Becoming an Asshole

By Louis John Francis

In a dark and twisted world, a guy tries to have a little fun and do the right thing; his rewards are a broken soul, a destroyed body, and the ravages of poverty.

Growing up in the backcountry of America, a boy with a little too much freedom honed his questionable skills-training with guns, knives, sneaking around at night and haphazardly chasing girls.

Looking for a quick buck and a whole lot of fun, he found himself looking into the darkness and straight into the maw of adventure. Little did he know, but his choices brought him to the edges of evil. In a world full of assholes (including himself),
he finds humor, titties and bags full of shit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Louis John Francis
• Release date: Sep 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223661399

Book preview

Chapter 1

Yowl

A yowl drifted over the tops of the crisp, Afghan grasses. A black blowfly settled on my cheek, but I resisted the urge to reach up and swat it away, all my attention on the disturbance. 

Fuck flies. Fuck everything. And what the fuck was that fucking noise?

The sound was abnormal, disturbingly close— a claw tearing at the primal parts of my brain. A sound, any sound beyond those of nature, likely meant harm to me or my team.

I was well-concealed, lying in thigh-high yellow grass in front of a row of trees, my body masked by the overhanging foliage. My team was more than a minute away, so if this locate and detain operation went haywire, I was on my own. But I had to find the source of the noise.

The dry grass rattled as I crawled forward.

Leaving a protected position is how motherfuckers get killed. Quick, dead, and in a hurry. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be one of the stupid ones, the ones my team chided in death.

A puddle of sweat pooled on my back as I belly crawled through the grass like a tan-colored banana slug. The weight of my body armor, water, hundreds of rounds of ammunition, and Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW) normally was a pain in the dick when I moved, but I barely noticed. Instead, my attention was drawn by a bitter scent like that of hot piss.

I moved aside a bunch of grass. A cardboard box came into view. Its sides were dark, soaked. Careful not to stand, I edged toward it and peered inside. A mound of puppies wriggled about, blindly searching for their mother—help they would never find. They would find only me, a contractor with nothing to provide but death.

I wanted to hold and console each one, but I couldn’t let these little creatures suffer.

I lay my SAW on the ground and drew out my knife.

I steeled myself. In killing them, I could give them respite from the horror that would come from dying in the sweltering heat, alone. No innocent deserved to die as they would. Compared to nature’s way, my actions were a gift.

Suffering should be left to the wicked.

Chapter 2

Wicked

My journey to becoming one of the wicked started the moment I was born. I was orphaned at less than six months old, left like the puppies to rot in the sun—death by neglect—had it not been for my adoptive parents. 

Okay, maybe I wasn’t like the goddamned puppies—I wasn’t nearly as cute. Rather, I was given up for adoption when I was a few weeks old, a misfit in my young, unprepared, biological parents’ life. 

It takes special people to adopt a child, and especially when it’s two—my sister and me. Those same people are even more incredible for not returning the troublesome little male bastard switched out for the loving child they were obviously shown first. My parents just happen to be that kind of people. Mom likes to tell a story that when they saw my chubbiness for the first time, they fell in love. After seeing some baby pictures I can see why. I was adorable. Now, not so much.

When I was a baby, Mom took me into the grocery store to buy the usual massive quantities of baby food and diapers, and while we stood in line at the checkout, one of the ladies nearby took one look at me and said, Good God, lady, put your kid down and make him walk.

Mom, a bit put off, said, He's only six months old. 

She’s always been my greatest advocate, even if I think she should have left me in a hot summer car with the windows rolled up.

In addition to the greatest mother and father a cherubic boy could ask for, I was also blessed with two sets of loving and supportive grandparents. Both sets lived long enough to see me grow into an adult. I could not have asked for better elders. Mom's parents were German, and my dad’s were Italian straight from the Old Country, getting off the boat on Ellis Island.

As expected, the Germans were…well, German. They were strict, followed the rules, worked hard, Depression-era survivors, blah, blah. My wop grandparents were diametrically opposite. Both Gram and Gramps would sneak us candy and cash when Mom and Pops weren’t paying attention. 

I loved it all as much as any boy could.

When I got old enough to poop on my own and do an acceptable job of cleaning myself, I was allowed to hang out with my German grandparents at their sand and gravel business. The place was a large lot filled with tons of sand, gravel, and construction equipment. The air was always thick from the dust of freshly crushed rock mixed with the fumes of diesel fuel and oil.

The men who worked there were always nice, probably because I was the boss's grandson. I was blissfully unaware they were paid to be my friends. My friends always let me do stuff that got me into trouble—playing in the oil or smashing things with hammers. In fact, they were always ready to give me more ideas about what I could be doing. Those bastards.

