The Boston Ranter

By Derek Robinson

This autobiographical novella was inspired by my life growing up outside of Boston. Comedic, dramatic and quite revealing; this latest title will truly show why I am the raving lunatic I am today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derek Robinson
• Release date: Aug 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516390694

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Woods, Madness, and Freedom

The woods – The fuhkin woods. A lot of shit happened in those restless woods. Just behind my second floor apartment #20, I found refuge within the enriched, mystical woods often, enjoying the shelter and mystery that lie within its plush confines.

Crazy the woods were with remnants of old vintage, decrypted wagons from much earlier times spread across its soft pine needle floor, a hill referred to as Fuhker’s Hill, where teens went to smoke the whacky tabacy to fornicate briefly, and a shitload of horse bones, which we kids speculated were ancient dinosaur bones. So many times, I would journey within the woods, investigating, looking for answers to the mystery within myself and my intriguing surroundings.

Hey. Let’s go in the woods and play hide and seek, laser tag, find salamanders to capture to have salamander wrestling matches," and let’s hope the camouflaged demons we are unaware of don’t have their way with us.

It was one day on a sunny Saturday afternoon when two young, but older boys said they rose up from the wood’s floor and came to control us.

Fuhk you, I screamed at them, but they were quite convincing.

They said they came from below, but I knew that was bullshit because I took my rigor mortis-laced, twenty-pound former pet rabbit Thumper into the middle of the woods to bury him and the ground didn’t fuhkin budge!

Fuhk you, I screamed again inside my racing mind. I was terrified that these humanoids potentially did rise up from below.

At a young age, I would wander down to the base of the woods, looking out, contemplating heavy thoughts a child should not be contemplating. Suddenly, I felt myself going into a panic attack, wondering what happens when we truly pass and move to THE OTHER SIDE. Then there were the occasional fires started in the woods; fires started by an unknown pyromaniac who got off watching the entrancing, aggressive orange creation they created ravage the once healthy green all around.

I was once accused of starting the occasional fires, having to go down and explain to the firefighters I did not start the fire. I was let go and suddenly started to piece together there was a specific twisted Fuhk who was doing this. He was never convicted, but I knew him well.

To the winter, where deep within the still, but much alive night, the woods were the most beautiful. Quiet, immensely peaceful, hypnotically radiating the soft moonlight off its temporary snowy identity. This was a situation of solace, where I could let go of all, feeling victorious that I was happy for a moment or two.

Spring arrived, and out in the woods, we found some worn twine and the best sticks and branches available, tying them to massive pine trees, referring to them as Sexy Bodies. Days passed before most of the sexy bodies were set free, as we would occasionally spot a lurking serpent, and a terrifying trail of peanut shells left upon the pine-needle-laced forest floor by a phantom we could visualize, but never physically saw. Every path brings a new beginning.

Chapter 2

BU Picnic

So, my Dad was a piano man, singer, professional hedonist, and part of a band called Five all Night. Every summer, my dad and his band would play the Boston University Picnic somewhere in the middle of East BumFuck.

There were swimming pools, volleyball games, basketball games, all-you-could-eat grills serving an obscene amount of hot dogs, sausages, and burgers, and to boot, relay races where you could be the winner of a shiny Susan B. Anthony dollah coin.

The first time I arrived at the BU Picnic, I was introduced to a Bostonian politician that was middle-aged and extremely pleasant with glasses. Even though my dad forewarned me, I reached for the pleasant man’s wrong hand, realizing his right hand was demonic-doll tiny nub. I felt horribly fucked up and outta place, like the first time I went to Fenway Pahk to see a Soxs game and had to piss in that huge, fuhkin urinal with my little turkey dick around a bunch of grown men; Stay with me.

So, my Dad and his wicked awesome band start to play their numbers and I went about my way and gorged myself on picnic food of the gods, roaming around like an unrestrained lunatic that just broke out of a mental institution and was free for an hour or two.

Yeah, this is the shit, I thought to myself as the band finished off its first set to a barrage of beer-drunk genuine applause.

Dad? I was looking for my dad and his ultimate sidekick/attorney, who later inspired me to play guitar. But they were nowhere to be found. The rest of the band was chatting with family and friends, as I hung low and waited to see when my dad and his best friend would arrive back. Time progressed and, finally, after some growing concern from fellow band members, my dad and his Austrian-Italian sidekick stumbled back rattled, laced with infested gobs of fresh swamp. Nothing was said, but the looks of concern and disbelief upon the rest of Five all Night band members’ faces was evident. THE SHOW MUST FUHKIN GO ON!!!

Set two was a little rough to start, but smoothed out fine. The day was a hit and everything went amazing the rest of the way, except for this Johnny Fever impersonator between sets two and three that wanted to kick my dad’s ass because he was trying to do his lady.

On the way home, my Dad was kind of silent and I wanted to ask what happened to him and his buddy, but kept the thought to myself. Had they been accosted by The Creature of the Black Lagoon or some weird shit out in the swamp during their intermission? I imaginatively wondered.

Later on, my Dad began to tell me Crazy Shit He Did Stories. He told me that he and his ultimate buddy had taken a break and gone out in the distance to smoke some Red Thread at the end of the first set. After about ten minutes or so, they were deep into the wilderness and had no clue how to get back to the band stage. Panicked, my dad and his faithful Austrian-Italian sidekick argued back and forth, telling each other they knew the way back, until they desperately decided to head the opposite direction and end up in a fuhkin swamp. Through all of the madness, they somehow by the miracle of ______, found their way back to perform the second set, an hour and fifteen minutes late. I got to go to several more BU Picnics, but nothing