CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE
“Fucking French bastard.”
Blake, Mitchell, and I continued to discuss working-out and fraternity affairs until the cheerful harmony of the party was once again interrupted by violence. A small keg party with no more than thirty people was being thrown at the apartment on the other side of the stairway. About twenty minutes after Backstreet’s altercation, another fight broke out at this party.
“Fuck you!” I heard a male voice yell.
“Nah, bitch!” screamed another guy. “Fuck you!”
I glanced to my right and saw a Latino male smash a beer bottle over the head of another Latino. Glass shattered and blood splashed to the ground. The victim of the assault reached for his head and his fingers were instantly covered with bright red liquid. He was grabbed by his friend who yanked him towards the stairway.
“Let’s get out of here!” his friend screamed. “This guy is fucking crazy!”
They fled down the stairs together and left a long trail of blood behind them.
“Damn,” Mitchell said, “that dude got fucked up.”
Blake chuckled. “Hell yeah, yo. That blood is gonna stain those stairs for weeks.”
My gaze shifted to the assailant who was now standing with two of his boys. They were also watching the young men run away.
“Fuck that kid,” cursed the bottle-wielding assailant.
“Yeah, fuck him,” agreed his boy.
“He deserved that shit,” said the third young man. “We should’ve jacked his friend too.”
A few girls emerged from the apartment behind them and the trio turned around to explain what happened.
The fight had nothing to do with us and it was clearly over, but Moody’s thug life roommate Chris D still felt the need to get involved. I watched in surprise as the young man bull charged in the direction of the assailant like he was going to attack, but instead of attacking, he stopped a few paces in front of where we were standing and started to mad dog stare at the assailant and his boys. It was only when Blake and I moved in front of the red-haired, chubby-faced young man to block his path that he resumed his forward progression.
“Chris D!” I exclaimed. “Relax, motherfucker!”
My roommate wrapped up Chris D in a chest-to-chest bear hug. The thug struggled against Blake’s restraint, never once taking his combative stare off his enemies who were standing twenty yards away with their backs turned to us.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked irritably. “That fight had nothing to do with us.”
“Calm down!” Blake urged as the thug continued to struggle.
Mitchell tactfully played into Chris D’s tough guy image. “Yeah, Chris—you don’t want to go to jail, do you?”
Apparently, even a tough guy can back down from a fight if given this warning. Chris D ceased his aggressive posturing returned to the party like nothing had happened.
“Fucking French bastard,” Blake mumbled as Chris D walked away.
“Fucking Frog,” I said with an equal degree of vexation.
Chris Dumont’s father was French which provided his friends with an unlimited supply of verbal ammunition. Typical nicknames included Kristofer Dumontua, Napoleon, and the French Ambassador. Some popular phrases we directed towards Chris D were “Shut the fuck up you french-fry motherfucker” or “Don’t be pissed, I’m sorry the French Revolution is over.” Chris D was very fond of replying to these remarks or any other form of verbal rebuke directed towards him by squinting his little ferret eyes and hissing the words “Suck my fat dick!” through a mouth full of braces. It was a slow night of partying if he uttered these four words less than three times.
“What the fuck is wrong with that kid?” Mitchell asked.
I snorted. “You mean the gangster?”
“Is he still claiming to be a Blood?”
My shoulders shrugged. “He’s toned it down, but yeah.”
Blake snorted. “He doesn’t wear red shirts every day anymore, but he makes sure the orthodontist puts red rubber bands in his braces.”
I laughed. “And his cherry Skoal tobacco case is red too.”
Mitchell thoughtfully rubbed his goatee. “Isn’t Chris D from
“Yeah,” I replied.
“You guys know that Boca is one of the wealthiest places in
I shook my head in bemusement. “That’s the weirdest thing about the kid. He’s a fucking paradox. One minute he’s throwing up gang signs and then five minutes later he’s bragging to some girl about how rich his parents are.”
Mitchell snorted. “The
“That kid is the worst,” Blake sneered. “He’s my boy, but he’s the fucking worst.”
“Yeah, he is,” I agreed. “But he’d throw down for you and that’s all that matters.”
Blake shrugged dubiously. “Whatever. I’m gonna get another beer.”
The annoyed young man walked off towards the keg and Mitchell’s hazel eyes followed him.
