I get home. And watch God. Genesis is preaching about the Mexicans. The theme music for The Message comes on and the
announcer with the champagne voice says: Real
stories … with real people. Cut to some Mexicans
rushing the fence. Genesis says that
Congress is still debating whether border patrol ought to be allowed to shoot
any Mexican whose got the balls to cross it.
According to Genesis, they should.
I read somewhere it’s going to pass.
Bang on the door. Either Time magazine is here to
interview me for Man Of The Year, or it’s the New Charles. I open the door and regret it instantly. New Charles is wearing a black Bad Religion t
shirt, sleeves torn off or cut off, dimestore jeans with rips in the knees, a
black studded belt and a black leather jacket decorated with buttons and safety
pins. Doc Martin steel toes with white
laces, brand new. Spiky wrist bands,
black spiky collar, hair dyed bright red.
His ears are each pierced three times with one ring in the middle of his
lip and one coming out his left nostril.
Typical.
Wrong apartment, kid.
Justin, it’s me!
I know.
You couldn’t tell, could you?
You wish. Maybe if he pierced his teeth. Charles grins.
So.
So.
SooOO?
What’re you supposed to be?
I’m a punk, stupid. See, look.
He sticks this black
button in my face, one with white letters that reads:
Punk is not dead. Y’see, that’s what it says. Punk is not DEAD, motherfucker.
This is what you did today?
Yah.
I also bought a shit load of punk CD’s but I haven’t had time to listen
to them yet. I was too busy gettin’
this. Take a look at this.
He rolls up his right
jacket sleeve and his whole arm is wrapped in gauze pads and tape. He lifts up the gauze and on his arm is this
tat of a snake starting at the wrist, coiled up the bicep.
Shit.
Did it hurt?
Charles uncaps a forty
sticking out a brown paper bag and takes a monster swig. His face clenches up like he just swallowed a
box of nails. I think he’s going to
choke on my rug but, somehow, he manages to swallow the piss down.
A little.
But it was worth it.
Why a snake?
Cuz that’s what they call me. Snake.
Who calls you?
The other punks. I wanted to get a tattoo that would represent
my personality. A little dangerous, a
little something mysterious – not somebody to fuck with, y’know? A snake.
That’s ME, man.
Why didn’t you get a cat?
Why would I wanna do that?
Cuz you’re a pussy.
Hardy fuckin’ har.
He takes another swig from
the forty and spits his venom on my rug.
This tastes like shit.
Then why are you drinking it?
Because it’s King
Cobra. And because he’s a snake. I go to the kitchen to get some paper towels.
I’m going out tonight, man. I met this cute punk chick named Fff.
Fff?
Yah.
Fff what?
Just Fff.
She sold me the laces for my boots and I noticed she didn’t charge me
any tax.
Call me when you get some.
You should see her, Justin. She’s a FOX.
She’s even got her tits pierced.
She hasn’t showed me or anything, but she’s parking the car right – no,
wait. Here she comes.
Fff is wearing a light
green bomber jacket over a faded NOFX t shirt.
Short black skirt, fish nets and Docs.
You could hang a shower curtain off her face. She’s got one ring in both her nostrils,
three hoops in her left eyebrow, a total of ten in her ears and a railroad
spike jutting out her lip. She’s also
completely bald with the exception of two colorful orange pig tails. Snake rests his arm around her.
How’s everything, baby?
SUCKS.
Justin, this is Fff. Fff, Justin.
She eyes me with
disgust – like my face was a pile of shit and she just stepped in it.
Justin?
What kind of name is THAT?
I tell her it’s a
pleasure to make her acquaintance but she pretends not to hear me.
So what’re you guys doing tonight?
Well, first we’re gonna pick up my
ride. Then we’re going to the Donkey’s
Ass to see Screaming Fetus. Do some
moshing, get wasted.
Sounds cool.
Fff snaps.
Like you’d know.
Before I can tell her
she’s right, I wouldn’t know, and that the Donkey’s Ass sounds like a shit
hole, she turns to Snake, crosses her arms, pouts her lip and says:
This guy’s not a punk.
To which Snake casually
replies:
That’s HIS problem. Let’s fuck off. Later, Justin.
He guzzles down some
more beer, spits half of it back in the bottle and clumps off to the Donkey’s
Ass – with Fff pierced to his side.