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THE LITERARY EVENT OF THE CENTURY

Started by East Coast Hustle, November 05, 2005, 03:13:44 AM

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East Coast Hustle

the long-awaited story of my trip to the islands is almost done. The first chapter of the tale is here: http://poee.co.uk/boards/viewtopic.php?p=3440#3440

I should point out that this IS copyrighted material, and any reproduction without my permission, even if left unaltered and with full credit given, is STRICTLY prohibited.

8)
Rabid Colostomy Hole Jammer of the Coming Apocalypse™

The Devil is in the details; God is in the nuance.


Some yahoo yelled at me, saying 'GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH', and I thought, "I'm feeling generous today.  Why not BOTH?"

Cain

Ah, I was wondering when this was happening.  Excellent, I shall go read it now.

Buddha's Ghost Penis

WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WE WILL GIVE THIS POST OUR APPROVAL.
WHY DID YOU BAN ME!?!?!

East Coast Hustle

I'd also like to mention that for those of you who are too lazy or stupid to click a link, I will be posting chapters here as soon as the following chapter is posted at Syn's site.

8)
Rabid Colostomy Hole Jammer of the Coming Apocalypse™

The Devil is in the details; God is in the nuance.


Some yahoo yelled at me, saying 'GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH', and I thought, "I'm feeling generous today.  Why not BOTH?"

Hoshiko

Quote from: East Coast HustleI'd also like to mention that for those of you who are too lazy or stupid to click a link, I will be posting chapters here as soon as the following chapter is posted at Syn's site.

8)

w00t!

-Hoshi (Is the lazy)
Making people sorry they asked since 1983.

                   **************************

She got the speakers in the trunk
With the bass on crunk.

Eldora, Oracle of Alchemy

I don't mind puddle jumpers, EXCEPT in thunderstorms.   :shock:

East Coast Hustle

#6
here's chapter 1, now that chapter 2 is up at poee.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation
(strictly a working title)

Chapter One   

It's a phenomenon that, as far as I know, is unique to Puerto Rico. When your plane lands safely in San Juan, the Puerto Ricans on the plane break out into thunderous applause, as if they really didn't expect to be delivered safely home all along. I know that the flight to San Juan is gravy, it's those little puddle-jumpers that take me down-island from San Juan that worry me. I hang out in Luis Munoz Marin International Airport for the better part of 3 hours, ogling latina hotties and drinking Presidente, waiting for the American Eagle flight to Cyril E. King International Airport on beautiful St. Thomas, America's Paradise(tm).
   There's a tropical squall going over St. Thomas that's going to prevent us from landing until it blows through. Of course, that means we get to fly through it, repeatedly. Did I mention my dislike for puddle-jumpers? The good news, sort of, is that every time we break out of the squall, those of us in the window seats are treated to a spectacular view of some of the British Virgin Islands. Jost Van Dyke goes by underneath me and I can see Foxy's bar on the beach of Great Harbor. They won't let me buy a drink there, ever, just for being my father's son. He's still a legend in this part of the world, and a large part of the reason I can come back here after 9 years without keeping in touch with ANYONE, and still be welcomed and treated with more respect than I may deserve. There goes Tortola, there's Bomba's Shack, where they have the full-moon parties that include gallons and gallons of shroom tea. Virgin Gorda slides by. I'd probably think it was the most beautiful island in the entire Lesser Antilles chain if it weren't also the most heavily touristified of the BVIs. Anyway, the aerial tour would be an amazing thing to behold for the average Ugly American(tm), but I'm half-drunk, so it's not as visually thrilling as it should be. Every time the plane goes back through the squall, it lurches. 5 feet up. 8 feet down and to the left. What do they put in Presidente Lager? Feels like I've swallowed a gallon of motor oil. Finally, the plane begins its descent. Now this is my favorite part of the whole trip, visually. The runway at Cyril E. King Intl. was extended about 15 years ago to make it long enough to accommodate actual jets instead of strictly commuter prop planes and smaller charter craft. The reason it wasn't that long in the first place is that there isn't enough room between the mountainside and the water to accommodate a runway of sufficient length.
     Now, all you need to know about the West Indian work ethic and natural engineering ability is that it took them 40 years to figure out that if they dumped some dirt and rocks in the water, they could make more land. Then it took them another 10 years to accomplish the task, which worked out to a rate of about 100 feet of runway extension per year. Needless to say, they did not bother with building any extra land, only the exact amount needed for the extra piece of runway was brought into existence, meaning that not only do the West Indian pilots have virtually NO room for error, but that you, as a passenger, cannot actually SEE that you are landing on anything for the first 1000 or so feet of runway, giving the startling impression that you are about to make a high-speed emergency landing in the water right in front of a pile of rocks. Most of the time, this is not actually the case. I unclenched my hands from the sides of my seat as I realized that this was one of those times.
     As I exited the plane and stood on the tarmac, the familiar smell of my long-neglected home filled my head. That, and the smell of diesel exhaust. I headed for the terminal, in search of my stepdad, my bag, and some good local rum. Damn, I almost thought that skinny old dude over there was my stepdad. Shit, wait. He's looking directly at me. That is my stepdad, but where's the rest of him? He weighed about 350 pounds last time I saw him, and this guy can't possibly weigh more than 220.

