“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 5)

This is from the beginning of Dave Lundy’s new novel (still in development) called “Zero F*cks Given”, a prequel to the best-selling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Zabka pressed his foot between the naked trespasser’s shoulder-blades, keeping him down on the floor. Bob and Lighthouse stood nearby, scratching their heads.

“Where the hell is Satan?!” Zabka yelled. “I want to know who this fucktard is!” He pushed his foot down harder. “Where in-the-fuck did you come from?!”

The deviant wriggled — his angry screams muffled by the soiled sock in his mouth.

“Goddamnit! Shut-the-fuck-up when I’m asking you a question!” Zabka kicked the guy in the spleen.

Lighthouse raised his hand. “I gotta question. Does this plastic-sex-doll-thing count as a woman in the house? It does, right? And like, shouldn’t we write this down somewhere official? For record-keeping purposes?”

Bob massaged his chin. “Yeaaah, so it sounds like we need to lay down some contest ground-rules.” He leaned against the door entry. “The first rule — and probably the most important — is that the woman must have a pulse. Sound reasonable?” He waited for them to nod in agreement. “The second rule is that someone else must be here to confirm it. I don’t trust any of you fuckers to…”

Two arms unexpectedly wrapped around Bob’s neck from behind. Panic shot from his eyes and a gargling scream rang from his throat. He buckled forward, twisting 180 degrees, and fell backward, squashing the person choking him into Zabka’s prisoner.

Bob rolled over and discovered his assailant was short and, as far as he could tell, from Thailand. As he tried unsuccessfully to identify the Thai person’s gender, they laid there, wheezing and sucking air — the wind clearly knocked out of them.

Zabka pulled Bob up from the ground and yelled at the newest intruder, “How many more of you maniacs are there?!” He used his foot to keep both of them down.

The Thai spit a loogie at Bob and it splattered on his face. “You fucka! You no belong!”

Bob wiped himself clean, leaned down, and punched the spitter in their gender-neutral mouth, scuffing his knuckles in the process.

Lighthouse was on full-alert, bouncing around in circles like Bluto Blutarsky before they took Neidermeyer’s horse into Dean Wormer’s office. “Who’s next?! Bring it!”

Bob shook his hand in pain as it began to bleed. “What a fuckin’ debacle. Are we sure we’re even in the right house? This is messed up.”

A faint noise was coming from above them — like someone strumming an acoustic guitar. Instinctively, they looked up and followed the sound through the walls while it made its way down the rickety stairs. Slowly, as it got louder, they recognized the riff from “Locomotive Breath” — gin gin gin gin, gin, gin — being repeated over and over again.

Lighthouse put his dukes up and elevated on his tippy-toes.

Bob thought to himself, This imbecile ain’t sneaking-up on us. He grabbed the nearest thing he could use as a weapon — the naked guy’s boombox — and readied to hurl it when needed.

Zabka applied additional pressure to the Thai’s sternum while making the shhh-signal.

In silence, they waited…

Then it came into the room — a guy dressed only in boxers, his eyes as red as the devil’s. He saw the ambush awaiting him and, after a noticeably delayed reaction, ceased playing that riff.

Bob and his friends lowered their guard, and he said, “What the fuck, Satan?! Who are these guys?! And why are they in our house?!”

Satan laughed like a snake, “Sss, sss, sss,” if a snake could laugh and be stoned. “These are our roommates for the summer. That’s Narong, and the naked dude you tied up — very creatively I might add — is Mike.”

Lighthouse asked, “And when exactly were you planning on sharing this information with us?”

“When the time was right… which I guess was now.”

Zabka took his foot off of the captives. “These fuckers are damn lucky I didn’t send them to the hospital.” Narong sprung to his feet. “Is this one a dude or a chick… or a combo? I don’t even know what’s going on here. Can someone please explain?”

Narong got in Zabka’s face. “I man! What you, fucka?!”

Zabka, who was about a foot taller than Narong, pushed him away and shook his finger at him. “Now that I know you’re a man — or at least claim to be — I strongly advise you not to do that again.”

