Randy's Rubbers

By Willie Qwit

Randy Baker loves rubbers. His lifelong ambition is to be a rubber baron, the biggest name in the rubber game. Polite society calls them condoms, but to Randy they’ll always be rubbers.

Pete Reynolds is Randy’s best friend and a genius that passes the CPA and Missouri Bar exams at age eighteen. Pete is equal parts egghead and bonehead, and believes nuns are actually mutant penguins and that it’s perfectly acceptable to crush and incinerate hobos.

Randy illegally incorporates his rubber company at age 18 and implements business practices based on defrauding the government and bribing public officials. His senior management team is comprised of the crew, Randy’s lifelong criminal friends. Randy’s outrageous marketing strategies constantly draw the ire of conservatives, who also deplore the fact that Randy is gay and has a transsexual girlfriend.

Randy’s Rubbers is the story of Randy, Pete, and the crew as they grow up and build one of the world's biggest rubber companies.

Be sure to check out the sequels, Bennie's Brothers and Adam's Covers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Willie Qwit
• Release date: Nov 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458067616

Willie Qwit

Livin' the dream in Birmingham, Alabama.

Book preview

Randy’s Rubbers

Published by Willie Qwit at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Willie Qwit

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Penguins an’ Priests

Chapter 2 - Bombs an’ Hobos

Chapter 3 - Revenge

Chapter 4 - Mizz K

Chapter 5 - Junior High

Chapter 6 - Wheels an’ Rubbers

Chapter 7 - The Hospital

Chapter 8 - Booze, Bongs, an’ Broads

Chapter 9 - Bennie’s Kin

Chapter 10 - Virginia Hermsdale

Chapter 11 - Randy Incorporates

Chapter 12 - Get High an’ Die

Chapter 13 - Graduation

Chapter 14 - Mandy’s Back

Chapter 15 - Zelda

Chapter 16 - Marketing

Chapter 17 – Makin’ Rubbers

Chapter 18 - Party Time

Chapter 19 - Research an’ Development

Chapter 20 - The Reverend Everett Knox

Chapter 21 - Randy Goes to War

# # #

Chapter 1 - Penguins an’ Priests

My seventh grade class started the day with a Mass just like every other damn day. The priest was up on the altar mumblin’ away in Latin while we knelt an’ begged Jesus to forgive us for the bad shit we done. Well actually I was thankin’ Him for parkin’ Susie Lambert’s sexy little ass in front of me. I figured Jesus would appreciate some good news for a change.

I was fervently worshipin’ Susie’s creamy calves when I spotted the new kid unroll a damn rubber an’ proceed to start workin’ it with his fingers. It was his first day at my school an’ I didn’t even know his name yet, but right off I liked that boy’s style. I busted out laughin’. My penguin teacher heard me an’ then spotted that rubber.

She always carried four yardsticks, just in case. She took us outside an’ whacked my head with a yardstick, bustin’ it in two. The yardstick, not my head. Then she lit into that new boy with the other three, stoppin’ only when all that was left was toothpicks.

I caught up with the kid after lunch. He was sittin’ off to the side by his ownself.

Well hey there an’ howdy, my name’s Pete Reynolds.

Hi Pete. I’m Randy Baker. I just moved here from Idaho.

He stuck his hand out to shake an’ I seen a damn rubber in his hand. I looked across the playground an’ spotted Susie Lambert. She had her clothes on so I figured I didn’t need no rubber just then.

Um, no thanks there pardner, I think I’ll pass on that one.

Oh, sorry. See, I always carry rubbers with me. Someday I’m gonna be the president of the world’s largest rubber company.

Now I’ve always admired them self-made successful types like Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel (fashion), Percy LaBaron Spencer (microwave ovens), an’ George Walker Bush (philosophy), so right off I was real impressed with Randy.

I nodded. That’s cool. Ain’t nothin’ more important in life than them damn rubbers.

He dropped the rubber and we shook. I plopped my butt down to get comfortable. He pulled a fresh rubber pack outta his pocket, unwrapped the damn thing, an’ proceeded to work it with his fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Randy asked, So what’s with that nun Sister Marie Henry?

You mean Sister Hank? She’s a damn penguin, is what. Did you have penguins up in Idaho or was your teachers humans?

