Well Hung

By Matthew Querzoli

Marcus Fletcher is not special. His friends are not special (unless you count having a heavily tanned ginger friend special). His family collectively shares the sentiment that he is not special, and constantly reminds him of this fact.

Poor Marcus Fletcher. He is nearing the end of high school, and the girl he has liked for two years is still going out with the same idiotic bully. He has no idea what he wants to do when he graduates. No career prospects, no passions - no bloody idea.

So when one of his mates offers him some cocaine to take the edge off, why would he say no?

It turns out that there is an enormous reason why he should've said no.

Or maybe not?

-----------------

"A festering turd of a novel. I can't believe I am related to this weirdo." - Brad Querzoli - brother, rapper, not a book reviewer

"My cat Sammie could write better than you. Also, do you think I should buy this hat? It's on sale." - Alie Bradley - girlfriend and self-proclaimed shopaholic

"Yeah, it's ok." - Kenny Lau - friend, diasppointing non-lover of beer

"The new John Green. But without the metaphors. And with more nudity." - Harry Russell - ex gay-lover, confirmed subject of James Blunt's hit song 'You're Beautiful'

"I'm a vegan. I could eat this book." - Connor Rancan - BFF, previous omnivore, master photographer

"Higher octane drama, greater suspense and contains more ethical teachings than the Bible." - Ryan Macquart - friend, atheist, nerd

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Querzoli
• Release date: Apr 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311811110

Matthew Querzoli

I'm currently holding onto my teen years, although soon they will be behind me. I live in Sydney, Australia and have so far survived all of the deadly animals that live here. I own and operate www.yourbeleaf.com, love reading, getting drunk, posting funny Snapchats, playing footy and am currently doing something I've always wanted to do - which is to write a book. Hopefully, there will be many more.

Book preview

Well Hung

Copyright 2015 Matthew Querzoli

Published by Matthew Querzoli at Smashwords

Cover image copyright 2015 Kimberly Luo

A festering turd of a novel. I can't believe I am related to this weirdo. - Brad Querzoli - brother, rapper, not a book reviewer

My cat Sammie could write better than you. Also, do you think I should buy this hat? It's on sale. - Alie Bradley - girlfriend and self-proclaimed shopaholic

Yeah, it's ok. - Kenny Lau - friend, disappointing non-lover of beer

The new John Green. But without the metaphors. And with more nudity. - Harry Russell - ex gay-lover, confirmed subject of James Blunt's hit song 'You're Beautiful'

I'm a vegan. I could eat this book. - Connor Rancan - BFF, previous omnivore, master photographer

Higher octane drama, greater suspense and contains more ethical teachings than the Bible. - Ryan Macquart - friend, atheist, nerd

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 enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

Ah, acknowledgments. I’ve never written one of these before. Where do I begin? First and foremost, I would like to thank anyone who actually reads this book. I understand that you might have been a bit perturbed by the cover, the connotations of the title, the reviews and what not, but thanks for sticking around and giving it a go. To my mates, of whom most of the characters are based, thanks for been ‘da boyz.’ I’ll take you all to Vegas if this book cracks sales like Fifty Shades. To my family, particularly Mother and Father Q, cheers for reading the book and not instantly checking me into a mental asylum. To my brothers, thanks for making me look like the favourite child. If you’re into rap, dear reader, check out Rapture and their forthcoming EP, Suffering Success. Thanks to my girlfriend Alie for introducing me to Crust Pizza and simultaneously being an all round great girlfriend and pillar of support. Thanks to my university mates, especially those who have supplied much needed code for assignments/weekly labs (you know who you are). Who else? Hmmm…the womb buddies, Violent Soho, Lisa Ann, the Northies crew, Southern Power AFC, the extended family (those in Sydney and Adelaide) and anyone else I’ve come into contact that make life bloody great.

Dedicated to the Quidditch Crew, for without your banter and generally disturbing antics, this book would not be here and my grip would not be so ironclad.

Chapter 1

Marcus hadn’t the faintest idea why he bothered going to school five days a week. It wasn’t like each new day was any different, really. Just the constant repetition of walking through the gates, into class, then into another class, then recess, then two more classes, then lunch and – you guessed it – another two classes.