"Justin?"

The voice is the kicker. I'd recognize it anywhere, anytime.

"Doc! You son of a bitch, what the hell happened to the rest of you?"

He goes into what is clearly a story he's told before. Got a bad case of gout after the hurricane, made it worse by drinking WAY too much and eating too much red meat. The doctors finally gave him a choice: change your diet and lifestyle and get on medication, or have a good chance of losing one or both legs within a year. He quit drinking, went vegetarian, started walking 3 miles a day, and dropped 120 pounds in 2 years. He beats me over to the baggage carousel. Since he doesn't drink anymore, I beat him to the airport bar and order a BBC. I'll get used to the heat and humidity in a day or so, but for now a frozen drink is all that stands between me and a shocking and nauseating death from dehydration and detoxification. I get my drink, my bag, and we head to the car.
     I love many things about St. Thomas. High on the list is the fact that it's legal to drink and drive. Encouraged, even. Drink in hand, and eagerly awaiting the spliff that's about to be passed to me, we head through Charlotte Amalie. Gotta go by Havensight and say hi to my mom, who is still at work slinging ice to tourists (not the kind of ice that melts, either), then it's back towards town and up Mafolie Hill. We catch Skyline Drive at the top of Mafolie, and that's when it hits me. I'm home, something I almost forgot I even had. Not just St. Thomas, but the NorthSide specifically. It's tattooed on my arm, for fuck's sake, how could I ever have begun to forget? A wave of memories and emotions washes over me. No, wait, that's just a cloud of smoke from this fucking amazing spliff. Man, FUCK my real life! I'm not going home, I am home. And here it is, Hull Bay Road, and a sharp left into the forbiddingly steep driveway, and we're here. Drop the bag, grab some clean clothes, and head for the shower; then it'll be time to start calling my boys, starting with Cuz. As I head down the hallway, strains of Calypso music trailing behind me, the sun begins to slip toward the horizon.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Chapter 2
Rabid Colostomy Hole Jammer of the Coming Apocalypse™

The Devil is in the details; God is in the nuance.


Some yahoo yelled at me, saying 'GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH', and I thought, "I'm feeling generous today.  Why not BOTH?"

Fizzwitz Glorypoop

Fizzwitz Glorypoop, Baroness of Paradox, Episkopos of the Cabal of Innocent Absurdity



"Snorting ground up crows beak off the broken shards of your bathroom mirror might not get you high, but that doesnt mean its not worth doing." - Z3

East Coast Hustle

err...uhh...no...I just, uh, made that up....

8)
Rabid Colostomy Hole Jammer of the Coming Apocalypse™

The Devil is in the details; God is in the nuance.


Some yahoo yelled at me, saying 'GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH', and I thought, "I'm feeling generous today.  Why not BOTH?"

LMNO

He shall be addressed by His name, and that name is the one He is known by.


Reverend J Stain.





-or-

TurdBathEastTontonCommunistBastardMcPants.






LMNO
-Knows he's forgotten a bunch.

Fizzwitz Glorypoop

Not that there's anything wrong with that name!
Fizzwitz Glorypoop, Baroness of Paradox, Episkopos of the Cabal of Innocent Absurdity



"Snorting ground up crows beak off the broken shards of your bathroom mirror might not get you high, but that doesnt mean its not worth doing." - Z3

agent compassion

Turd Furgeson
That Communist Bastard
Lucky Pierre
McStab
Goat
East Coast Hustle
Tomorrow Comes Today
Chuck U Farley
Bathory's Sainthood
Tontons Macouts

Mix and match, add 'pants' as desired.

8)

'I'll take you out for a meal with Mr. and Mrs. Pain, order up some violent quiche. Do you want some?' - ++++++ Moon


Cain


LMNO

Someone, somewhere, must have a complete list.

agent compassion

Crap...I knew I forgot some, thanks Cain.

'I'll take you out for a meal with Mr. and Mrs. Pain, order up some violent quiche. Do you want some?' - ++++++ Moon