“Fucking French bastard.”



          Blake, Mitchell, and I continued to discuss fraternity affairs until the cheerful harmony of the party was once again interrupted by violence. A small keg party was being thrown at the apartment on the other side of the stairway. About twenty minutes after Backstreet’s altercation, a fight broke out at this party.

          “Fuck you!” I heard a male voice yell.

          “Nah, bitch!” screamed another guy. “Fuck you!”

          I glanced towards the shouting 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.

          “What the fuck?” he cried out in pain.

A third Latino grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him towards the stairway.

          “Let’s get out of here!” he screamed. “This guy is fucking crazy!”

          They fled down the stairs 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 bottle-wielding assailant who was now standing with two more Latinos. They were also watching the young men run away.

          “Fuck that kid,” cursed the assailant.

          “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.

It was at this moment that Chris D decided to get involved. He bull charged in the direction of the assailant like he was going to attack, but instead of attacking, he stopped in front of where we were standing and mad dog stared at the Latinos. It was only when Blake and I moved in front of Chris that he resumed his forward progression.

          “Chris D!” I exclaimed. “Relax, motherfucker!”

          Blake wrapped up Chris D in a chest-to-chest bear hug. The chubby thug struggled fiercely to break free, but Blake refused to let go.

          “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked irritably. “That shit 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 and returned to the party like nothing had happened. The Latinos hadn’t even noticed his outburst.

          “Fucking French Bastard,” Blake mumbled as Chris D walked away.

          “Fucking Frog,” I said.

          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 hell is wrong with that kid?” Mitchell asked.

          I snorted. “You mean the gangster?”

          “Is he still claiming to be a Blood?”

          “He’s toned it down, but yeah.”

          Blake chuckled. “He doesn’t wear red shirts every day anymore, but he makes sure the orthodontist puts red rubber bands in his braces.”

          I grinned. “His cherry Skoal tobacco case is red too.”

          Mitchell scratched his goatee. “Isn’t Chris D from Boca Raton?”


          “You guys know that Boca is one of the wealthiest places in Florida, don’t you? There aren’t any fucking gangs there. It’s big time money. The Boca Mall has a valet service that will park your car and wash it for you.”

          I shook my head, puzzled. “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 Boca Raton Gangster.”

          “That kid is the worst,” Blake sneered. “He’s my boy, but he’s the fucking worst.”

          “He’d throw down for you,” I said, “and that’s all that matters.”

          Blake shrugged dubiously. “Whatever. I’m getting 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?”


          I shrugged. “He grew up in Jersey. He’s seen some real shit, so he probably hates seeing rich kids putting on a show.”

          Mitchell grinned. “It is a big fucking show, isn’t it? Chris D is a master of theatrics.”

          “Kids like him are the poster boys of the suburban youth tough guy complex.”

“Pretty much.”

“He 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 this 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 snorted.

          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. When I saw the cases, 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.”


“I didn’t have a choice. I went to a High School that was about ten percent white.”

          “I didn’t know that.”

          “Yeah…if you looked 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 home to her nearby apartment. She was living with a cute Chi 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. Debbie never stays out late. Why?”

          “No reason,” I replied, glancing away to hide a smile. 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.

          “You alright, man?” I asked. “You look fucked up.”

“I’m straight, dogg. I’m going to some party 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?”



          “I know,” he grinned through the phone. “So what’s the deal with your boy?”


          “Chris D. He came walking in here early this morning with a black eye and a bloody lip.”

           I slapped at Allison’s hand which was teasingly playing with my morning wood. My eyes relayed to her this was a serious phone conversation.

          “What the fuck happened?” I asked.

          “I don’t know. He said he doesn’t remember.”

          “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 kids and they jumped his ass.”


          “Have you checked on him since he went into his room?”

          “I tried to, but his fucking 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.”


          I hung up the phone and smiled. It was time to wake up Allison’s innocent roommate.

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