Even the scenery didn’t change that much. Well, now that he thought about it, maybe it didn’t change because he always had his eyes on one thing.

Rachel Summers. Well, more precisely, the back of Rachel Summers’ head. A mane of blond that shimmered and seemed to glow in the depressingly low-lit classroom.

There were exactly fifty shades of blond in her hair. Marcus had counted them all. He wondered sometimes what it would be like to write a book about them. Fifty Shades of Blond. But, then again, the interest for the book may not extend past his own use. It’s not like there is a big market for people looking to find stories on the several different shades of blond that make up the hair of one girl in south Sydney. No. There is a much bigger market for shades of a different colour, namely grey. People are much more interested in sex, and it is also the one of the many things he hadn’t experienced yet.

Yes, poor Marcus Fletcher was still a holder of the V-cards, un-boned and not too happy about it. But that’s not all, no; Marcus was still un-kissed by anyone except for his Mum. And even that hadn’t happened since his prissy little sister was born.

But being un-boned and un-kissed wasn’t really his problem that early Friday afternoon. No, what bothered Marcus was the fact that they were only five minutes into a fifty-minute Math’s class. Mrs Johnson (inherently dubbed Mrs Johnno by the intellectual bogans that made up Year 12) was up the front, writing the heading for the topic they were covering that lesson.

As Johnno’s hand moved across the whiteboard, it revealed a word so boring that Marcus found it difficult to avoid falling straight into a coma. Derivatives.

Almost as soon at Johnno wrote the word, Alex MacKenzie immediately said the most appropriate thing ever to be said when the derivatives topic is introduced to a Year 12 Math’s class, Oh, get fucked!

As the whole class erupted in laughter, Mrs Johnno did the only thing a teacher could do under the circumstances. Throwing her whiteboard marker with poor accuracy at Alex, she yelled, Go to the Principal Teller’s office now and tell him what you said!

With a grin, Alex stood and, taking his bag, he slouched off to the door. Walking out into the corridor, his voice echoed back to the class, At least I don’t have to do derivatives! There was no laughter this time, as everyone was now resigned to the fact that they still had to complete the lesson.

And so, with a heavy heart, Marcus and the rest of the class plodded along with the e’s, the x’s, the graphs, the f’(x) and the f’’(x) until the blessed bell saved them all. After pretending to copy down the homework, Marcus stood and let the wave of students carry him out the door and up to the front gate.

Looking over the heads of the student throng, Marcus spied Jimmy, one of his best mates. Short and stocky, Jim was a thick bloke, both mentally and physically. His arms were like tree trunks that sprouted from his wide shoulders, each only about half the thickness of his legs. Apart from being theoretically useful in a fight, Jimmy’s thick arms brought the attention away from his head, which was a mass of red hair and freckles. But despite this obviously infliction of gingerness, Jimmy had the most tanned skin of anyone Marcus had ever seen. He was about as close to a black ginger as you’d ever get. This was a fact that made Jimmy think that he had the very best genetics of anyone who’d ever lived. At parties (the very limited ones they got invited to), Jimmy would try to hook up with girls using his one-of-a-kind gene pool as leverage.

Hey baby, want to hook up with the only black ginger in the world? he’d say, before getting told that 1) He wasn’t black and 2) If he wasn’t black, then he was definitely ginger. And, as everyone knows, hooking up with a ginger puts both your reputation and soul at risk. Poor Jimmy.

But having not being rejected by any girls today, Jimmy had a big grin on his face as Marcus stepped towards him, ducking and weaving through the crowd of hormonal teenagers.

Mate! How are ya? asked Jimmy.

Looking at Jimmy as if just he’d quoted Hamlet to him, Marcus sarcastically replied, Oh, just swell mate. Couldn’t be better. Maths is, and remains to be, my favourite subject.

C’mon mate, there’s no need to be so harsh on the numbers, because it’s Friday! a grinning Jimmy replied.

Spreading his arms wide, interrupting the walking paths of many surrounding students, Marcus couldn’t help but smile. You’re right mate. Let’s go find the other boys and get out of here. But before they could, someone grabbed his arm and twisted it hard behind his back. Marcus gasped as he felt his tendons scream in pain, while a fantastically uneducated voice crept over his shoulder, Fuck ‘ou doon mayte?