My pops was also employed by Gram and Gramp, and life couldn’t have gotten any sweeter.

When I wasn’t getting into trouble, my grandparents would give me menial tasks like pulling weeds or hauling firewood. My all-time favorite chores were anything that required a shovel or hammer—just like I’d seen Gramp or Pops use. I was always trying to impress the older folk with my ability to wield the tools of their trade. Whether it was digging a hole or smashing an object with a hammer, I always aimed to please. 

I can still hear my Gramps chuckle and say, That sure is a nice hole or You sure did smash that. 

I had been watching Gramps holding a horse, rope around its neck, when the silly critter tried to run. Like lightning, Gramp smacked that sum bitch—five across the eye. The horse's head jerked back, eyes rolling white as his body stiffened, and he stopped moving. I'm not sure who was more taken aback, me or the wanton escapee. A minute after the event, Gramps gently petted the daffy stooge on his head while baby talking to him. This demand for respect and adhering to rules should have acted as a clue for me, but I’ve always been a slow learner.

One rainy, dark day, I was at Gram and Gramps’ while the ‘rents went shopping. Being a precocious boy, I always found puddles and mud great fun, and this day was no exception.

My grandfather was working on some project in the garage, leaving me to my own devices. Bored with simply wallowing in the mud, I began digging in a small chunk of the yard with one of my grandfather’s small shovels. Having previously destroyed a part of the yard, I was allowed to dig in only one particular spot. I was content to stay in my zone of influence, mixing dirt with the rain and flinging it everywhere. I was completely covered in mud, not minding it a bit.

I stopped my digging as a massive earthworm crossed the sidewalk. This one was gigantic, the size of an adult female anaconda. Using the shovel, I started chopping up this defenseless creature. I didn't think anything about it as I happily whacked away.

Then my massive German grandfather walked out of the garage and saw me. 

He went white, and every muscle in his weathered face tightened like a Japanese Kodo drum. His shoulders, stooped by hard labor, pulled upward, and his hands clenched into fists as he became unhinged. Completely.

Up to this point in my short, blissful life, I had never seen anyone really mad, let alone at me, the chubby cherub.

What the hell are you doing? His bowlegged steps seemed to shake the earth.

It was like Thor stepping from the clouds, descending to punish the guilty.

I stopped chopping. 

Look at what you did! He glowered.

Gramps’s harsh scowl relaxed as I shat my pants in terror. 

Gramps pointed toward the pile of still-moving worm goo I had so artfully produced. That creature did nothing to you. You killed something that cannot be brought back. Don't ever do that again. He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a reassuring, no-nonsense squeeze. 

Chubby Cherub, zero. Grandpa Thor, one.

Staring at the now-motionless mass of goo, I stood, leaving the tool of the gods laying in the grass, and trudged into the house to seek emotional comfort from Gram, finding none. That was the first and last time I was ever allowed to leave a tool not in its place, but his lesson in being a good person was far more important. This moment, when forced to face the consequences of my childish inhumanity, is a weight I have carried throughout my life. 

I learned death was a double-edged sword—acceptable when justified and humane but inexcusable when wielded without care.

About a year later, chubby, ornery, and still fertile for hard-learned lessons, I was playing with my race cars on my grandmother's coffee table, one she had proudly made by hand. The top of the table had a faux rock finish that made it look like a wet river bottom--exactly the environment a feisty boy thought was perfect to run his toy cars over while leaving long, gouged scratches in its surface.

The most recent collision of multiple vehicles was rudely interrupted by Grandma's reaching around and taking the two offending vehicles. If you can’t play nice, you can’t have your cars, she said.

But… She clearly doesn’t understand how much fun it is to be destructive. Please, Gram, please.

Holding up her straw-thin index finger and looking over it at me, she said, I told you once. 

She really wasn’t getting it. A boy had a job. One job—to cause mayhem. I lay on the floor and started holding my breath. This technique worked previously with Mom. I was on the floor, turning purple, but Gram strolled over to the couch, grabbed the paper she had been reading, and walked into the kitchen. 

She couldn’t think this discussion was over.

I started kicking as hard as I could while slamming my hands into the table and grunting. I was getting into a full-blown tantrum when my left wrist felt like it was put into a vice. 

Before I could verbalize childish profanity, a raging heat engulfed my right ass cheek. Shoulder pain brought me to the realization that I was hanging by my left wrist and slowly turning toward Gram in what physics would later teach me was from her powerful open-palmed impact on my ass. Gram, having seen my rapid breathing and plate-sized eyes, gently set me on the floor and reiterated, No more.