We had regular teachers.

I could see I needed to educate that boy about penguins. Now I ain’t talkin’ about them cute little penguins you see swimmin’ around at the zoo. Be ridiculous to have a room full of kids sit there with some animals walkin’ around the room beggin’ for fish. What would we have learned anyway, except maybe how to keep warm in the winter with no house, or how to eat a fish whole, and who the hell would wanna learn that stuff, unless you was up in Alaska livin’ in some damn igloo.

See, our teachers was a peculiar patchwork of preternatural penguin-person physiology. In other words, they was mutants. Our penguins wore Godly Goth garb featurin’ black robes an’ hoods. An’ they had this white cardboard stuff, somewhat like the cardboard what comes under them really good deluxe pizzas you can order, except these penguins didn’t have no pizzas on their cardboard, which is not to say they didn’t order out for deluxe pizzas in the evenin’, around their faces an’ under their necks. So in fact our penguin teachers looked like giant regular penguins, minus the pizza.

Regular penguins can get over five foot tall. They swim real good an’ some live over 20 years. On land they alternate between walkin’ with a wobbly gait and slidin’ over the ice on their bellies. Penguins are kingdom Animalia, phylum Chordata, class Aves, order Sphenisciformes, an’ family Spheniscidae.

Our mutant teachers was the largest penguins in the world. They topped out close to six foot, an’ most was way past a hundred years old. I don’t rightly know if they could swim or slide on their bellies, but the old ones did walk wobbly. Our penguins tried to keep order in the class, an’ told us about the kingdom of heaven. I didn’t know nothin’ about their families.

We already knowed some shit, us kids did, even though adults treated us like we was a bunch of morons an’ was unable to grasp them bigger thoughts. For instance, them penguins was virgins. Never had no sex with nobody. Them older penguins was always lookin’ for younger gals to become the next batch of penguins. After all, since they was virgins, wasn’t no chance they was never gonna have no little baby penguins. So they had to recruit new flock members all the time.

I knowed a girl once what ended up becomin’ a penguin. Then after bein’ a penguin for a while she quit an’ went back to bein’ a regular human. That one confused me because we was taught them penguins married God, an’ I couldn’t figure how God would never agree to no divorce. Anyway, God could probably get any chick He wanted, so why would He wanna marry a penguin when she wouldn’t have sex with nobody? I was discussin’ it one time with a dude what said it was a platonic relationship God had with them penguin wives. Well it was like somebody turned on a light in my brain, because all sudden like it made sense. That explained real perfect why we get earthquakes an’ volcanoes an’ tidal waves. Them platonic relationships cause tons of friction, an’ God unleashes His might an’ fury because it.

We also heard them penguins tied up their boobs so they wouldn’t stick out so far. At first I figured it was some bondage thing, because one time I seen some pictures of gals all tied up, except they didn’t have on no penguin outfits. But then I realized them penguins tied up their boobs so nobody would make no moves on them. Well who the hell would wanna screw a penguin, anyway? All wrapped up in them black robes, an’ no makeup, well, last thing in the world any man would wanna do is screw a freakin’ penguin. All I know for sure is that I never seen me no really stacked penguins.

Them penguins worked for the priests. As is way too often the case, the men was the bosses an’ the women was the grunts. Them priests wore black robes too, except they didn’t wear no hoods or pizza holders. We had tons of penguins but only three priests. They lived in different houses, but there was a tunnel what ran between them houses underground, an’ at night they’d sneak through an’ climb outta them priest an’ penguin outfits an’ screw each other. We never found no tunnel but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. We never saw no little priest or penguin babies, but all that meant is they was usin’ rubbers. I always wondered what a baby penguin would look like. I figured they’d dress up such a baby in some sorta miniature penguin outfit. Might be kinda cute.

Anyway, I was real used to them penguins by then, so I explained it all to Randy. Sister Hank was real young an extra mean, no doubt because she was horny all the time an’ couldn’t have sex with nobody.

We hit it off real good, me an’ Randy. He said he turned 13 in June, an’ I said I’d hit 13 in November. I asked him what there was to do in Idaho an’ he said not much. He asked me what there was to do in Kirkwood so I filled him in on the pool hall an’ movie theaters an’ the easiest pinball machines an’ where to get a primo cheeseburger an’ a cherry coke. Important stuff like that.