Bob looked at Satan and asked, “So what are you doing with the rent you are collecting? I assume you are collecting rent, right? We’ve all been paying our share this summer even though we’re not up here.”

Satan took off his acoustic guitar and set it down. “Don’t worry fellas. I’ve been putting it into an account that I’ll use to fund our utilities until it runs out. That work?”

His official roommates for the upcoming school year nodded in agreement.

Zabka said, “As long as we’re essentially getting paid outta this, I can deal with it.”

“Yeah, I look at it as beer-money,” Bob added.

Zabka took the sock out of Mike’s mouth and pounded his hand on the bed. “This is my mattress… I best not find any jizz on it.”

Mike lifted his chin off the floor and looked up. “No, no, you won’t. There’s none.” He worked a few sock fibers to the tip of his tongue and blew them out. “Now can you please untie me?”

“I’m sicka lookin’ at ya — so yeah, I can do that. And then you’re gonna take all your shit outta here and move into Jimmy the Italian’s room. You understand me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good.” Zabka grabbed Mike’s bound wrists and ankles, and freed him.

Bob pulled Lighthouse outside the room and said to him, “Hey, all that shit was crazy, but I need to talk to you about something. It’s kinda important.” The two of them had become good friends back in high school when they both played on the JV soccer team.

“Okay, yeah,” Lighthouse replied. “Let’s go to the living room.”

They arrived and sat down on a couch that was older than they were. Bob began, “As you already know, the last few years have been pretty shitty for me. After my parent’s divorce and having to leave Union College, and then transferring here… well, I’ve been pretty much on my own. Paying for tuition, rent, my car… basically everything with loans and crappy jobs here and there.”

“I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t realize that.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I haven’t told anyone.” Bob hung his head. “It’s gonna be alright, I just need… and I hate to ask this…” He looked up. “I just need a little help with rent for the first couple of months. Could you…”

“Done,” Lighthouse replied before he finished asking. “I got you covered.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t think anything of it. Okay, let’s go put our bags away and set up our rooms.”

At the end of the previous school year, they moved all of their things from their old house on West Northrup to this house, and used their bedrooms as storage units, never bothering to arrange them.

Bob asked, “You really want the room up in the attic?”

“Yeah, I kinda like it up there — I can escape from the shenanigans.”

Bob laughed. “Yeah, good luck getting away!”

They both walked up to the second level where there were four bedrooms and a bathroom off of a square, central, hallway-type room. Lighthouse had left his luggage there when they heard the commotion coming from Zabka’s room. He grabbed it and continued up the stairs to the attic.

When he got to the top, there were two doors, both shut. One went to his bedroom, and the other had a padlock on it. The locked room also had a sign taped to it with the following written in green crayon, “Darkroom. Entry prohibited! Photography development.”

Lighthouse noticed a bright light coming out from under the door and lowered himself to the floor. He tilted his head and peered through the crack. Befuddled, he stood back up and yelled, “Satan!”

Scene 4 | Scene 5

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 4)

This is from the beginning of Dave Lundy’s new novel (still in development) called “Zero F*cks Given”, a prequel to the best-selling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Chad Stanwick had the type of face you wanted to punch — handsome, yet with a permanent smirk that screamed “douchebag.” He was also the type that never missed an opportunity to tell people he was from Newton, Massachusetts — an affluent Boston suburb.

The previous spring, he won the Sigma Alpha Mu presidency by mercilessly berating the incumbent, Billy Schmear. “Do we still have the best parties?! Do we hook up with the hottest chicks anymore?!” he yelled to his fraternity brothers during his campaign. “The answer is no! And who’s fault is it?” He pointed at Billy Schmear. “Mrs. Pap Schmear’s, that’s who! He’s to blame! And only I, Chad Stanwick, can fix it!”

Chad was standing inside his fraternity house, a few weeks away from the start of the fall semester, and the place was in shambles — warped hardwood floors, cracked ceilings, and walls soiled with who knew what. It was his duty to ensure the house was impeccable before for the Sammies’, the name they called themselves, had their first party of the year.

