The Adventures of Harry Wang or Crime in the Cities I (True Fiction)
By Harry Wang (aka Furry Dick)
What you are about to read is true (okay, would you believe out and out bullshit?). A crime was committed. Hell, a number of crimes were committed. This is an account of those crimes. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.
My name is Hung Harry Wang, although my friends sometimes call me Furry Dick for short. My enemies call me Fuzzy Pecker. You can call me Joe.
The place: St. Paul/Minneapolis, Minnesota. The time: mid-Winter, 199X
I live in St. Paul, home of about 200,000 hard working white folk, 20,000 useless little gooks called Hmong that the federal government stuck us with, and an equal number of niggers. Most of the last two groups suck the public tit. I figure that just between the gooks and niggers, that's about 38,000 leeches draining the system dry. Of course, I let everyone I meet know what I think about this.
A few weeks ago, a pal gave me 20 bucks worth of food stamps with the intention that I "see what it's like" to live off the public dole. With these stamps came detailed instructions, written in obviously disguised longhand, for the illegal use of this funny money. I examined the little book that contained the stamps, and saw numerous warnings about the penalties associated with the fraudulent use of its contents. Penalties like imprisonment, dismemberment, and death.
I got so nervous that I was ready to take the food stamps down to the local bar and trade them for a dime of crack, which I could than sell in niggertown (which is now populated entirely by gooks) for about 30 dollars or a hot revolver. But honor demanded that I follow through with the intentions of the guy who gave me the things.
So... I untied my old lady from the bed posts and sent her out to the booze mart three blocks away for a six-pack of malt liquor. I warned her, "Get the good stuff and don't turn any tricks on the way back. I'm in a hurry to get this over with before I lose my cool."
From what I have seen, malt liquor consumption is a prerequisite for the use of food stamps.
"What am I 'sposed to use for money, Fuzzy?" the old lady asked.
"I said don't turn any tricks ON THE WAY BACK."
An hour later, the bitch returned. While she was gone I borrowed $3.56 in pennies, nickels, and dimes from her kid's piggie bank. Had to smash the friggin' bank to get the money, but what the hell, things are tough in the big city. The kid's gotta learn some time.
Twenty minutes later, I had guzzled the last of the six malt liquors (the bitch bought the 16-ounce size instead of the 12-ounce cans, so it took me an extra three minutes or so to drink the stuff). A couple of belches and a pee later, I was on my way to Beyerly's in Edina, the place where discriminating Jews buy their kosheries. [Note: Edina is an exclusive suburb of Minneapolis, and Beyerly's is a plush supermarket that caters to the affluent.]
Getting to Beyerly's was just a blur, possibly because of the malt liquor I'd consumed and possibly because the damned defroster in my jalopy doesn't work and it was zero degrees outside. I do seem to recall bouncing off a group of four little gooks staggering across University Avenue in the St. Paul Midway area--and hearing some coon shout to his companion: "Wow! Awesome. See that Bro? That dude just got 20 points all at once. The most you ever got was 15." I was mostly just pissed off because one of the Hmong fucks broke my headlight with his head. And you can't buy a new headlight with food stamps.
People gotta do something about these immigrants. They're always causing trouble. At least I didn't get a flat tire from a bottle one of them had hidden in his pocket (as happened to me last year). Needless to say, I got out of there in a hurry, right after I had backed over the little Asian leeches to make sure "they were all right", if you know what I mean.
The rest of my trip to Beyerly's in Edina was uneventful, although I did once have to slow down to 65 mph after my fuzz buster went off. Everyone knows that you can get crucified here in Minnesota for driving over 65 in a 55 mile zone. I have a friend who plea bargained down to a third-offense DUI rather than take the hit for 82 mph in a 55 zone.
The Byerly's parking lot was packed. I squeezed my old jalopy into half a parking space between a BMW and Mercedes. The scraping noise let me know that I better not take too long in the store; I wouldn't want to be around when the owners came out. I had to dent the door of the Beamer in about six inches to get out of my own car, but that's what people get for buying foreign cars when we're in the middle of a recession. Like my old man always used to say: "If you don't buy American, uh, er, uh, well then you probably ain't real patriotic."