He asked why I talked so weird. I told him I was a freakin’ genius. I kicked butt on every damn I.Q. test I ever took, an’ I took tons of them. But I’ve never been no good with the spoke word. If I concentrate real hard I can write an’ speak English better than anybody. That tires me out real hard so I avoid it. But when I’m regular, as in relaxed an’ doin’ my normal thing, not as in goin’ to the bathroom, although it’s good to be regular about that stuff too, my English is real pathetic.

The thing is, I can read just fine. I dig philosophy an’ quantum physics best, although advanced economics an’ monetary theory can be real entertainin’. I’ll read a philosopher’s original works if they ain’t in English since so much gets lost in them translations.

I sometimes get flash forwards of what’s gonna happen in the future. The frustratin’ thing is that none of what I get is good for much. I don’t get no winnin’ lottery numbers or sports scores I can bet on. I get stuff like what song is gonna be popular ten years out, or who’s gonna be the next pope. I’ve never been able to control them or know when they’re comin’.

Once in a while I get insights about somebody. All sudden like I know stuff about a person ain’t no way I can know, but I do. That only happens when I touch them while there’s some strong emotional shit goin’ down. The touchin’ can be like a handshake or a hug, maybe. Just meetin’ regular folks an’ shakin’ hands, I don’t get no insights.

I introduced Randy to my buddies an’ he made friends real fast. I showed him the train tracks, an’ where we hung out under the Harrison Avenue bridge, an’ how we hopped freights comin’ up the hill outta Valley Park, an’ how we threw rocks at them damn hobos. I showed him the good parts of Kirkwood Park, an’ where to steal smokes, an’ who we got to buy us beer, which unfortunately was almost nobody back then, an’ all the other important things 12 and 13 year old boys needed to know.

I was a real successful criminal, an’ my streak was intact because I never got caught for nothin’. I specialized in vandalism an’ shopliftin’. Randy ran a gig up in Idaho where he sold stuff he stole. He asked did I wanna go into business with him, an’ I said you bet. Even though I knowed plenty about shopliftin’, Randy taught me more. Like how to work together, with one guy causin’ a distraction while the other guy loaded up. An’ how to walk right outta the store, lookin’ confident like oh hell yeah, sure I paid for it, so nobody would stop you to check for a receipt. He even taught me little things, like wearin’ sunglasses an’ ball caps to make it hard for somebody to recognize you, an’ wearin’ tennis shoes with cushy socks so you could run like hell if you had to. I always wore tennis shoes but never gave the sock thing much thought. Once I started wearin’ them I seen it made a big difference. Plus them shoes didn’t stink near as bad.

We got busy buildin’ our new business an’ it was gettin’ hard to hide stuff where nobody would find it. We mostly used spots behind stores what was out of business, figurin’ nobody would be nosin’ around them areas. We wrapped our loot in plastic an’ then stashed it inside old cardboard boxes. One time somebody stole the stuff we’d stashed behind a closed down dry cleanin’ place. It pissed us off because we worked hard to steal that stuff.

We knowed we needed somethin’ more secure. I said we should chat up old Sammy Darr, a feller I introduced to Randy already. His folks was killed in ’61 in a damn car wreck, an’ so he lived with his grandma. She was kinda frail and mostly never went outside. His grandpa died in ’58, but before that he ran his hobbies out of a big old’ shed in the back yard. The place was maybe fifteen by twenty foot, an’ had electric, a window air conditioner, an’ a space heater.

Sammy was a criminal his ownself so we all clicked real good. Randy asked could we rent that shed for our loot an’ Sammy said hell yeah. We worked out terms, which was basically Sammy got first pick of our stolen loot, long as it wasn’t no real big ticket item, in which case it was all negotiable. Also Sammy could help his ownself to smokes an’ rubbers when he needed them, although what need Sammy might have had for rubbers, or any of us for that matter back in ’63, was a question worth askin’.