There was a double-knock on the front door. Chad popped the collar of his pink Polo and turned his New England Patriots hat around backward. He walked stiffly, like a lobster-tail was lodged up his rectum, to the door and pulled it open. Outside, there was a man holding a clipboard, and Chad said to him, “Hello, what can you do for me?”

“Hi, I’m John. We were hired to fix up your house. I’m the foreman.” He glanced at his paperwork. “Are you Chad?”

“Yes, I am indeed Chad — the president of Sigma Alpha Mu. I’ll be telling you and your crew what to do.”

The foreman raised an eyebrow. “Uh, it doesn’t work that way.”

“The fuck it doesn’t. I’m from Newton and know better than anyone how to get this place into tip-top shape.” Chad looked at Pablo, Miguel, and Jose, who were leaning against a big white pickup-truck and smoking cigarettes. “Round up your hombres,” he circled his finger in the air, “and let’s get to work.”

What a fucking prick, thought the foreman.

“The hardwood floors are the most important, so start by tearing them out. Then paint the walls and patch the ceiling. Got it?”

The foreman shook his head. “I recommend we do the opposite of that — work top-down. The reason is…”

Chad cut him off. “Listen, do you want this job or not? There are plenty of other contractors that would be happy to take my business.”

The foreman looked at Chad sideways and seriously contemplated punching him square in the nose. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “Doing it your way will add an extra week.”

“I don’t think so. You’ll get it done on schedule like we agreed or you can vámonos the hell outta here.”

The owner of the contracting company reminded the foreman of Chad — obnoxious, arrogant, and stupid — and he wouldn’t think twice about firing someone that lost him a job. Knowing this, the foreman caved and agreed to Chad’s demands. He stuck two fingers from each hand in his mouth and blew an ear-piercingly loud whistle. The workers grabbed their tools and walked to the house.

Scene 3 | Scene 4 | Scene 5

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 3)

This is from the beginning of Dave Lundy’s new novel (still in development) called “Zero F*cks Given”, a prequel to the best-selling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Zabka steered off the New York State Thruway and drove his black Camaro north on highway 290. He was singing along with the Grateful Dead song on the radio — “Livin’ on reds, vitamin C, and cocaine. All a friend can say is ‘Ain’t it a shame?’ Truckin’… up to Buff-a-lo!” A slow-moving eighteen-wheeler merged in front of him and wrecked his joyous mood. He laid on the horn and floored it, veering around the trucker and taking the exit’s curvy offramp at a screeching 75 mph.

After straightening out on Main Street, Zabka loosened his grip of the steering wheel. “Did you see that asshole?” he said to his passengers.

“Yeah, the nerve of that guy,” Bob answered from the seat beside him. He looked back at Lighthouse, cramped between their luggage, and they chuckled.

Zabka stuck his arm out the window on that sunny afternoon. He floated his hand up and down like a plane as it cut through the wind.

The radio station switched to a commercial, and Lighthouse asked, “Dude, what happened to the tunes?”

“Yeah, Bob.” Zabka whacked his buddy. “You’re in charge — fix it!”

Bob slid in a Jackyl CD, skipped to the song he wanted, and turned up the volume. It didn’t take long before the guitar riff had their heads banging. Zabka eyed a car full of girls with a UB bumper sticker and sped up next to it. He looked over at them and shouted along with the chorus, “But she loves my cock! — Loves my cock! Loves my cock! Loves my cock!”

The girls were repulsed to the point where their faces seemed to throw up.

Having witnessed Zabka’s behavior many times before, Bob wasn’t at all shocked — his friend was the poster-child for “not giving a fuck.” But on the flip-side, the girls’ reactions did make Bob take notice. And a few of their faces seemed familiar — Were those Third Base girls?

As expected, Zabka was incredibly pleased with himself. He gunned the engine and took off down the road.

Bob turned the music down. “You know, not to sound lame or anything, but I feel like the way we approach girls might be a touch off-putting and could probably use… oh, I don’t know… some refinement. Whaddya guys think?”

“What are you talking about?” Zabka replied. “Those bitches ate that shit up!”