Trying to ignore the pain, Marcus wracked his brains to try and figure out what in the hell he was just asked. Was it ‘Fuck ew dune mate?’ or was it ‘Fuck you doing mate?’ This was the hardest thing about being bullied by Kurt Coleman. It wasn’t trying to avoid getting hit or abused the first time, it was trying to figure out what he was saying as to avoid provoking him a second time.

The problem was, with Kurt’s sub 10 IQ, it may have actually been ‘Fuck ew dune mate?’ over ‘Fuck you doing mate?’ After considering his options, and the fact that Kurt’s brain may have been sufficiently warmed up enough from a hard day at school, Marcus gritted his teeth and replied to the second option, Just stretching my arms Kurt. I’m sorry that they got in your way.

Marcus tensed, waiting for the pressure to increase on his arm, before Kurt gave an unintelligent grunt and let him go. Rubbing his shoulder, Marcus glared at Kurt and his friends as they lumbered off, sniggering to each other. To make matters worse, Marcus spied the Fifty-Shades-of-Blond Rachel striding towards Kurt, giving him a big kiss and wrapping her arms around his waist. Kurt’s left hand immediately found her ass and gave it a squeeze. This elicited an uncomfortable face from Rachel, but she didn’t object as Kurt guided her bum and subsequently her body towards his car. Suddenly, Marcus didn’t care whether it was Friday or not. It was just another shitty day in his shitty life.

Jimmy attempted to cheer him up, apologising for not stepping in, promising he’d do it next time, and explaining in highly specific detail how Kurt’s mum must have mated with a sloth in order to explain his mental deficiencies. Still nursing his shoulder, Marcus just nodded silently, and let Jimmy guide him off to the car.

Chapter 2

I’D TAP THAT! screamed a euphoric Muzz as they tore up the street, away from the school, in Jarrah’s sensationally crappy Holden Kingswood. The girl who Muzz had been yelling at instantly gave him the bird, which only made Muzz yell back, I KNOW WHERE YOU CAN PUT THAT FINGER – RIGHT UP MY----

SHUT UP YOU DICKHEAD! yelled Jimmy, reaching his arms over the front seat and clamped his hands on Muzz’s face before he could say anymore. Marcus was killing himself laughing. Jarrah could only concentrate on getting away faster, as Jimmy exclaimed, Why does this happen every time Muzz? Even if you were a pornstar, or your future girlfriend was a nympho, you could never get enough action to sate your sexual appetite.

Still chuckling, Marcus said, Yeah…let’s wait until he actually does lose his V-cards. Then we’ll see whether or not his appetite is as large as they say.

Mate, I don’t need to have lost my V-cards in order to know that I have the sexual appetite of Ron Jeremy, grinned Muzz.

Still grinning, Muzz unzipped his bag and pulled out four VB longnecks, chucking two out the back to Marcus and Jimmy, who caught then with ease. Twisting off his cap with well-practiced grace, Muzz turned, lifting his beer in the air and toasted the weekend, Here’s to freedom boys! Downing half of his beer in one go, Muzz burped loudly in Jarrah’s face and started to tempt him with a drink despite the risk of Jarrah losing his license if caught.

Jimmy took a couple of long swigs, while Marcus smiled and had a sip. Muzz was one weird kid. It was funny how the only child of a lovely, devout Muslim couple be the heaviest drinker, smoker and porn watcher of them all. It wasn’t a genetic trait, no. Small, wiry, hairy Muzz had just woken up at the ripe old age of 16 and decided to live life to the fullest. Before that he’d been very religious and morally upstanding – destined to be an imam or a doctor. But as he said on that fateful day, I just can’t be buggered. And so, with that, ‘Muhammad Hashmi’ transformed into the ‘Muzz’. Or, as he was know by the girls, the ‘creepy, horny terrorist.’ As Muzz had become acutely aware, apart from an overwhelming obsession with selfies, Australian girls were very good at picking up stereotypes and running with them. Not that Muzz minded, of course. He knew that one day his dark, handsome, Arabic features (as he put them) would be enough to ensnare at least one girl. Or, as he proclaimed constantly, he could always go for an arranged marriage, like his parents wanted him to.

