The Scourge of Greenbriar in The Man from Nantucket Volume 2

By Steve Lytle

In this second volume of The Scourge of Greenbriar, the author continues with his episodes from early adulthood, which gives the reader fresh insight as to why he is who he is today. From his passion for used tuxedos and his ability to attract the craziest of women, to stories of bondage, Cheetos and belly flops, the author will have you on the floor laughing your ass off with his unique sense of humor and absurdity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Lytle
• Release date: Oct 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989724715

Steve Lytle

Steve Lytle is a wannabe stand-up comedian who mumbles and has no stage presence, whatsoever. Out of desperation, he began writing. He hopes to someday deliver his crass and sophomoric book by the truckload to the Westboro Baptist Church.

Book preview

In this second volume of The Scourge of Greenbriar, the author continues with his episodes from early adulthood, which gives the reader fresh insight as to why he is who he is today. From his passion for used tuxedos and his ability to attract the craziest of women, to stories of bondage, Cheetos and belly flops, the author will have you on the floor laughing your ass off with his unique sense of humor and absurdity.

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

The Scourge of Greenbriar in The Man from Nantucket Volume 2

By Steve Lytle

Scourgeonline.com, LLC

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

ALSO BY STEVE LYTLE

The Scourge of Greenbriar in The First Rat in Space Volume 1

The Scourge of Greenbriar in Dawn of the Dead Volume 3

These books are meant to be read in a sequential manner. Like sex: first you do it...have a smoke, and then get a washcloth. All things in their proper order...

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

THE SCOURGE OF GREENBRIAR IN

THE MAN FROM NANTUCKET, VOLUME TWO

Copyright Steve Lytle, 2011-2013

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages: quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

All characters in this publication are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Scourge Online.com, LLC

ISBN 978-0-9897247-1-5

Cover designed by Michael McGee

Editorial assistance by Julie Cortes and Rob Bignell

Manufactured in the United States of America

First printing October 2013

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

DEDICATION

For Sweet Pea…with open arms

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

Contents

Previously

Bowling for Dollars

Can I Rent Some Underpants, Too?

Caligula II

A Wild and Crazy Guy

I Am Not an Animal

Homage in Pink

Waiting for the Worms

Hello…Hello…Hello…Is There Anybody in There?

Demolition Derby

Cool Ranch or Nacho Cheese?

Hold the Mustard

There once was a Man from Nantucket

CSI: Lawrence

Save Money, Live Better

Siberian Hamsters

Sorry, My Dear!

Fiddle-Dee-Dee

Oh My God! It’s Laurence Olivier!

Sell More Drinks, Make More Money

Rickety-Dickety-Dock

Speed Kills

Milk It…For All It’s Worth

No Man’s Land

Just…Sit Right Back and You’ll Hear a Tale

The Newlywed Game

As He Wiped Off His Chin…

Back to Mickeyland

To Sail on a Dream…

I Got a Brand New Pair of Roller Skates

Howdy, Bob

What a Fucking Loser

Maggots and Faggots

Drowning in Your Tears

Reader’s Notes

An Excerpt from The Scourge of Greenbriar: Dawn of the Dead

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

Previously

The spring before my senior year of high school, I visited my Grandma Gertie in the same town that my grandparents shared with the university. I went with my dad to see them. The purpose of our trip was to explore my housing options for college.

Moses and I enjoyed a fine lunch of chicken and zucchini, during which my grandma admonished my father.

Noah, get your elbows off of the table, she said.

Dad was in an uncomfortable position. His mother was seated to the right of him and his son to the left. I thought it remarkable to see my own dad in trouble with my own grandmother. They both handled the awkward moment well. Moses quickly and silently moved his arm to his lap. Grandma, for her part, didn’t smack Dad’s elbow with a ladle.

As we retired to the formal living room, I prepared myself for the clock-watching, second-counting marathon I was sure to endure. The meaningless small talk had consumed the three of them. I busied myself with an exaggerated countdown.

Two Thousand…Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Nine…Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Eight…Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Seven…

I started with a larger number on purpose, for any discussion concerning my growth and development would take longer than 300 seconds. God help me if my time in the black hole was longer than 30 minutes. I lost track of the conversation until the subject matter brought me back to reality.

Steve, why don’t you just live here with your grandfather and grandmother? my dad asked me. My grandparents had remodeled the upper floor of their home and gave it a separate entrance. They intended it as a student residence and a source of additional income.

My father must have known better than to suggest those living quarters for me. He had, after all, grown up in the same suffocating environment. Moses feared tableware for the same reason we boys did. Surely, my father must have been thinking of his probable room and board savings if I lived with Gertie and Josiah.

As my dad continued talking about my residency within the home, I rose and moved behind Grandpa and Grandma’s rocking chairs. As vehemently as I could but without making a sound, I began shaking my head from side to side, silently imploring Old Moses to shut up.

Gertie maintained her own interior entrance to the apartment. The door remained locked, but the keyed side was, of course, on Grandma’s side of the door. The arrangement would allow her access, whenever she chose, anytime day or night.

I could imagine dragging my alcohol-addled victims, by their feet, up the separate outside stairway. The thought of Gertie busting in through her entrance to force-feed steel-toed oats to my sexual conquests, at five in the morning, horrified me. She would have questioned the quality and hue of my lady friend’s BMs, as well.

I was sure I would get some attention out on my own in a college town. A cornucopia of female entertainment would lie at my feet in a matter of a few short months. The university was the Promised Land, for me.

