the kidney and threw him to the ground.

“Get the fuck away from the car, you piece of trash!” He yelled, giving him a kick. As he slid into the seat across from me, I could see the look of dread in his eyes. Like me, K-Ro is an animal lover, and neither of us were looking forward to what we were about to see.

“Let’s go,” I said to Danica, and we continued toward our destiny.

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Labels: Danica Patrick, FBI, George W. Bush, Karl Rove, LAPD, Lindsay Lohan, Mexico, Michael Vick, Pop Culture Mess

Posted on June 5th, 2008

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