Jarrah had dark features of another kind. He was a quarter Aboriginal and had never let anyone forget it. Marcus, Jimmy and Muzz were constantly telling him that despite the atrocities committed against the Aboriginals, Jarrah had experienced none of them and he actually lived quite a privileged existence. That’s how he was able to afford the car. He got a free ride through school, extra bonus points for his ATAR, an allowance from the government each week and free dental and hospital cover, just to scratch the surface. On top of that, both his parents were very successful; his father helped run a mining company that operated out of the Pilbara and his mother was a partner at a big law firm in town. With these traits, and gifted with a round cheerful face and an athletic body, Jarrah was quite a bit more successful pulling women than the rest of them. Although he too hadn’t lost his V-cards, he was definitely closer than the rest of them.

Jarrah opened the throttle as they tore down Burraneer Bay Road. As he accelerated past a pensioner in a Toyota as they came out of the school zone, Jarrah asked, So, my house today boys?

Oath, mate. Unless your parents are home? Marcus queried.

Na, both Mum and Dad are up in the Pilbara, Jarrah replied, signaling left at the round about as they approached his house.

Satisfied, they all took a swig of beer – even Jarrah had a quick sip – as they pulled into his quiet street. Jarrah drove about halfway down before pulling into his driveway. Stopping up at the top, he parked the car and popped the boot. The boys all piled out, laughing and mucking around.

Marcus grabbed his bag out of the back and walked up to the door. Finishing the rest of his beer, he waited for Jarrah to unlock the door to lead them all in. The door swung open and everyone went inside. Walking past the kitchen to the backyard door, they all stopped as they saw who sat at the kitchen bench. Jarrah didn’t see them all stop and ran straight into the back of Jimmy, making him drop his beer.

You’d better clean that up before Mum and Dad get home, drawled Jarrah’s younger sister, Margaret, before she spooned some more cereal into her mouth. Like Jarrah, she had quite an athletic build, a nice face, but was more often than not, as Jarrah liked to put it, a right little shit.

Moving around Jimmy to grab some paper towels, Jarrah sarcastically replied, Yes Marge. I’m sure I’ll be able to clean a beer spill up before Mum and Dad get home, looking at his watch, in seventy-four hours.

I’m just saying, Margaret shrugged, returning her full attention to her cereal. Looking at each other, Marcus and the others slowly walked past her and out into the backyard.

Chapter 3

The boys all tramped out into Jarrah’s backyard and immediately headed towards The Shed.

This was Jarrah’s man cave. A place where his parents and sister didn’t dare enter. A place that occasionally seeped smoke, loud noise and always smelt like the malicious, yet strangely comforting odour of BO and pot.

Jarrah opened the door and they all filed in. Throwing his bag in the corner, Marcus took in the surroundings.

A cosy little den, The Shed was a four metre by four metre cube. There was no floor to be seen – all of it was covered in dirty mattresses and beanbags that they’d found in council clean up piles around the neighborhood. A large 50-inch flat screen stood proudly in one corner, with an Xbox attached. In the opposite corner, a crappy old fridge sat, constantly humming a deep sound – as if Nick Cave had taken permanent refuge. The Shed was illuminated by only one globe hanging in the middle of the room, throwing light over the empty chip packets, beer bottles and one and a half homemade bongs.

Bouncing off the mattresses, Muzz immediately went for bong that was still intact.

Muzz, you have a problem, tutted Jimmy, as he himself made a beeline for the fridge.

But my problem is feasibly fixable. Your head, on the other hand, would take at least three million dollars to get it surgically changed. And that’s just for your hair, Muzz retorted, one hand holding the bong and the other reaching deep into his school bag.

Giving him the bird, Jimmy buried his blushing head in the fridge, his eyes searching for some beer. Marcus and Jimmy, laughing at Muzz’s banter, flopped onto some beanbags and kicked off their shoes.

As Muzz pulled out a bag of weed, Jimmy grabbed some tinnies and chucked one each at Jarrah and Marcus.

Twisting it open, Jarrah took a swig and said, "Now, boys, are we going to Maggie’s party tomorrow? I know for a fact that Jen