Lighthouse offered his thoughts, “No offense, Zabka, but I didn’t get that impression. And to Bob’s point, women haven’t been exactly throwing themselves at our feet. He might be on to something.”

Bob added, “Yeah, Zabka. You don’t really have the Don Juan seduction-thing goin’ on.”

Zabka brushed off his friends. “You guys are crazy.”

“No, really,” Bob said. “Okay, so how many girls did we have in our house last year?”

Zabka shrugged. “Plenty, I’m sure.” He contemplated for a moment. “To start, there was Earthshaker — that ginormous chick from the Base that you banged. Good lord, you truly have no shame.”

“First of all, I did not ‘fuck her.’ We barely got outta the bar before her mouth was playing Hungry Hungry Hippos with my balls. She was like, ‘Nom, nom, nom…’ She just went to town. The chick was nuts — literally! I’ve never had a girl laser-focused on my sack like that.”

From the peanut gallery, Lighthouse remarked, “I bet you’ve had dudes laser-focused on your sack like that.”

Bob’s eyes rolled. “Also, as I recall, we didn’t go to our house. We went around the corner to her place. And finally, she wasn’t that big — you tend to exaggerate. She just had a tiny bitta junk-in-the-trunk.”

Zabka threw his head back and laughed. “Haha! She didn’t have a tiny bit! She had a ton! Her ass looked like two overstuffed garbage bags full of marshmallows!”

Lighthouse looked up and tapped his chin. “Oh, I know. There was the woman that hooked up our cable. She was kinda hot.”

Bob replied, “Dude, she was as old as your mom. Plus, she worked for the cable company, so that doesn’t really count. Okay, so who else?”

Hmm… oh, I remember.” His redheaded friend pushed an imaginary button. “These girls rang our doorbell and I invited them inside.”

“You mean the ones selling cookies?” Bob shook his head. “The Girl Scout and her mom? Come on.”

The three of them sat in silence, racking their brains.

“You see my point now? We did a pathetic job last year.” Bob glanced back at Lighthouse and then at Zabka to make sure they absorbed what he was saying. “But here’s the good news — this is a new year and we’re in a new house — the reset button has been pressed. Plus it’s our last year in college. We need to go out on a high note.”

“Should we set a goal?” Lighthouse asked. “Like the number of women?”

“Well, there are six of us in the house, soooo… we should easily be able to pull in two girls each. Real girls — not girls working for a utility company or selling shit door to door.” Bob did the easy math. “So that’s twelve.”

Zabka offered, “Shit, I could pull in a dozen myself. What are you guys gonna do?”

Lighthouse said, “Yeah, I could do that too.”

Bob laughed along with Zabka who was slapping his knee.

After Zabka composed himself, he said “But seriously, we need to think this through. The others in the house are Satan, Jimmy the Italian, and Narong — a stoner, a short guy who’s prematurely-balding and talks like he’s been kicked in the nuts, and a puny theatre major from Thailand. Something tells me their contributions ain’t gonna be shit.”

Bob agreed. “Yeah, they’re completely useless.”

Zabka nodded his head. “Yep, so that just leaves me and you, Bob.”

“Hey, what about me?” Lighthouse asked.

“What about you?” Zabka replied. “No offense,” he winked at Bob, “but this is clearly a two-man operation.”

“Yeah, Zabka’s right.” Bob grinned. “But don’t let that stop you from giving it the old college try.”

“I’ll show you guys.” Lighthouse folded his arms. “I may even decide to get a girlfriend.”

“Highly doubtful. But even if you did, that’s not gonna help us much with the numbers.” Zabka passed Grover Cleveland Golf Course — named after the former mayor of Buffalo and President of the United States — and crossed Bailey Avenue. “Hey, there’s south campus. We’re officially back in Buffalo!” He honked the horn twice. “And it feels daaaaamn good!”

A mile or so later, they arrived at their house on Winspear Avenue. The roof over the front porch was covered in bird shit, and the paint on the siding was chipped badly. The lawn looked like it had never been mowed and was covered with yellow dandelions. To top things off, a rat had torn into a bag of garbage and made an impressive mess near the side door. All things considered, it was one of the finer looking college houses on the street.