I ran like hell into Byerly's, mostly because I had to piss like a race horse. They have real nice rest rooms in those fancy republican grocery stores. I purposely missed the urinal and flooded the floor.
I left the rest room and headed over to the meat counter. About a ton of fresh-cut, top-dollar steaks awaited me. Shit, even beef liver cost a day's wage at this place. I rang the little buzzer about ten times to get the faggoty butcher's attention. (He was helping some blue-haired old bitch in a rat-fur coat who couldn't seem to decide whether she wanted the regular porterhouse steak or the special lean porterhouse steak that cost about two bucks more for half the weight.
"What's a good steak?" I asked the butcher when he finally got over to me. "I ain't never had anything other than chuck, probably 'cause I'm just a regular working man."
"We don't sell chuck steaks here, sir."
"I know that numb nuts. I'm gonna splurge and I need about nineteen dollars and 95 cents of good dead cow, if you know what I mean."
The butcher thought a minute and then brightened. "I understand now," he said with a grin. "You've just qualified and received your first month's food stamps! Congratulations! Let me recommend our rib steak-- it's on special today for only $6.99 a pound. I'll give you two pounds of the rib steak and throw in pound of week-old jumbo shrimp... and wrap the whole thing up for $19.00!"
I know a good deal when I see one. Hell, I'd never even seen green shrimp before. I was going to ask how you cooked the things, but didn't want to look like an idiot. I figured you probably just threw the suckers in the cast-iron frying pan with the steak anyway.
Two minutes later he handed me the package and said "Enjoy."
On the way to the check-out I picked up two cans of Campbells Dinosaur soup for the old lady and her kid. I figured they'd probably like the treat, although I personally prefer plain old chicken noodle soup just like grandma used to make (except without the squirrel meat of course). From what I could tell from reading the label, the Dinosaur soup was a rip-off, since it wasn't really made from dinosaurs, but was regular chicken noodle juice with noodles shaped like extinct critters instead of limp dick. But, rip-off or not, I knew the old lady and her kid would be mighty disappointed if I didn't bring them something special to eat while I was eating my steaks and green jumbo shrimp.
Remembering my need to exit the parking lot pronto, I hurried to the checkouts (Although I did pick up a loaf of garlic bread on the way there. And a box of Ho-Ho's too.). There was no waiting in the lane that said "6 Items or Less, Cash Only" so that's where I went. The cashier gave me a funny look as I set the wrapped steak and shrimp, soup, bread and Ho-Ho's in front of her. At first it was because she sensed the crime I was about to commit (fraudulent use of food stamps, remember?), but then I realized that it was probably because I burped in her face. Malt liquor will do that to you.
It was the garlic bread that killed me. $3.50 a loaf. I should have known. The bill came up to $25.84 and I only had 20 bucks worth of food stamps and $3.56 in change with me. I put on my saddest face and handed the bitch behind the counter my food stamp booklet and started counting out the change. Yup. Two dollars and 28 cents short. I slowly, very slowly, started recounting my change.
"How 'bout if I just get half the loaf of garlic bread and one can of soup?" I asked while recounting my change for the third time.
"I don't think we can do that sir," she said. "Cut the loaf of bread I mean."
The check-out gal turned on a blinking light above the cash register. "I need my supervisor to void part of this purchase," she explained.
By this time, the line in the six-items-or-less express lane had grown long behind me. I could hear people mumbling and grumbling. Because I was nervous--and gassy from slamming down six 16-ounce malt liquors--I let slip one hell of a beer fart.
I heard a woman behind me choking and some guy behind her mumble something about it smelling like someone shit in their pants.
Of course, the check-out supervisor was no where to be found. Probably on break.
"Uh, miss, what seems to be the problem?" I heard a guy behind the broad behind me ask the cashier.
"This, uh, gentleman, uh, doesn't have enough money to pay for his purchases. I'm waiting for my supervisor to void the transaction so I null the loaf of garlic bread."
"Hey, wait!" I said. "Who said anything about me not wanting my garlic bread." Another fart escaped me.
I heard the old broad behind me start coughing again and the guy behind her saying something about Jesus fucking Christ.
"Here," said the guy behind the choking broad while handing the checkout bitch five bucks, "Consider it a Christmas gift."