Not sure whether to shit or go blind, I rubbed my ass and walked away in defeat.

I learned two very valuable lessons. 1. Don’t fuck around with Grandma’s table. 2. Destruction comes with a heavy toll–normally one involving my ass. They are lessons that shaped me well into adulthood.

Chapter 3

Third Grade

Do you want to come to Cub Scouts with me? My dad’s the troop leader, my friend Chad asked on the walk home from the bus after a hard day of third grade.

Chad was small for our age, of Mexican descent, and lived down the road. 

What’s Cub Scouts? I asked, completely ignorant.

He explained they did all kinds of cool stuff like make toy wooden cars, learn how to survive outdoors in the cold while lost, and they always had snacks.

Food? I was sold. 

When I got home and asked the ’rents, they were more than happy to get rid of me for a few hours a week, let me spread my wings, and no doubt they were playing the odds of me possibly getting eaten by a bear.

The next week, Mom kicked me out of the car at Chad's house, squealed the tires, and sped away.

All the guys were wearing jeans and kick-ass blue long-sleeve collared shirts with badges sewn on and sporting bright yellow neckties. Once the last of the troop members showed up, we said the Pledge of Allegiance, and—like the badasses we were— had a quick snack of cheese and crackers with a water chaser. We spent the day tying knots with a chunk of well-used rope. The Cub Scout Pledge was given to me on a card, and poof, it was over. 

I'm not sure what it took to drag Mom back, but she was waiting outside when I walked out. I got in the car and, unprompted, spewed all the day’s details. I told her that there was a small fee for attendance, I would need to get all set up with the sweet duds, and the meetings were going to be every Wednesday. Oddly, there wasn't so much as a hint of hesitation when Mom said, Okay.

The next week, I showed up at the meeting early because I didn't want to miss a single second in my first lesson in becoming a badass. I quickly learned I was dressed like a proverbial soup sandwich. Troop Leader took me aside, showed me how to properly tuck in my shirt, and arranged the yellow neckerchief with the big ass Boy Scouts logo bolo. I felt like a million bucks, and this, no doubt, led to my stepping into a variety of uniforms later in life.

I stood up extra straight when we did the pledge and was loud enough to make sure the world heard.

On Wednesdays it was acceptable to wear my blue Cub Scout uniform to school. I was proud as hell and happily got up a full half hour early to get dressed. There was something transformative about the uniform that I couldn't put into words, but I liked it. In uniform, I was polite and as helpful as a small boy could possibly be—a true Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde.

Without fail, early Wednesday mornings found me at Teacher’s side, volunteering to lead the Pledge of Allegiance. After a boisterous belting of the pledge, I would continue to butter up ole Teach by doing all the necessary early morning tasks of passing out new assignments and simultaneously collecting the previous day’s work. I enjoyed helping.

One day, while playing dinosaurs with a new kid who now would likely be labeled as on the spectrum, I caught the eye of our teacher. She complimented me by saying I was "a sensitive young man."

I was brimming with pride as I ran home to tell Mom. I relayed the story and threw in some tales of extraordinary deeds on the playground during King of the Hill—all to reinforce my righteousness.

As soon as I got done, Mom looked at me, smiling. "Honey, she didn't mean that kind of sensitive." 

What do you mean? I asked in my most casually panicked voice. 

She meant you care for others, that you like to help.

No, it means I can detect stuff! I burst out in defense of my waning ESP superpowers.

No, honey, that's not how she meant it. 

In my mind’s eye, my mother had just been replaced by Satan.

It took her only about an hour to get me to stop crying.

From then on, a dictionary was a ready companion. Whenever I would encounter a word I didn't understand, I would look it up. Until the electronic age, I always kept a pocket dictionary handy.

Not long after my emotional scarring from Mommie Dearest, my family went on a vacation to Las Vegas. I knew if I played into my mother’s guilt for breaking my heart, she would be at my mercy. 

The ’rents put us up at Circus Circus. This place was like a wet dream: the hot barmaids wore uniforms smaller than dental floss, there were all kinds of circus acts, food everywhere, and the amusement rides were to die for.

Though the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with the stinging stench of sweat as people slowly gambled their homes away was always present, it never distracted me from obtaining something great from this trip. 

Not shocking by the name of the place, they had a magic shop. Not just any cheap, low-rent place, but one where they sold authentic, metal handcuffs. The shiny object of my desire had a three-link chain between the cuffs and were heavy enough to smack a bitch (male or female). These bad boys required a handcuff key to unlock them. A lot of the fake ones have a release lever on the handcuffs but oh no, I didn't want those pieces of junk. I wanted the real thing, and thanks to my guilt trip on Mom, that's exactly what I got.

