Stewart's New Friend

At the One Dollar Dream, Stewart eyed an odd looking boy. His arms looked short and mushy like uncooked dough, his legs were twisted under his baggy jeans and he was sitting in a wheel chair. “Hey, I like the Jets, too,” Stewart remarked shyly, noticing the boys Jets Jersey and straight rimmed Jets cap worn to the side of his head. “What?” the disabled boy asked. Stewart turned and walked away.

The sound of a small motor squealed as the wheel chair rolled up behind Stewart.
“I said: ‘what’, motherfucker, you deaf?” the boy demanded.
“No,” Stewart replied and whispered “asshole,” under his breath.
“You think I’m not gonna fuck you up, Stewart. Even in this chair I could fuck you up. You, at least, Stewart Gregory,” the by warned.

“How do you know my name?” Stewart asked. “Everybody knows who you are, you’re that kid that got stuck in the sewer tunnel for three days. Fucking celebrity; think you’re hot shit, ha?” the boy responded.
“No, I just got stuck,” Stewart replied.

“You prolly think I wanna be your best friend, cause I’m in a wheel chair – you prolly think you’re some kinda celebrity and everyone has to suck your limp dick,” the boy continued berating Stewart.
“No, no, I don’t think I am so great and I already have a best friend and he drives a Monte Carlo Super Sport.” Stewart countered.

“Those cars suck, that’s some guido shit,” the boy said.
“Look, I’m sorry I bothered you, okay. I just wanted to ask a kinda weird favor,” Stewart explained.
“What?” the boy asked.
“Can I touch your arm; the one that’s not finished?” Stewart spoke in a whisper.
“It’s finished, bitch, that’s all I got.”
“Oh. So can I?” Stewart continued.
“What are you? Some kinda faggot weirdo?” the boy asked.
“No, I went to counseling with Father Leary. For eight months. So...” Stewart explained.
“You have to come to my house and hang out with me. And bring ice cream. And a Huslter and 2 40’s and a Camo. Then maybe…” the boy replied.

An attractive middle aged woman in stretch pants answered the door. “Oh you must be Nathan’s new friend. What’s in the bag?” she asked referring to the grocery bag Stewart was holding.
“Just some stuff,” Stewart explained as the woman looked inside.
“Oh, that’s a lot of beer,” she said.
“It’s malt liquor,” Stewart corrected her.
“Well, Nate’s not supposed to drink beer, really, so I’ll take one of these so he doesn’t overdo it,” she said as she opened the forty ounce bottle of Old English and poured some into a coffee mug with a cartoon of a man operating a printing press out of which dollars were flying, and the words: “still working on my first million” printed above the graphic.
“I might should take this, too,” she said as she grabbed the tall aluminum can of Camo.

Nathan was in his room, in a large recliner, watching Scarface. “You like this?” Nathan asked.
“I never saw this. Is Mel Gibson gonna be in it, I like him.”
“He ain’t even in this; never.” Nathan assured him, “but this shit is bad ass. Say ello to my leetel friend!”

Stewart handed Nathan the 40; Nathan placed it snuggly in his lap, pressed against his abdomen and twisted the cap off with his one “good” hand, which was fully formed but misaligned with the rest of his boney arm.
“Yo, I gotta good movie, if you like good movies,” Nathan gestured toward his closet, “look in there. Hey were the hell’s my Camo?” he asked as he peered into the grocery bag.

Underneath a pile of damp clothes and towels Stewart discovered a dvd box. The cover showed a dumpster full of beautiful women covered in a translucent white liquid with the title: Cum Dumpster.

“That look’s just like Dakota,” Stewart commented referring to one of the actresses. “You know that bitch?” Nathan asked.
“Yeah, she’s on my mom’s stories. Or at least that looks like her.”
“You know what we should do, Stewart? We should go to New York City or Hollywood or wherever they make that show and we should find that chick and then I could fuck her.”
“Yeah, we could see if Tito will drive us in his Monte Carlo Super Sport,” Stewart added.

“Yo, I could use a good fucking right now, you know?” Nathan said.
“Yeah, me too, I guess,” Stewart agreed.
“You got any money? I know this chick that lives near here. If you got some money…”
“I got…” Stewart took various bills and coins from different pockets of his pants and jacket, “$11.66; is that enough?”
“Hell no. Remember I said you could touch my arm? I’ll let you touch my jimmy, too, okay?”
“I don’t know, Nathan. I’m not supposed to do that kinda stuff.”
“C’mon dude, it takes like three second,” Nathan argued.
“Why don’t you put peanut butter on it?” Stewart suggested.
“What the hell goods that gonna do?”
“Cause then the dog will lick it off,” Stewart explained.
“I don’t have a damn dog, asshole. You should lick it off.”
Stewart looked at Nathan who was rubbing his lap with his twisted hand. “I’ll be right back,” he told him. Stewart returned with his dog on a leash. “I brought my dog to hang out, too,” he told Nathan’s mom and asked her, “do you have any peanut butter?”
“Crunchy or smooth? I keep both kinds,” she replied.
“Smooth, please.”

“Your mom is really nice,” Stewart told Nathan.
“You wanna fuck my mom. I know you do,” Nathan replied.
“I dunno, maybe, she’s really pretty.”
“You can never fuck my mom, she only dates guys with muscles. Plus you’re a total pussy and you’d prolly cream in your pants before you had the chance to do anything.”
“That’s not so bad,” Stewart said.
“I don’t care you could fuck my mom all day long if she let you, but she wouldn’t let you. Plus my dad will kill you when he comes back. He’s a trained killer; I saw him break a guys nose at Red Lobsters.”
“Comes back from where?” Stewart asked.
“From the CIA. He’s a trained assassin – black ops, so he’s been gone for a long time, but when he comes back he’s gonna get me a Wii. And prolly a Corvette, too.”
“That’s awesome, I wish my dad was coming back,” Stewart remarked.
“Your dad is probably dead, maybe. Or in jail. He might want to come home, othwerwise.” Nathan offered and then continued, “Fuck it, anyway. Wanna watch the Jets game?”
“Yeah! I love the Jets; I hope they score a thousand goals!” Stewart yelled.