Please don’t screw this up for me, Moses, I silently prayed.

Bowling for Dollars

I disappointed my dad when I dropped out of college. He was not aware of my decision for a few months. I enrolled in seventeen credit hours that fall in a futile attempt to get my education back on schedule. My sleep learning system had proven ineffective at the college level, and my grades showed it. That term would be my make or break semester. I failed within the first two weeks. I systematically dropped every class in which I had enrolled, but one.

I kept Bowling 101. The university featured a small, five-lane alley in the student union. I did manage to stay awake for that class, and I was proud of my stellar attendance. My dad paid for a full semester of tuition, and I converted his gift to the most expensive bowling class ever taken.

I knew my college career was done. That institution of higher education would not allow me to enroll again and informed me of such by letter. Their reason had something to do with my GPA, as I recall. As I was living in a university town but not attending classes, my course was clear.

Open a bar. I would be surrounded by liquor, women and plenty of attention. That was for me. I found a nightspot that had gone belly up and was for lease. The club was a turnkey operation and was only in need of a few components to reopen. What were required were cash, a liquor license, and booze. I didn’t have any money, and I was fearful to ask my father. He had just flushed thousands down the drain on my education.

I recruited a friend, Paul Lloyd, into the business. He earned a degree in biology but was laboring in the food service industry, a few hours away.

What’s the worst thing that can happen? I asked Paul, rhetorically. You can bartend, and I’ll be the DJ. All we need is a waitress, and they work for tips!

Mine was an overly simplistic business model. My friend borrowed money from his father, and we signed the lease, contingent on licensing. The Alcohol Beverage Control offered a fast track approval program if one used the right lawyer. We hired the former director of the ABC, who was then in private practice, and the attorney was to hand-deliver the application to the state. Our approval was guaranteed, and the bar would be open, literally overnight. The only prerequisite, save the fee, were certified copies of the applicants’ birth certificates. I called my mom, who kept such things, for mine.

I drove to my mother’s house for the documents and at home, inspected the details on my certificate of live birth. I, again, questioned my mother on her decision to enroll me in school at such a young age.

Look Ma, I know what year I graduated high school. I can count; you enrolled me in kindergarten when I was four! I said, once again.

My mother took the birth certificate from my hand and began to inspect it.

After a few moments of thought, she answered, The date is wrong; someone made a mistake.

That’s impossible, Mom. For my birth year to be incorrect on this certificate, I would have to have been born five months after Clay. I was always little, but I was no preemie, nor could I have been. Not after only twenty weeks in the oven.

I know what year you were born, she insisted. I was there.

So was I, I countered. I was inspecting the document and took notice of the doctor’s signature. Who was your physician?

Dr. Goode. Why do you ask? she answered.

Whose signature is this? I asked, agitated as I pointed at the bottom of the certificate.

L...something...Kennedy, she replied. Probably one of the attending doctors they needed to call in.

Here, once more was Lincoln Kennedy. Hello again.

You know you were born butt first don’t you? Mom asked, giggling.

I knew. My older brother liked to call me Breech Boy, as in Steve is one of the original Breech Boys; sing ‘Good Vibrations’ for us, will you? He is terribly funny, that Clay.

Can I Rent Some Underpants, Too?

I joined the local chamber of commerce after the bar opened. I received an invitation to a civic function held at a park in the town. I felt a need to be acknowledged by my fellow merchants and looked forward to the event. Recognition is a veiled form of attention that I would always accept.

The gathering was held in the middle of the hottest month of the year. I assumed that it would be a dress event as we were all businessmen. I still only owned one suit; my pink, three-piece, heavy wool getup. I arrived at the chamber gathering to find the food and drink laid out quite well. Each member in attendance was rather casual in their shorts and flip flops at that mid-July picnic.

Everyone was dressed appropriately but me. I strode right in, wearing my signature winter wear. I am sure I was quite the attraction. I even spoke with the city’s chief executive that afternoon. After a few pleasantries, he looked me down and back up from head to toe.

Aren’t you a little hot it that suit? Mr. Mayor inquired.

No, no, I am fine! I replied as I panted for air. I suppose my heat stroke-aggravated, reddish hue only accentuated the pink, wool monstrosity. My flushed skin was just a different shade of the same color scheme.

After my experience at the chamber mixer, I retired my rosy business wear. Paul, my business partner in the bar, was getting married, and I was to be his best man. At the hotel-based wedding reception, all of the drunken male groomsmen decided it would be a splendid idea to throw the newlyweds into the resort’s pool. Good sense prevailed as the bride was spared that humiliation, but the groom was not as fortunate. Lloyd went into the deep end in his burgundy, Sir Knight Tuxedo. When the jacket dried, it shrunk to a child’s size eight. I and the other male members of the wedding party agreed to share in the replacement cost that the tuxedo rental store would undoubtedly charge. When I went to pay for the damaged suit, they were remarkably fair. I was only charged a nominal fee. The clerk behind the counter also informed me that the company routinely sold all the used tuxes, outright.

I knew instantly that this was much better than my revolving, clothing charges at Montgomery Ward. I could wear the same thing every night! Like a cop or a fireman, my uniform would never change. All I might need to supply would be underwear and socks. I could go without them, if necessary. The suits were all a bit threadbare, but I agreed to purchase a used, white tuxedo, complete with the ruffled formal shirt. The rental store even offered previously-walked-in, white dress shoes, and with them I was fully outfitted. I paid for the clothing, which had been cleaned, and ran home to change for