We stole everythin’ we needed to fix up the shed, except the paint since that was real bulky, an’ so unfortunately we had to buy that. We painted the place an’ put up strong shelves. We built two tables and hung some florescent lights. There was two small windows in the shed, an’ one had the air conditioner in it. We nailed plywood over the other window from the inside. That way nobody could see inside or break in an’ steal our stolen loot. We put a big latch with a monster padlock on the door. Then we swore an oath under penalty of painful death to never tell nobody nothin’ about the shed.

Once we had our ownselves a base we centralized our loot in the shed. Then Randy showed us how to break in the rubber machines in gas station bathrooms. Them machines had built in locks, but they was puny, an’ Randy only needed a few seconds to trick them open with a little tool he fashioned from grindin’ down a nail file. So we’d ride around on our bikes from one gas station to the next an’ steal rubbers an’ cash. We checked a few of them gal’s bathrooms, but they didn’t have no rubber machines, an’ instead had these weird machines with sponges in them.

We took anythin’ what wasn’t tied down. We stole baseball cards, candy, smokes, rubbers, Zippo lighters, lighter fluid, cigars, pipes, an’ pipe tobacco. Back then most boys would smoke just about anythin’. We stole comic books, Playboys, booze, slingshots, jeans, hats, belts, wallets, an’ key chains. We stole nearly anythin’ a young boy could need.

Didn’t take long an’ we was knowed as the guys to go to for a lot of stuff. Our specialties was smokes an’ rubbers. We usually carried gym bags loaded up with product. We kept our prices low to build customer loyalty an’ increase volumes. The booze we didn’t drink our ownselves we sold for a real good price, because booze was real hard to come by. If we didn’t have what a guy needed on us we’d set up delivery for the next day. We even started takin’ special orders for loot we didn’t stock.

Back at school Randy learned quick. He hid them rubbers an’ cut back considerable on his lip. Time to time we all got whupped, wasn’t no way around that simple fact, an’ so we measured success by how long we went between gettin’ beat. Over time Randy got whupped less, but still more than anybody else.

We had recess after lunch. We’d eat an’ then run around an’ work off any energy that food gave us. In the afternoon we’d be so tired we wouldn’t give them penguins no crap. We’d sit there in a comatose state, susceptible to their brain washin’ about how great Catholics was, how we was the One True Church, an’ shit like that. I figured that’s why we had religion class right after lunch.

Most of us brought our lunches since we knowed the penguins put chemicals in the cafeteria food. We’d wolf down our food real fast an’ head out for recess. Most guys would play Indian ball or dodge ball, or sometimes the all time favorite beat the crap out of the younger kids. Most girls did whatever the hell girls did back then. None of us guys never figured that out since girls was mysterious critters at best. Seemed most what they did had a great deal to do with whisperin’ secrets an’ passin’ notes an’ gigglin’ an’ cryin’.

Me an’ Randy snuck off the playground most every day. Them penguins was real bad at keepin’ tabs on us prisoners, oops I mean students, so we’d walk around smokin’ cigarettes an’ bullshittin’. Maybe we’d shoplift a fresh pack of smokes. Sometimes we’d sneak into church an’ steal whatever was in the poor box. We always smelled like smoke comin’ in from recess an’ then we got whupped. They accused us of smokin’ on school property, which was ridiculous because we adhered to high moral principles an’ only smoked when we snuck off them school grounds.

We was in St. Thomas parish in Kirkwood, Missouri. Our parish was big enough we had three priests. See, a parish is basically a chunk of turf. Like the way gangs stake out several blocks of turf, well that’s how Catholics stake out a parish. The bigger the parish, the more priests you got, again, like a bigger chunk of turf is gonna be home to a bigger gang.

Our top dog priest had a fancy title like man senior or mongoose or somethin’ like that. I mumbled whenever I seen him so he wouldn’t get pissed at me for callin’ him the wrong thing. He was real old an’ fairly mean. We all avoided him because he was pulled in if we got in big trouble with them penguins. We knowed we shouldn’t piss him off any extra in advance of the next major penguin problem.

The number two priest was old, but he was okay because he never whupped us. The third priest was a young guy, maybe about 25, an’ we liked him good. He even shot hoops with us sometimes. It was in the news years later that dude was a damn pervert an’ sexually abused boys at our school. All the Catholic Church did about it was transfer his perverted ass someplace else. Then he did it again, an’ they did it again, over an’ over. He never gave me or my buddies any shit, so maybe we wasn’t givin’ off the vibes that pervert was lookin’ for.

