Wingnut
by Joe Hacking and Pete Shea
illustration by Dave Dawson
Beale was nine years old and sitting in math class. He had his index finger jammed so far up his tiny nose that Cindy Fleenburg could not look away in her horror and disgust. She was spellbound, as if Beale was an exhibit at a freak show: The Nose Boring Boy. He had her total attention.
Beale giggled softly as Miss Cadigan, oblivious to his nasal shenanigans, continued to teach the class. He tried to jam the snot-lubricated digit further for the pleasure of Cindy. After all, if he could impress Cindy, the girl who had projectile vomited undigested fish sticks on Principle Zorn, he could impress anybody.
It ended when he dug too far. When Cindy had reached the disgust saturation point, Beale, in a final act of bogosity, pulled his finger out and faked like he was going to touch her with it. A river of blood poured from his tortured nasal passage and class ended early that day. When she asked why, Beale told the school nurse he just liked to pick his nose.
Dad’s breath smelled like Jim Beam that night. His fist felt like concrete.
“What kind of shithead are you anyway, boy?!” screamed Dad as his head lolled, “Pickin’ your friggin’ nose in friggin’ class till it friggin’ bleeds?! You’re gonna grow up to be a friggin’ bum!!!” Mom never let Dad say the real F word in the house. Mom never let Dad do much besides go to work, make her gin martinis, and kick the shit out of Beale.
Dad solved Beale’s nose rooting habit by dipping his hands in kerosene for ten minutes before school each day.
Beale was thirteen and sitting in math class. He had one of the nastiest batches of natural gas stewing in his bowels. Mr. Fortier was droning on about something Beale didn’t understand as the school-issue beans and franks were converted to nerve gas.
At the peak of class boredom, Beale unleashed the Bomb. Grimacing with the effort, he created a veritable symphony of flatulence, the compressed gas impacting against the cupped fiberglass chair with a PUH-PUH-PUH-GWERRRT!!!! Repressed giggling exploded around the small classroom.
Mr. Fortier turned upon Beale, his eyes full of a specific hatred for the dysfunctional youth. He’d been warned before. Fortier closed in.
Beale grinned and grimaced once more, issuing forth a final, machine-gun-like burst. On its foul wake rode the fruits of Beale’s exertions. Mr. Fortier fell back, his fighting spirit broken by the school-issue franks and beans. The children laughed uncontrollably. Beale was the center of attention.
Dad’s breath smelled like Jack Daniels that night. The basketball he kept bouncing off Beale’s head was beginning to feel like a rock.
“You smelly little shit!” bellowed Dad, “Farting your ass off like it was a friggin’ paying job! You’re gonna end up living in a friggin’ trailer park with some fat friggin’ old lady with four friggin’ kids and a crappy ’72 Galaxie 500 for a car!!” Mom smoked a Virginia Slim in the other room, watching Wheel of Fortune, tinkling the ice in her gin martini.
Dad solved Beale’s farting problem by feeding him a box of Ex-Lax. Beale shit for a week straight.
Beale was 16 and was supposed to be sitting in math class. He had his finger jammed so far into Cindy Fleenburg that she could not look way in her fascination and pleasure. She was mesmerized, as if Beale were Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Jon Bon Jovi all rolled into one. He had her total attention.
Beale giggled softly as Cindy writhed and moaned upon the bed of pine needles deep within the woods surrounding the school. He tried to jam the lubricated digit further for the pleasure of Cindy. After all, this sure beat calculus, and Cindy seemed to pay more attention to him for doing it.
It ended when she screamed too loud. When Cindy had reached the pleasure saturation point, Beale, in a final act of sexuality, pulled his finger out and put something else in, just like he’d seen in a magazine once. A river of blood poured from Cindy and Mr. Perry, the gym teacher who’d been looking for the two students, heard her cries of ecstasy and happened upon the scene just as Cindy was pulling up her pants.
Dad’s breath smelled like Southern Comfort. The ball peen hammer felt like a ball peen hammer as it smashed off Beale’s fingers and toes.
“You friggin’ horny little shit!!” thundered Dad, “You perverse, sorry, heathen, infidel, anti-Christ son of a bitch!” Dad pounded a toe or a finger with the ball peen hammer to enunciate every adjective. “You’re gonna burn in hell if you keep having sex out of wedlock! Don’t you know it ain’t right?! You’re getting closer to the trailer park every day, boy! Big ‘ole RV with a big ‘ole blue stripe down the side! Woman that’s so friggin’ fat, she sweats in the shade! Shit brown Galaxie 500 with a peeling white vinyl roof! Four or five mongoloid children! You’re gonna burn, boy, if you keep that shit up!!”
Mom was passed out in the bedroom, her gin martini soaking into the gray sheets.
Dad kicked Beale in the groin until the youth threw up all over the sticky kitchen floor.
Beale was 17 and might have been in math class if he hadn’t dropped out. He was working at the Gulf station down the street from the RV park, armed with the SoCo that he’d stolen from his father’s liquor cabinet.
About halfway through the bottle, he’d been visited from what he deemed as divine inspiration. Now he was standing on the full service island of the gulf, the nozzle of the fuel line stuck through his pocket so as to protrude from his pants zipper. The piece of paper taped to his shirt read: “Will Pass Gas for Food.”
Beale delighted in the gawks, guffaws, disgust, and other assorted attention he reaped from the early morning commuters. He had their total attention as they passed busily by on their way to their high-paying city jobs.
His first customer was, of course, Reverend Joseph Puglia, who pulled in driving his Cadillac El Dorado convertible, smoking a fat, Cuban cigar. He was relatively unamused by Beale’s penile prank. “Son, get that apparatus outta yo’ unders and fill my gas tank,” said the Reverend, puffing on the Cuban.
It was at this point that Cindy pulled up behind Rev. Puglia. She wasn’t fat, she wasn’t driving a Galaxie 500, and she had only one child, their little Thor. She, unlike the good Reverend, was tremendously amused by the insipid genius of Beale’s little gag, and began throwing stale Cheeze-Its at the chortling miscreant, yelling for him to “turn on the faucet.”
Beale, giggling and snorting like a gibbon on acid, started spewing gas onto the concrete before him in a thick plume. It was majestic. He was, in fact, having so much fun that he very nearly failed to notice the angry Reverent Joseph Puglia carelessly removing the burning red Cuban cigar from his mouth.
He began to pay somewhat closer attention when the carelessly hurled, still-lit cigar completed a low arc into the stream of Beale’s ejaculate.
It suddenly became very, very hot.