"Gee, thanks mister," I said to the guy, with a thoroughly humble look on my mug. The cashier completed the transaction and went to give the guy MY change.
"Wait, bitch," I said grabbing her wrist and twisting. "The man said it was a Christmas gift. To me."
She looked at me with terror in her eyes. I burped in her face. She gave me my change. I waited while the bag boy bagged my groceries and then walked with haste to the parking lot, half expecting the entire Edina police force to be inspecting the damage I'd done to the Beamer and Mercedes while parking my jalopy. No one was there. I had to make the dent in the Beamer four inches deeper to get both me and my groceries into my car, but that's life in the suburbs.
My trusty old jalopy started with a cloud of smoke and sulfureous exhaust fumes, like always. Then I was out of there.
My ride home was almost uneventful. I stopped at a municipal liquor store and bought another quart of malt liquor with my Christmas gift change. I drank that as I drove home.
I DID have to push some hoity-toity Volvo into the cement median on I-94 when it wouldn't let me pass, but the 30-car pile-up that resulted happened behind me. I never even had to slow down. And it was good for a chuckle when I saw the pictures of the ensuing mess on the news the next morning. Serves the sucker right for driving a car that sounds remarkably like what they call external female genitals.
When I got home, the old lady and her kid weren't there. They probably went to see her old man. Whenever she gets really upset with me, she moves back in with her husband for a day or two. It never lasts long though, and I always know she'll be back. You see, he's a lawyer, and while he's great at fucking his clients, he doesn't know a thing about fucking his wife.
No big deal. I got out my 20-year-old crusted-cast-iron fry pan, threw in the steak (you sure don't get much rib steak at Byerly's for 15 bucks or so), turned on the gas, and ten minutes later I was in hog heaven.
After I'd wolfed down the meat, I was too tired to eat the shrimp or garlic bread. What the hell, I thought, there's always tomorrow. I left the mess for the old lady to clean up whenever she got back and went to bed to catch a little shut-eye.
"She's probably pissed about her kid's piggy bank," I thought as I drifted off to sleep.
Little did I know that she and her kid had just gone down to the neighborhood bar and pool hall to shoot a little 8-ball. I keep telling her that it's no place for a kid, but she always gives me this strange look when I say that, stares at me and my house, and then starts laughing hysterically.
Well, make that past tense.
I was out like a light when old lady and her kid got home. But it doesn't take a mental giant to figure out what happened. She saw the shrimp in the refrigerator, popped them in my old leaky microwave oven for a minute or two, and she and the kid feasted.
The coroner says it was botulism. I never knew it could kill a person so fast. Make that: kill two people so fast.
I guess that's life in the big city. But, as they say, all's well that ends well. The old lady's husband and I got together and threw this lawsuit against Beyerly's. We agreed to split it 50-50. They settled out of court yesterday.
For a lawyer, he's really not a bad guy. He made me out a will for free, and bought me two dozen CASES of malt liquor to celebrate our victory. He also pointed out a really great deal on a little MG Midget sports car. I'm gonna pick it up tomorrow. It sure will be different driving that little thing after driving my big old tank of a jalopy for all these years. But, like he said, the gals really dig those little sports cars.
Crime in the Cities II Earl & Me
First, if you haven't read Crime in the Cities I, you better read that before you read this. After all, this is called II for a reason.
At the end of my last story, I told you about how my old lady and her kid croaked after eating green shrimp; and how her husband and I filed this big lawsuit against the place where I bought the shrimp; and how we settled out of court for a large, but undisclosed, settlement.
My (almost) last words were, if I remember correctly: "For a lawyer, he's really not a bad guy. He made me out a will for free, and bought me two dozen cases of malt liquor to celebrate our victory. He also pointed out a really great deal on a little MG Midget sports car. I'm gonna pick it up tomorrow. It sure will be different driving that little thing after driving my big old tank of a jalopy for all these years. But, like he said, the gals really dig those little sports cars."
Today's the day I'm supposed to get my new MG.
I woke up this morning with one hell of a headache. My waking thoughts were that I had developed a massive brain tumor overnight. But my floating back teeth and menstruating eyes brought me to the realization that the malt liquor, vodka, and whiskey I'd put away the previous night were probably responsible for the devastating pain.