Bob smiled. “Home sweet home.”

Zabka pulled the Camero into the driveway and drove straight into a pothole, scraping the car’s front bumper. “Fuck!” he yelled.

“Relax,” Bob said. “I’m sure your precious pussy-magnet is just fine.”

Zabka drove around back and parked in the backyard. He jumped out to inspect the damage, squatted in front of his car, and rubbed the bumper. “It’s not too bad. She’ll be alright.”

“Phew,” Bob said as he opened his door. “Thank god for that.”

Lighthouse climbed out from the backseat. “You think Satan’s here?”

“I don’t see his piece-of-shit car, so probably not,” Zabka replied.

The three of them pulled their bags out of the Camero and walked to the house. Zabka unlocked the side door, and an odor hit them immediately as they walked in — the type of skunky air that lingered after a reggae show.

Lighthouse said, “It definitely smells like Satan lives here.”

One set of stairs went down to a scary-looking basement where there was a spare room and the laundry. They followed the other short set of stairs up to the hallway between the kitchen and living room. The ragged interior of their living quarters helped strengthen the case that the structure should be condemned. Zabka turned toward his room which was down a small hallway off the kitchen. Bob and Lighthouse continued upstairs to their respective rooms.

As Zabka got closer to his bedroom, he heard an odd noise — one that oscillated between something sounding like a rabid squirrel and someone stroking a balloon. He paused and listened to confirm he wasn’t imagining things. He opened the door expecting to find a rodent, but walked in on something far worse — a guy, fully nude, holding a blowup doll’s head between his legs while he did unimaginable things to “her” oral cavity. The plastic squeaked from one last thrust.

The stranger and Zabka locked eyes in the most uncomfortable way. They stood still like statues in a Mexican-standoff, entangled in an unwanted three-way. Slowly, Zabka’s eyes turned to rage. Sensing impending doom, the doll-fucker panicked and kicked Zabka in the balls while screaming bloody murder.

Zabka curled-over in pain, his nuts thumping like the bass in an Ice Cube song. He looked up, calmly said, “You picked the wrong nigga ta fuck wit,” and karate chopped the doll’s head free from the guy’s engorged appendage.

The intruder covered himself and stammered incoherently.

At that point, Zabka was done being friendly. He swung a left-hook and nailed the guy in the eye.

Having heard the commotion, Bob and Lighthouse came running down from upstairs. When they got to their friend’s bedroom, they found Zabka standing over a naked guy their age, hogtied with a deflated French-maid doll, and a dirty sock shoved in his mouth.

Lighthouse entered the room in full alert-mode, his head spinning like a top.

“Zabka, is there something you want to share?” Bob asked. “Trust us, we’re not judging you.”

With a half-smile, Lighthouse agreed, “Yep, this is a judgment-free zone.” He and Bob nodded their heads vigorously. “No judgments whatsoever.”

Zabka responded, “I found this dickhead in my room gettin’ it on with blowup Betty. I don’t know who the fuck he is, but we’re about to find out. Either the easy way… or the hard way. That part’s upta him.”

Scene 2 | Scene 3 | Scene 4

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 1)

This is from the beginning of Dave Lundy’s new novel (still in development) called “Zero F*cks Given”, a prequel to the best-selling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.

Once upon a time in Buffalo, NY…

Zabka stabbed his fork through a cherry tomato and lettuce, and brought it to his mouth. His hand shook, which made it a challenge not to drip any dressing on his sale-rack suit.

Bob glared at his friend. “Who the fuck orders a salad? No good story ever started with a salad — unless we’re talkin’ ’bout salad-tossing, of course.” He chuckled while Zabka pondered his insightful commentary. “Anyway, it’s your fault if we don’t have a blast at Earl’s wedding.” He threw his polyester tie over his shoulder and then devoured half of his greasy cheeseburger in one bite.

“Whatever.” Zabka’s head was pounding as he sipped his Bloody Mary. “I couldn’t make it to the gym today, so I’m eating something light. You don’t get a ripped body like mine without sacrificing every once in a while.”

