Fubar by Ron Carpol Read Free Book Online Page B

everyday for stress and anxiety and everything else that freaks him out. But you? You’re nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
    â€œYou can tell Lyman for me that he’s full of shit. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œHe told me and Watson a lot about you. We share an apartment, remember?”
    â€œI’m telling you, he’s full of shit. What else did he say?”
    â€œThat you’re ruthless, vindictive, and real trouble. That you’ll turn on anybody. In fact, your aunt and uncle told Lyman, when they drove him to the airport to come to school here, never to have anything to do with you.”
    â€œI don’t care what he says, I didn’t do anything to Ovary and I don’t know nothing about any will.”
    â€œYeah, well, don’t be surprised if you get a call from the police. Lyman told me that he might turn you in. And that the cops would find all kinds of shit in your apartment if they searched it for evidence.”
    _____
    The next night was Halloween and I was in jail.
    Except for Lyman, who flew to Texas to try to find the woman who replaced his mother as his nursemaid/my grandfather’s housekeeper, me and the rest of the pledges drove down to West Hollywood in four separate cars to harass the gays that were all over the area. After drunkenly making fools of them for hours, we were heading back to the house. I was zipping along Santa Monica Boulevard, weaving through traffic in the 4Runner with Vysell riding shotgun and Batman, Rainey and Watson in the back seat. Lil’ Kim’s voice was blasting from the speakers, rapping about being sucked off in an orgy, while all five of us took shots from the last of the five one-pint Jagermeister bottles that we started with.
    As usual, the cops were anxious to bust guys who had better cars than they owned, so near UCLA I got pulled over for DUI. All of us reeked with the smell of this licorice-tasting cough syrup and our lips were even thickly coated with that black crap. As soon as the cops got me out of the car I couldn’t stand on my wobbly legs and fell down, banging my forehead against the side mirror. I was arrested on the spot and the other four guys got nailed for public drunkenness. And to make matters worse, some guy whose last form of transportation was a fucking burro, even towed my truck away.
    We were taken to the West L.A. jail. I was the first one to wake up from sleeping on one of the cold, cement benches pressed against the three, scratched-up jail walls. A husky jailer who looked like a champion body builder, with biceps that were ripping the sleeves of his short-sleeved uniform shirt, was staring at us from the good side of the bars on the fourth wall, sitting behind a desk.
    I approached him, leaning against the bars, and spoke in a soft voice. “You let me go if I tell you who provided the other guys liquor since they’re all under twenty-one?”
    â€œYeah. Who was it?”
    I pointed to Watson who was sleeping on his back, snoring the loudest. “The guy with the glasses.”
    He nodded. Then he unlocked the cell door with a foot-long, dark-gold key that must’ve been molded in the middle ages.
    He opened the jail door and approached me inside. “Come here,” he said, grabbing my right arm below the elbow tightly, almost paralyzing me. He shoved me in front of him in the cell until we got to where Watson was still imitating a buzz saw.
    Hercules lightly kicked Watson’s shoulder, waking him up.
    â€œYou furnish these guys alcohol?” the cop asked, pointing around to Vysell, Rainey and Batman.
    Watson rubbed his eyes. “Huh?”
    The other three guys awoke quickly and stared at me, probably guessing what I was up to.
    â€œYou furnish these guys alcohol?” the cop repeated to Watson.
    â€œHell no.”
    I quickly blurted out, “I never said that guy! I said the Rasta guy at Ahmed’s in