I staggered to the bathroom and took a monstrous piss in the sink. I grabbed six aspirin from the medicine cabinet (after wiping off the pee splatters with a hand towel), and stumbled into the kitchen. Here, I pulled a pint of Thunderbird out of the refrigerator and washed down the aspirin with the wine. The true breakfast of champions. I had a malt liquor for dessert.
Within minutes, I was feeling almost normal again. I smiled as I recalled the yesterday's adventures with my buddy Earl.
Last night, after drinking a dozen or so cans of malt liquor, I figured I'd take my old jalopy out for one last joy ride before picking up my new MG. I thought about cruising over to Minneapolis, but I didn't want to have to fight off the dozen or so coons who would be trying to steal my starters jacket (shit, I had to kill three niggers to just get it!). And I figured I'd better avoid the St. Paul Midway area in case someone was looking for a jalopy suspiciously similar to mine, which had run into, and then backed over, four of those little Hmong fellers (scoring, according to some black dude, a near record 20 points!).
I called my friend Earl. Fortunately he wasn't delivering pizzas, so he was half-way sober. Earl, after being laid off from his senior management position at Control Data, found that the only other job for which he was qualified was as a pizza delivery driver for Dominos. At first he wasn't up to the challenge, but then he discovered that a liter of 100 proof vodka in the passenger seat sure helps make time fly. It also gave his wife an excuse to fly off with a pilot for Northwest Airlines. Now I've heard that the pilot got laid off too. That woman is pure bad luck.
After Earl's wife took a hike, Earl went out and bought himself one of those life-size, wife-size, blow-up plastic girls. He's happy as hell. Like he says, he doesn't have to worry about her messing around, doesn't have to worry about VD or AIDS, doesn't have to worry about her spending all his money, doesn't have to worry about knocking her up, doesn't have to worry about having B.O., doesn't have to worry about her bitching at him when he gets drunk, doesn't have to beg and plead when he wants to get laid, doesn't have to worry about any of the stuff most of us other guys worry about when it comes to the odder sex. He HAS noted that she's a horseshit cook, but he gets all the pizza he wants for free anyway. So who gives a shit.
When Earl answered the phone, I asked him how Esmerelda was doing (Esmerelda is what he calls his inflatable love interest.). "She's doing just fine," Earl replied. "But lately she's been acting like a real airhead."
I explained all that had happened to me since we last spoke (detailed in the masterpiece, Crime In The Cities, Part I). I told Earl how I wanted to take my old jalopy out for one last joyride before picking up my new MG Midget sports car the following day. And then I explained my dilemma. Earl came up with an answer right way.
"Why don't we drive by Dominos, do a little delivery work, and use the money we get from tips and shit to pay for a night on the town? I'll supply the vodka!"
I admitted that Earl's idea was indeed great. Five minutes later, I threw a dozen cans of malt liquor in a cooler, threw the cooler in the back seat of my trusty old jalopy, and was over at Earl's house in ten minutes flat. Earl was waiting for me with a big two-liter bottle of 100 proof vodka in his hand.
"I'm bringing the double-shift size," he said as he crawled into my car.
We each took a big gulp from the bottle, popped open a can of malt liquor, and drove off to Dominos. When we got there, Earl's boss was happier than hell to see us. Apparently the driver who was supposed to be delivering pizzas had lost his race with an Amtrak train at one of the last remaining railroad crossings in St. Paul. According to Earl's boss, there were pieces of the guy and pizza scattered for a linear mile. The police were having a bitch of a time trying to figure out which splatters and chunks were Dominos driver and which were Dominos pizza.
"You wouldn't want to make a few extra bucks?" Earl's boss asked. "We've got deliveries backed up farther than a tampon in a whore's twat on New Year's Eve."
"I ain't gonna take no fuckin' heat for takin' longer than 30 minutes to deliver the pizzas," Earl warned. "Especially seeing how they're already an hour late."
"No problem, get these out and by the time you get done Raul will be in. His boyfriend's trying to wake him up as we speak. He only drank a quart of tequila, so he should have no problem at all driving."
We dumped 12 cold boxes of Dominos pizza in the back seat of my trusty old jalopy, popped the tops on fresh cans of malt liquor, took big gulps of the 100 proof vodka, and off we went.