Catholics had Masses down to a damn science. We had six masses on Sunday an’ three every other day. Priests ran the Masses, period. I never saw no penguins involved, except behind the scenes like cleanin’ up an’ preppin’ stuff, or maybe they’d arrange flowers an’ candles. But once the show started it was all priests and no penguins. It was a perfect case of brain washin’ them penguins to believe they was subordinate to the priests. Only priests could perform the sacraments, which was the holiest of holy things in the Catholic Church.

I always blended into the mainstream better than Randy, an’ true to form that school year I became an altar boy. Priests an’ penguins really liked us bein’ altar boys, which guaranteed Randy was never gonna be one. Altar boy duties was pretty basic, in that all we did was help them priests durin’ Masses. We usually had two altar boys per Mass an’ maybe three for a big Sunday Mass.

Altar boys also helped out at weddings and funerals. We was always hopin’ somebody would croak, didn’t really matter who, because funerals was always on school days. If you served a funeral Mass you got to miss some schoolin’. Some of them cemeteries was real far away, so for example if you got your ownself a 9:00 funeral Mass an’ a graveside ceremony at Calvary Cemetery up on West Florissant, you could kiss off half a day of schoolin’, easy. Weddings was different. They was usually on Saturdays, an’ nobody was sad or depressed except for the groom. On top of everythin’ else we got tips for weddings an’ funerals. The penguins said we should give them tips to the poor, so we learned to lie an’ say we put them in the poor box.

Altar boys see stuff from a different angle. For example, we knowed where the wine was stored. One time I stole a bottle an’ me an’ Randy ducked under the Harrison Avenue bridge by them railroad tracks. That was a great place to hang out, except them damn hobos hung out there too, an’ so sometimes the place smelled like stale pee. We chugged some wine an’ noticed it tasted nasty. Then Randy seen it was zero percent alcohol. Just then a freight train went by so I threw that bottle at a damn hobo what was sittin’ at the door of an open box car. I missed him but not by much, an’ the bottle busted an’ wine splashed on him. Last we seen of that damn hobo he was cussin’ us out real hard. Next time I was at church I checked an’ all the damn wine was non-alcoholic. I was never no bible expert but I’d bet a hundred bucks Jesus served his boys the real deal.

I was an altar boy in the seventh an’ eighth grades, which was the fall of ’63 through the spring of ’65. I never understood what was goin’ on in them Masses since everybody was talkin’ an’ singin’ in Latin. We was told Latin was a dead language, which meant nobody said nothin’ in Latin except at Mass. None of that made no damn sense to me. When I asked about it them penguins said that was just the way it was. One thing for sure, ain’t no reasonin’ with no damn penguins when they set their minds on somethin’. So the priest would prattle on in Latin, an’ for all I knowed he was givin’ us the ball game scores, an’ I’d just daydream until it was time for me to do somethin’.

We got drilled into our young brains how bad it was to have impure thoughts. That made confession take a lot longer because me an’ my buddies was havin’ tons of impure thoughts, an’ all the time. We had to spill our guts to them priests an’ got fistfuls of extra Our Fathers an’ Hail Marys to square things back up with God His Ownself.

If them priests and penguins wanted us boys to avoid them impure thoughts then they shouldn’t have parked our young asses up on that altar. For starters, there was lots of down time durin’ them Masses. Like when the priest gave the ball game scores in Latin. Or when everybody took a nap durin’ them sermons. That gave us plenty of time to fantasize about screwin’ them girls in the constipation or congestion or conflagration or whatever it was called.

Everybody got a snack after the priest turned the wine into blood and the bread into flesh. Back then only the priest drank blood, but everybody ate flesh. We called the flesh wafers. Not like vanilla wafers, which woulda tasted good. Our wafers was real thin an’ didn’t taste like nothin’. Anyhow, at snack time people went up to the communion railin’ an’ knelt down. Me an’ the priest would work the crowd an’ feed them flesh. I carried a round tray attached to a pole. I held it under people’s mouths as the priest popped chunks of flesh in their mouths, an’ only one chunk to a customer please, since more than one woulda made a person so holy they’d float off someplace. My job was to catch any flesh what didn’t make it from the priest’s fingers to the hungry person’s mouth, an’ my young reflexes saved the day more than once for sure. Wasn’t never no flesh hit the turf on my watch. On Sundays them crowds was big but polite, somewhat like the paparazzi but without the sneakin’ an’ cameras an’ lights an’ yellin’ an’ high speed chases an’ confrontations an’ lawsuits.