“Blake hates that shit, huh?” he asked.
“What? Gangster wanabes?”
“Yeah.”
I shrugged. “He grew up in
Mitchell grinned. “It is a big fucking show, isn’t it? Chris D is a master of theatrics.”
My lip curled scornfully. “Kids like him are the poster boys of the suburban youth tough guy complex.”
“Yup.”
“Chris D took us to some party last year his boys from High School were throwing. It was filled with guys just like him—thugged out rich kids who watched one too many rap videos.” I grinned at my friend and added, “You would’ve fit right in!”
“Fuck you.”
“Nah, these kids were terrible. Real pranksters. There was one guy with a sideways visor who kept talking about how he and his boys were gonna run a train on some girl O.G. style.”
Mitchell made a face.
I nodded. “Yeah, man, it was bad. Blake got pissed and stole two cases of rap CDs.”
“How’d he do that?”
“He stuffed them up his shirt and walked them out to the car. I saw the cases when we left. He gave me a Blake shrug and said Fuck those kids!”
Mitchell laughed. “That’s funny as shit.”
A thoughtful expression formed on my face. “You know what though…I hate that shit too. I used to be one of those kids, but I didn’t have a choice. I went to a High School that was about ten percent white.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, man. If you looked or acted like a white boy, you got fucked with every day. But kids like Chris D act the way they do because MTV tells them it’s fucking cool.”
After the incident with the bottle, the rest of the night passed by uneventfully and the party started winding down. Allison and I said goodbye to our friends and walked to her nearby apartment where she was living with a cute sorority girl named Debbie. Since I slept over at Allison’s apartment nearly every night, her virgin roommate was constantly forced to endure the sound of us having wall pounding sex.
“Do you think your roommate is home?” I asked.
“Probably,” Allison answered. “Debbie never stays out too late. Why?”
“No reason,” I replied, glancing away to hide a smile. For some reason, the thought of her innocent roommate listening to us have loud, animalistic sex always turned me on.
“Is that Chris D up there?” Allison asked.
I peered down the road and nodded. “Yeah, look at his drunk ass stumbling around. Fucking French Bastard.”
“Where do you think he’s going?”
“Chris D!” I shouted after him. “Where you going, motherfucker?”
The red-haired young man swung around like he was ready to fight somebody again. When he saw I was friend, not foe, he started walking towards us with a gangster limp.
“Are you alright, man?” I asked. “You looked pretty fucked up.”
“I’m straight, dogg. I’m heading to some party around the corner to meet up with my boys. You want to come?”
I shook my head. “Nah, man. We’re gonna call it a night. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
“Aight. Later, dogg. Later, Allison.”
We parted ways with the Boca Raton Gangster and he staggered off down the street. He seemed semi-coherent, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he slept that night in a ditch.
The following morning, I received an 11:27 AM phone call from Moody.
“What up, playa?” I answered.
“What’s up, man. You still sleeping?”
“Just getting up now. What’s going on? Is your place a mess?”
“It’s not too bad. Nothing the pledges can’t handle.
‘What happened with that little freshman blonde?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
This odd reply was obviously code. I chuckled and asked, “She’s right there next to you, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice.”
“I know,” he grinned through the phone. “So what’s the deal with your boy?”
“Who?”
“Chris D. He came walking in here early this morning with a black eye and a bloody lip.”
I quickly slapped at Allison’s hand which was teasingly playing with my morning wood. My eyes relayed to her that this was a serious conversation demanding my full attention.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “What the fuck happened?”
“I don’t know. He said he doesn’t remember.”
“Are you serious? We saw him walking to some party last night. He was pretty fucking wasted. Maybe he hit on the wrong girl or tried to be tough with the wrong group of kids and they jumped his ass.”
“Yeah…probably.”
“Have you checked on him since he went into his room?”
“I tried to, but his door is locked and he won’t open it. I think he’s out cold.”
Allison’s hand moved to my cock again. My dick happy girlfriend wanted morning sex.
“Fuck it,” I declared. “He’s probably just embarrassed and wants to make it seem like the only reason he lost a fight was because he was so drunk he can’t even remember fighting in the first place. Let me call you later.”
“Later.”
I hung up the phone and smiled. It was time to wake up Allison’s innocent roommate.