Our first delivery was at an one of those town-house-like residences in the housing projects. New cars and trucks were parked proudly up and down the garbage-strewn streets. We pulled up in front of the newly refurbished (at taxpayers' expense) building at 1045 Prosperity Way. Earl checked his delivery sheet and said: "Jeez, these fucks ordered six large 'everything' pizzas. Must be hungry. Either that, or there's about 50 people living in there, all humpin' and bumpin' each other. Can you give me a hand?"
Earl and I each grabbed three of the pizza boxes and trudged up to the door. I rang the government-provided doorbell. The door was opened by an appallingly ugly Hmong woman, about three feet tall and four feet wide, with a baby sucking on each tit. "You rate," she said, stomping her foot. Earl looked at her and asked, "Hey lady, where'd you get the Hmongkeys?" [Ed. note: children commonly refer to the Hmong as Hmongkeys--you know, like monkeys with a slight H sound first.] The woman ignored Earl's question and instead stated in broken English: "Me watch TV arr day. Me know me get big discount because you rate with me peesa!"
"No discount tonight," Earl said.
"Then me no want peesa," the ogre responded.
"Fine, bitch. Then starve."
Earl and I turned and headed back to my jalopy. A half second later we heard this loud WHACK! and turned around just in time to see a short skinny gook guy give the fat little gook woman (obviously another) good slap on side the head. He hit her so hard this time that one of the babies went flying off her tit and ricocheted off the door jam. The baby then bounced down the steps, head first.
"That explains why they're so stupid," Earl muttered. "Brain damage."
"ME want peessa," short and skinny Hmong guy said, banging a finger repeatedly on his chest.
"Fine," Earl said with a shit eating grin on his face. "You ordered six large 'everything' pizzas at $18 each. That means you owe us $108 for the pizza, plus a $20 delivery fee, plus my tip, which is 15 percent. Let's see, that all comes to... uh... uh... let's just make it $150."
Short and skinny looked like he was going to piss his pants, but he turned to ugly and fat, who was bending over trying to retrieve the infant that'd been dislodged from her tit when short and skinny whacked her, and said "Pay them!"
He then gave her a one hell of a kick in the ass. Hell, make that a punt. The gook woman went flying head first out the door. We stepped aside just in time to avoid being struck down like bowling pins as she skidded about 10 feet, face first, down the pitted cement sidewalk.
"And that explains why they're so ugly."
The woman got up, stuck both babies back on her saggy tits, and trudged into the house. A minute later she returned with a stack of food stamp booklets. "Deja vu," I though to myself.
"There's a surcharge for food stamps," Earl told her.
"What a sulchalge?" the woman asked, giving Earl a puzzled look.
Earl took the booklets from her fat hands, counted out $200 in food stamps, pocketed them, and we handed the woman her six cold pizzas.
We heard another loud WHACK! as we walked back to the car.
"That was profitable," Earl remarked as we moved on to our next delivery.
The next delivery took us out of the housing projects to a very run- down neighborhood in St. Paul's lower east side. Every city has neighborhoods like this, where the niggers move in, the white folk move out, and everything turns to shit. We pulled up to a duplex with plywood over most of the windows.
"Gotta be damned careful in this neck of the woods," Earl said in a low voice. "Damned burrheads are always robbing pizza drivers." Earl reached under his coat and pulled out a .45 magnum pistol. Now I knew why he wore such a bulky jacket.
"Know how to use one of these things?" Earl asked, playfully pointing the loaded pistol at my face.
"Does shit stink?"
"Okay, cover me." Earl grabbed two pizzas, left my jalopy, and walked up to the front door. He rang the doorbell. I sat crouched discretely in my seat, virtually out of sight, pistol in hand.
All of a sudden I saw a skinny black guy come running around the corner of the house. He was dressed only in his jockey shorts, but had a big butcher knife in his hand. He ran up behind Earl and poked the knife into Earl's back. "Gimmee yo money, mothafucka!" I heard him yell.
"Okay. Don't panic. Let me put down the pizzas so I don't ruin your supper," Earl said with remarkable calm.
"Don't you try no tricks or you be being dead meat," the almost naked spook told Earl.
I flicked on the laser scope on top of the pistol. A green needlepoint of light appeared on the dash. As Earl bent over to place the pizzas on the front stoop, I drew a laser-bead on the side of the nigger's head and pulled the trigger.
