The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

Kidnapped By The Bad Boy Gang Leader!

Detention went as well as you would expect it. Us two, Billiam, which seems to get a knack for getting into trouble, that weird kid with the thousand scarves and the Harry Potter glasses, and Laila, which I'm starting to think has some undiagnosed psychological issues, or at least some troubles at home. 

Always having bags under her eyes, moving like a zombie, and muttering things out-loud. It's worrying. 

Don't get me wrong, I ain't worried about her. I'm worried that she might snap one day and try to pull me into a zombie plot or something weird like that. See, unlike the movies, it is very hard to crack open a skull. Even harder to clean gray matter out of cotton. Don't ask me how I know. 

The only interesting development you should know is that we have a sexual harassment seminar tomorrow at the gym. Good thing, too. Y'all need Jesus. Or a hose, full of holy water.

Whatever the case, the day is over, and it's time to return to my vent... is what I would say, were it not for the fact that Hayden squeezed me out like the last bit of toothpaste, soiling my otherwise pristine set of cotton undies. As I am not about to chafe my legs for the sake of going commando, I accepted, against my better judgment, Hayden's offer to drive me home to get a new pair. 

He told me his ride was safe. I didn't expect this. 

"What in the sweet relish recipe of Mother Teresa is this shit?" I say, marveling at the monstrosity that stands before me. 

He doesn't drive a car, he drives a truck. Not a pick-up truck, nor a fancy-schmancy blinded truck, but a goddamned M35 2 ½ tons Kaiser Jeep cargo truck. A 6x6, 111 Inches tall cargo vehicle from the '60s, made out of pure metal and American spit, painted in a faded camouflage green, and with a Nixon/Agnew political sticker in the hood. 

This isn't a driving truck — this is a fuck-you truck. Fuck the road, fuck the pavement, fuck the poor devil who dares even try to dent it. This is a battering ram, not a car. 

This is going to be fun. 

"Ah, yes," says Hayden, caressing the car like a pony about to eat an apple from his hand. "A beauty, ain't she? My parents wanted to buy me a convertible, but I'm not a dummy. I'm a jock! If I drive a convertible, that's an accident waiting to happen. Then I'll be in a wheelchair and some girl will use the power of love or some dumb stuff like that to make me walk. No, brother, I'm not about that life."

"Smart," I say, "but, isn't this a war vehicle?" 

"Brother, this is America," he says. "This is the land of the can, not the can't do. Now, get in my Dick Mobile!" 

"I will not get into any vehicle that is called Dick Mobile," I say. "America is also the land of can decide not to do that."

"Brother, it already had the Richard Nixon decal," he says. 

"Well, call it the Richard Vehicle!"

"But that doesn't even rhyme! Look, if you want to get home, you gotta ride my Dick Mobile. Them's the rules, brother."

That does it, I'll start recording him. I can't be the only one listening to this. 

With a hump and a pull, I manage to climb the almost three meters to the passenger's seat, or 111 inches for those reading us in hamburger helper land, to find a pleasantly furnished interior. Purple suede seats, an 8-ball on the shift stick, and an ironical New Car Smell scented pine on the rearview mirror. That, and what I can only assume is an ancient radio cassette player that someone haphazardly stuck in the middle with cement, of all things. 

"Just give her a second to start," says Hayden. "She needs to warm up first." 

He flips the switch three times, pumps the gas twice, engages and disengages the manual break, slaps the wheel three times, makes a silent prayer to the ghost of Spiro Agnew, and flips the switch yet again, making the engine purr to life, followed by what I can only describe as violent hacking of a cat furball.