So we’d go down the line, an’ when we was done we’d hustle our ownselves back to where we started, an’ do it all over again, until there wasn’t no hungry people left. After doin’ that for five seconds it was a no brainer, an’ my mind wandered.

So I’d start with whoever was in the conflagration, an’ mentally toss out the guys an’ the real old an’ real young an’ real ugly gals. Then from what was left I tossed out the ones I knowed an’ hated, which for me was a shitload. Now if you’re still with me on this particular line of thinkin’, you can see there was, in a typical Sunday conflagration, a fair number of good lookin’ gals. An’ on Sundays gals could wear whatever they wanted, includin’ makeup an’ perfume. Don’t take no rocket scientist to see there was plenty of gals my able bodied altar boy ass fantasized about screwin’.

Even better, some of them gals wore low cut dresses. I don’t mean like we could see their boobs, but we got a good look. Since we was standin’ up, an’ they was kneelin’ down, we had a fine view. I’d sneak a peek at the priest when we had us a nice view. I did it real sneaky like, only dartin’ my eyeballs over for a second. Every damn time, no matter which priest was dishin’ up flesh, he was lookin’ down the gal’s dress. Seemed regular to me. After all, how could a man not look, unless he was gay, but back then I didn’t know jack squat about gay stuff.

So I reasoned it out as follows. If them impure thoughts was bad, an’ if bein’ an altar boy was good, how come us altar boys was starin’ down into them ripe bosoms all the time? Followin’ that logic, them boobs was real, an’ them impure thinkin’ rules was abstract. I’ll go with reality over abstract most any day, so I concluded impure thoughts was very, very good. Plus, I figured them virgin priests an’ penguins was the last ones I’d count on for advice about anythin’ sexual. I decided them impure thoughts was so good I started leavin’ them out of my confessions, an’ then I was in and out of that confessional booth real fast.

I remember one gal in particular, Mrs. Green. She lived behind Scott Tompkins, who was a good buddy. Mrs. Green was maybe 30, good lookin’ considerin’ she was an’ old lady, an’ had unreal large bosoms. I knowed that last part because she always wore somethin’ low cut to them Masses. Me, Randy, an’ Sammy was in Scott’s backyard one Saturday, tossin’ around a football, when we seen Mrs. Green waterin’ the plants on her back porch. That got our attention primarily because Mrs. Green was buck ass nekkid. She bent over a few times, givin’ us a great view from the front an’ back, an’ then went back inside.

We huddled up because somethin’ incredibly important had just happened in our young lives. A full growed woman, who just happened to have a killer bod and magnificent bosoms, had just flashed us. That was the stuff legends was made of, an’ Scott’s back yard became the most popular place to hang out in the whole damn city.

I seen Mrs. Green the next day at Mass. I was an altar boy an’ at communion time she came up for some flesh. She wasn’t wearin’ no bra an’ the view was better than ever. She winked an’ gave me a sly smile after she got her snack. Good think I was young or for sure I woulda had me a heart attack on the spot.

We never saw her naked again. Scott claimed she flashed him when he was in the backyard by his ownself, but we all figured he was bullshittin’. She kept wearin’ them low cut dresses to Mass, an’ she was the perennial favorite flesh eater of all them altar boys.

Chapter 2 - Bombs an’ Hobos

Durin’ ’64 we started hearin’ a lot about a skinny strip of jungle called Vietnam. Them nice people down south was bein’ attacked by them commie bastards up north. Our government was righteous an’ sent military advisors to help them southerners. Then on August 5 of ’64 Johnson told Congress them commie bastards attacked U.S. naval vessels in international waters. Congress wasn’t gonna take no shit off them commies, so they passed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution on August 7. Then Johnson got busy ratchetin’ up the war, an’ by the end of ’64 we had 400 dead over there. Turned out most of that attack talk was pure bullshit fabricated by a lyin’ Johnson administration, which was all a bunch of damn Democrats by the way.