Woefully, they came with only two keys. Normally, a set would be more than enough, but in my manic cuffing fervor, I cuffed everything: the hotel room door, shower curtains, shower curtain rod, toilet handle, two chairs, and even a rolled-up sheet—anything I could get the cuffs around. In the process, I managed to lose one of the keys.

Finally, getting cocky, I handcuffed myself. 

That’s how I learned that if you handcuff yourself with the keyholes facing each other, it's hard to get the key into the keyhole and damn near impossible to get the cuffs off without ripping skin.

To Mom and Dad’s benefit, this diversion kept me busy and them more or less happy. The car ride home featured more of the same manic handcuffing. At some point during our little travel adventure, I handcuffed my wrist to my sister’s ankle. 

During the ensuing scuffle, I lost the other key. Sis was pissed, and I was wedged onto the floor of the car in an attempt to keep from ripping my shoulder out of its socket. 

Mom looked over the seat at the melee. That will teach you. 

Mom went on to say something about having to find a policeman or an iron worker to cut the handcuffs off. I stuck out my lower lip and crossed my one unsecured arm, fighting the injustice of it all.

For a long time, the only sound was the air rushing past our car’s open windows. It seemed like forever until we got to our next stop. Though I tried to find the key, it had vanished into thin air.

I was forced to turtle walk with my hobbled sister when we stopped for lunch at a truck stop. Snickering and full-on laughs were my lunch’s side dish. Good ole Sis had no problems eating; in fact, our predicament didn't slow her down at all. Me, on the other foot, had a slight issue as I was only able to eat with one hand—when and if Sis let me get close to my plate.

The ’rents had zero empathy, let alone sympathy; I must say, I expected more from adoptive parents. Clearly, adoption ain't all it's cracked up to be. In fact, all of them took full advantage of my dire circumstances to make fun of me.

Meal over, back at that blue, fake-wood paneled piece of shit station wagon, we got situated; me on the floor, wishing to disappear, while Sis kicked me when the ’rents weren’t watching.

Moments before leaving, Satan, i.e. Mom, looked back. Without saying a word—but laughing like a hyena—she handed me the handcuff key. 

As painful an experience as being secured to my sister was, it taught me a lesson in always being prepared for the worst. After setting each of us loose, I took some string from my backpack and made a necklace—thanks to the skills I had learned in Cub Scouts. 

For the rest of the trip, I would check to make sure my handcuff key was immediately available prior to forcefully securing objects, siblings, and, above all, ‘rents.

No one will ever be able to convince me that Cub Scouts and Satan didn’t pass along some vital life lessons—some of which I only wish I had learned earlier instead of the hard way. 

Years later, when I was working at the law enforcement academy, I would visit my mom, usually after a handcuffing class, and was always happy to oblige her with a personal demonstration of what I had taught.

Chapter 4

Fourth Grade

In the fourth grade, I sat next to a kid named Chadwick. Chadwick was a nice enough kid but a bit slow in thought and rapid in speech. He smelled like hot urine, unwashed clothing, and Brylcreem—all the time. From the stories he told, his home life was pretty rough when the ole man was drinking. Hell, if his old man hadn't been such a drunk, they could have spent money on clothing, a washing machine, and shower.

I was the leader of a gang of troublemaking youths, and Chadwick was one of my first unwilling recruits. With a great deal of goading, he even ended up enjoying the dark side. Better yet, with my prompting, he was willing to do things I didn't want to get caught doing.

Bored and looking for trouble an hour before the end of class one day, I pointed out a tack and motioned that he should drop it on the girl's chair in front of him. Without hesitation, he slipped over the top of his desk in an Olympian move and dropped the tack with perfect precision. 

She slammed down on the seat. Ahh, waaaa! 

Holy shit!

All the joy of the previous seconds were now replaced with sheer terror. My heart raced, my face flashed on fire, and sweat beaded on my forehead. I was going to receive such an ass-kicking as soon as I got home.

What happened? The substitute ran over to the hyperventilating waif.

The little girl stood, pointing at her ass where a piece of metal was lodged.

Holy cow, it's still there.

And stuck into her ass cheek with such force that the tack had drawn her dress and skin tight enough to make a funnel shape. Blood oozed out around the edges of the tack the size of a golf ball.

The girls surrounding our desks immediately pointed at Chadwick. He was a brilliant white, his eyes and mouth equally wide open, unable to look away from the Medusa he had produced. 

The substitute gave a halfhearted swipe at the embedded tack, but that was not going to do it. Instead, she was forced to yank the