The bullet exploded the attacker's skull and kept on going right through the front door of the house (where, I later read in the paper, it struck another coon who'd been watching us out of the peep hole. It blew a hole as big as a basketball in his chest).
Earl picked up his pizzas and ran to the car. I gunned the engine and tore out of there. Earl was trying to say something to me, but my ears were ringing so hard I couldn't hear a thing he said. So I ignored him and passed him the jug of vodka. I swear he drank a quart in one big gulp.
Ten minutes later we were at Mounds Park, home of the world famous injun burial mounds on the bluffs overlooking the Mississipiss river. When we were kids we used to come here and dig up injun bones to play with. The skulls were great fun on Halloween. We parked the car in an empty parking lot. The ringing in my ears had quieted enough so I could make out what Earl was saying.
"No more crack house deliveries for me. Nope. Never again. Every time I do one, someone gets killed."
We each took another guzzle of the vodka, popped open new malt liquors (after throwing our empty cans out the window), sat back, and relaxed. Earl took a look at the pizza boxes he'd carried back from the crack house and sighed "oh shit".
Pieces of nigger skull and brain and face were all over the boxes (and Earl's jacket too). We brushed these globs and pieces on top of two of the remaining "everything" pizzas and resealed the boxes. (Dominos pizza boxes are now "sealed from the oven to the door for your protection (TM)", after rumor spread of delivery drivers snagging or jacking off on pizzas. However, most people don't realize that Dominos gives its drivers plenty of fresh reseal tape just in case any of the original tape accidently "unseals itself").
Earl took off his jacket, checked all the pockets to make sure they were empty, and threw the jacket out the window.
"Time to steal a new one anyway," he said with a sigh.
"No more deliveries," I said as we tossed empty malt liquor cans out the window and popped fresh ones. "This ain't as much fun as I thought it would be."
By this time, the vodka was getting dangerously low, the malt liquor was gone, and we were both having a hard time talking. "I dunno. Wanna go look at some real pussy 'stead of that plastic twat you're used to?" I asked.
"Now don't you go pickin' on my Eshmerrelda.... Sure."
Before you could say Neisseria gonorrhoea, we were at the Payne Reliever, where they proudly present pussy under glass. Several years ago, St. Paul, in an effort to clean up the city, made it illegal for bars to feature nude dancers. At the time, the dancers wore g-strings over their crotches and pasties over their nipples. Thanks to a loophole in the law, the bars just installed glass walls and declaredthe dance areas to be private studios. Now the girls dance totally nude, stick their privates against the glass (reminds me of carp in a big aquarium), and do other generally crude things. Earl and me love it.
When we got there, all the seats up against the "stage" (glass wall) were taken. However, three of the seats were occupied by real, genuine sand niggers, complete with rags on their heads and sheets on their backs.
"Probably visiting the governor," Earl noted.
"Sand niggers should be smart enough to stay out of a place like this," I observed.
We walked up to them. Earl and I looked at them, and then yelled in unison: "Iraqi spies!" Half the bar got up and ran over to the the Arabs (nobody ever said your average Payne Reliever patron is a mental giant). Within 30 seconds the three camel jockeys had been beaten unconscious, stripped naked, and thrown out into the freezing cold.
"Those desert guys can't take the cold too great," some guy wearing Hells Outcasts MC colors said. "It's fun to watch 'em turn blue right before they freeze solid." A bunch of guys wearing the same Hells Outcasts colors gathered around the freezing Arabs and starting making bets on how long they'd keep breathing. (The temperature was about two degrees below zero, if memory serves me right.) I had a feeling it wouldn't be all that long; if the Hell's Outcast guys got too cold themselves, I knew they'd help the Arabs meet Mohammed in a timely manner. That's the problem with bikers in Minnesota. They get bored real easy in the Winter. Maybe they should take up figure skating or something.
We hurried back in before we lost our new seats at the center of the stage. Earl discovered that one of the Arabs had left a wad of $100 bills tucked discretely under an ashtray. "Finders keepers," Earl said, pocketing the money and signaling for the waitress.
Even after all we'd been through, the night was still young.
Stay tuned for Crime in the Cities III....