Back home them fireworks stands started goin’ up in June. We knowed that meant it was once again time to blow some shit up. For us the Fourth of July was the second, maybe third biggest holiday of the year. No question Christmas was tops since you got your ownself free presents. We had an ongoin’ debate if the number two spot rightly belonged to the Fourth of July or Halloween. It was free candy versus blowin’ up shit.

Everybody saved their coinage for fireworks. We stocked up as much as our budgets could handle. Nobody around St. Louis carried cherry bombs or M-80s because they was so damn powerful. Seemed about once a year some damn fool lost a finger, or maybe blowed out an eyeball. But they was still sold down in southern Missouri, an’ we knowed a boy what bought them for us when his family went down there.

We spent our money on cherry bombs an’ M-80s, an’ then we rode out bikes down to Valley Park late one night to steal everything else. We found a fireworks tent where the security man was asleep in his car, so we crawled in the back an’ loaded up with so much loot we couldn’t hardly carry it all. What we didn’t need we sold to our buddies.

We had the usual fun blowin’ things up an’ havin’ bottle rocket an’ roman candle wars with other kids in the neighborhood. Randy turned me on to Jet-X fuse, high quality stuff them model rocket people used. It came in long strings an’ we experimented to figure out how long a chunk we needed for different burn times. We’d stick some Jet-X on our crackers or cherry bombs or M-80s, fire it up, an’ get the hell outta there.

I think we was inspired by our government killin’ them commies because we set up a bomb makin’ facility in the shed in June of ‘64. We harvested gunpowder from crackers since no way we was gonna sacrifice no cherry bombs or M-80s. Took forever to get much gunpowder but we was finally able to fill up two of them empty CO2 cartridges. We added a length of Jet-X fuse, sealed them with some tape, an’ bingo, we had our ownselves two bombs.

We went over to the field by the railroad tracks an’ stuck one in a big old ant hill. We played out a foot of Jet-X fuse, fired it up, an’ ducked down behind a big stump. All that damn bomb did was fizzle. It musta bin the world’s biggest sparkler, an’ put out a shitload of smoke, but we didn’t get no bang. We let that smoke clear an’ then checked our bomb. The aluminum melted so we knowed we got some good heat. It rolled around an’ fried plenty of ants, but replacements was already swarmin’ outta that damn ant hill.

We knowed we had two problems. We didn’t blow up the ant hill, which technically wasn’t a problem but was a big disappointment. The real problem was that the damn bomb didn’t blow up. The followin’ Saturday we hit the Kirkwood library to do some official bomb research.

We was workin’ the card catalog when some 100 year old librarian staggered over an’ asked did we need help. It was real clear she was checkin’ us out an’ had no intention of helpin’ us. We put on our innocent young boy faces.

Randy said, No ma’am, thanks very much. We’re working on a school assignment and we’re supposed to use the card catalog to find some books on our own.

The ancient one looked surprised. That’s very admirable, young man. Let me know if you need some help.

I grinned at Randy after she hobbled away. He winked an’ we dug back in them card files. We done good for a couple of boys what avoided the library at all costs. We found a few impressive lookin’ books an’ hauled them over to a table in the readin’ section.

We was sittin’ there readin’ an’ all sudden like Randy says, Pressure!

Why hell yeah Randy, I feel some pressure to figure this out, but it ain’t no big deal. We got plenty of time, an’ we’re a couple of smart guys, so all we gotta do is dig a little bit.

Pete, damn it, we need pressure.

I chewed on that one, an’ tell the truth it annoyed me some, his gettin’ on my ass like that. As I talked my voice got louder.

I don’t need no more pressure besides what I already got! I personally think we’re handlin’ this situation pretty damn good! Ain’t gonna help one damn bit your puttin’ more pressure on me!

Some different librarian, she was maybe 150 years old, appeared outta nowhere an’ told me to shut up. Randy was usin’ a rubber as a bookmark, but he flipped some pages before she seen it. I slipped into my shamed young boy look.

Ma’am I’m real sorry. I was so fascinated with this here interestin’ book I plum forgot I was in the library. I promise it won’t happen no more.

She