Lighthouse, their college housemate, asked, “Seriously, why bother? You’re gonna drink a hundred beers at the reception, just like you did last night. What’s the use?”

As buddies do, they called each other by their nicknames — Zabka, because his doppelgänger was William Zabka, the blond actor in The Karate Kid whose character is an arrogant prick; Lighthouse, for his bright-red hair, tall stature, and penchant for walking on his tiptoes with his head spinning, looking out for trouble; and Bob, the jovial moniker for Robert.

It was a muggy summer day, and they were having lunch in a restaurant-bar called The Steer. Located near the University at Buffalo’s city campus, it was popular with students from Long Island. Its dark wood interior and the bull’s skull and horns that hung on the wall gave the place a western vibe. A country song by Billy Ray Cyrus was playing in the bar.

“Good lord, this song sucks donkey-balls.” Bob was physically agitated. “Achy-Fuckin’-Breaky Heart? What is this bullshit?”

Zabka laughed. “I’d Achy-Fuckin’-Breaky that guy’s nose if he was here.”

“Why? You made your barber give you the same stupid mullet.” Bob closed his eyes and shook his head. “But seriously, Zabka, why’d you make us come to this hellhole? I hate this fucking place.” He watched a group of girls in matching sorority shirts and with matching nose jobs, chat up the bartender. “Oh, that’s right… because you’re sniffing around for Tracy Cohenstein.”

Lighthouse’s eyes grew wide as he thought about the last time he saw Tracy during junior year, at the end of spring semester. She was sunbathing in her backyard, and he was perched in a tree with binoculars.

Zabka put his fork down. “Screw you, Bob. Stop trying to stir the pot.”

“Who, me?” Bob placed his hand over his heart. “I would never.”

Zabka shook his head. “Yeah, never.”

Bob was indeed stirring the pot, knowing that both of his friends had a thing for Tracy. Zabka’s yearning was on the healthy, red-blooded male side of the spectrum, while Lighthouse’s pursuits leaned more toward an unbalanced obsession.

Bob gulped down some beer and shoved a handful of fries into his mouth. “Hey, remember the last time we came here? The bouncer launched some douchebag off the steps outside and into the street.”

“Oh yeah, that was hilarious,” Lighthouse responded. “No offense, Zabka, but I’m shocked that’s never happened to you.”

Zabka threw his arms up and leaned in. “Who’s got the balls to try to throw ME out?!” He looked around. “Show me! I dare someone!”

Bob paid no attention to Zabka’s outburst. “Actually, I’m surprised they didn’t toss you outta Third Base last night. What a shitshow.”

Pfff,” Zabka scoffed. “They’d never. Plus most of that had nothing to do with me.”

Lighthouse shook his head. “Yesterday was a fiasco.”

“Fiasco isn’t quite the right word… It was a clusterfuck.” Bob studied his scraped knuckles. “One huge clusterfuck.”

“I’m still scarred from what I saw,” Lighthouse said. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. How about hangovers?” Bob finished his beer and raised the bottle. “And hair of the dog.”

“More like shit of the dog. Dog shit — that’s what I feel like. So no, I don’t want to talk about hangovers.”

“Okay, then how about the Bills?” Zabka asked. “Their first preseason game is tomorrow.”

“Come on, I thought we were changing subjects.” Bob rubbed his temples. “The Bills are good, but they’re the NFL’s version of a hangover.”

“Buffalo is done,” Lighthouse said. “They lost three Super Bowls in a row. It’s all about Miami this year. Go Dolphins!”

Zabka picked up his fork and speared a piece of chicken along with his next helping of salad. “Fuck Marino and fuck Miami.” As he gnawed on the meat like it was a piece of gum, his face turned green. He spit the chicken onto the table, inspected its pink flesh, and dry-heaved. “What the fuck?! It’s raw inside!”

Their waitress heard the commotion and hustled over. “Is there a problem with your order?”

“A problem?! You’re goddamn right there’s a problem! The chicken is under-fucking-cooked!”

“I’m so sorry. Let me take care of that and get you a new salad.”

“No. I’ll handle this myself.” Zabka stood with his plate, marched toward the kitchen, and slammed through the aluminum swinging-door. “Who the fuck made my salad?!”

The kitchen staff froze, alarmed by their uninvited guest.

Zabka scanned for the most-likely culprit and landed on the man who’d been chopping lettuce. “Hey, fuckface! Did you do this?! Did you put raw chicken in my salad?!”

“No, sir. I just make the vegetables.” The food preparer’s nervous eyes implicated the man at the grill.

“I see.” Zabka walked over and dumped his salad on the cook’s head. “Why the hell did you do this? Tell me right now, or I swear I’ll strangle your neck.”

The man gulped, fully believing the threat. “Okay, okay. Some girl paid me fifty bucks to do it. Please don’t tell my boss. I beg you.”

“Some girl?!” Zabka looked around. “So, a conniving cunt is in our midst, eh? Where is she? Keep talking and I might let you off the hook.”

“She’s out at the bar.”

“Good. Take me to her.” Zabka punched his palm. “Let’s go, motherfucker.”

Scene 1 | Scene 2

zerofucksgiven

Only in Buffalo!

This excerpt is from the beginning of “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery” by Dave Lundy. The bestselling novel has won numerous comedic awards and been called “The Hangover” in Buffalo, NY.

Trapped like a turtle flipped on its shell, a man flails his limbs through the puffy snow. As he passes out, the alcohol in his bloodstream celebrates with wildly inappropriate dance-moves inspired by the night’s sins. The glow from a streetlamp punctures the darkness like a police helicopter’s spotlight and frames the helpless fool in his jagged snow-angel.

A few hours later, at dawn, an elderly woman is walking her Saint Bernard down the quiet street when she notices the collapsed body. Her first thought — What the fuck? — naturally is filled with compassion. But after she reminds herself of one critical detail, it all makes sense — This is Buffalo… of course there’s a drunk jackass lying in the snow. As she shrugs-off the aspiring Darwin Award winner, an alluring scent pulls the dog in the man’s direction. Tearing the leash from its master’s grasp, it dashes to investigate.

snow angel

Now above the lush, the shaggy beast pants and stares in wonder. Masked by a pair of pink cotton panties, the man looks like some sort of deranged bank robber. If the dog could form complex thoughts, it might speculate — For what ungodly reason is he wearing that? Is it a desperate attempt to prevent his face from freezing off? Perhaps it’s a provocative fashion statement? Or is it, quite possibly, some next-level form of perversion? But it can’t contemplate such things, so it just wags its tail in blissful ignorance. Incapable of resisting the undergarment’s exotic aroma, the hound licks the guy’s noggin like it’s a lollipop. The mutt’s tongue bursts with flavor and knows it’s struck gold — tangy, delicious gold.

Nearby, a fresh line of boot-prints mark a path up to the man and continue past him. “SUN 7:16 AM” displays on the frosty LCD of his Casio watch. Gusts of wind blow across the ground, fusing his bare hand with a frozen bottle of Genesee Cream Ale. In his other hand, a tattered envelope labeled “Buffalo Tickets” flaps and scatters a rainbow of glitter dust into the air.

The slobbering dog belongs to a breed known for saving people buried in snowstorms, however, this pooch’s glowing eyes foretell that a rescue is far from how things are about to go down. The inebriated fellow, unaware that his forehead is the soon-to-be target of an amorous assault, remains oblivious when the canine launches into its grand-finale. The funny thing is (which can only be said when you’re not on the receiving end of such an act) humiliations such as this can’t compare with what the city has endured throughout its outlandish history.

As the animal’s pleasure-romp reaches a fever pitch, its owner strolls into the spectacle like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. While reaching for the leash, she halts abruptly and scratches her scalp. Anger builds as she reads a urine scribbled message in the snow that audaciously proclaims “GOD HATES BUF…” and trails off into a wavy drizzle.

Now in control of the tether, the old woman gives it a harsh tug. While dragging her pet away, she reflects for a moment and mutters to herself, “Is that clown right? Does God hate Buffalo?”

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