The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [64]
“Yeah, I’d play more, but I can’t get more perfect than perfect,” he said, strutting around.
“Good. Now put some fucking clothes on; I’m sick of looking at your naked ass.”
“I’m not naked.” Pickles tipped his shades so he could just see over the rims. “I got sunglasses on!” He then bounded over to his locker and started putting on real clothes.
Frenchy and Brent selected two-player mode now that the master was done. Frenchy picked up the extra guitar, but Brent just stared at Pickles, not wanting to touch it because “the master” had rubbed his junk all over it. “You need to clean your guitar off when you’re done, Pickles. It’s got wiener sweat on it.”
“I know. It’s how I mark my territory,” Pickles said, jerking up a pair of sliders.
“That’s sick,” the irritated Brent complained. Staring at Pickles’ guitar, Brent slumped his shoulders and went into the training room to get a pair of rubber gloves and some sanitary wipes.
While he was gone, Seth stole the remote and changed the channel to something other than video games. No one griped much. Guitar Hero is live in concert every day in our clubhouse, so a break is always welcome.
Seth changed the channel to some elimination date show on MTV, and again the boys were transfixed. Tiny walked in shortly thereafter. Slappy clapped his hands together and greeted him with, “Well, well, well. Look who it is. How you feeling today, broken arrow?”
“I’ve felt better,” Tiny said. He walked to his locker and sat down on his dressing stool. His face was like a bad watercolor portrait. He made changing into his uniform look like a workout.
“I’m surprised you don’t have some incurable rash growing on your face from sleeping in the bathroom last night,” I said.
“I suppose Slappy told you everything.” Slappy just put his hands up as if to say, “What did you expect?”
“Yeah, man, I can’t believe you heaved on the clubhouse floor,” I continued. “This is my fourth year here, and I don’t remember anyone puking in the clubhouse.”
“I did?” Tiny asked. He was in mid change, about to put on his shorts, but stopped to check out the place I was pointing to. “I don’t remember that one. I remember puking in the bathroom, but not there on the floor. Remind me to tip Ephrian for cleaning it up.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Slappy said, grinning maliciously. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble forgetting this stunt. Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“You’re one to talk Slap-nuts,” Tiny said. “You made out with one of the front-office chicks last night. You fucking savage. You took her into the kitchen and sucked her face for like an hour!” Tiny thought he had some dirt on Slappy, but you could never have dirt on Slappy because he didn’t care. He once slept with a chick who was so hammered on cranberry and vodka that she puked on him in the elevator before he got her back to his hotel room. He took off his shirt and they did their thing. The next day when she was sober, he made her buy him a new shirt. Then he never called her again. Standard Slappy operating procedure.
“Yeah, I did make out with her,” Slappy said, nodding his head with pride. “And then, get this, and then, Buschmann took her home! I hope he realized I got her warmed up for him! God, girls are such sluts. They try and make you think they’re not, but they are!” he said, oblivious to anything that may have made him look bad.
“You didn’t tell me that part Slap,” I said. “Which girl was it?”
“I don’t know. The only fucking one that looked decent out of the pack.”
“You must have been really drunk—they were all bad looking.”
“I was. That’s normally how I end up with most of the chicks I get with.” Slappy was completely unashamed.
Tiny shook his head as he pulled up his long, uniform socks. “No shame at all. Zero. What a savage.”
“Why am I a savage? She’s the one that made out with me, then left with Buschmann. She’s worse than I am. I’m telling you, girls, all of them—sluts.” Slappy was so passionate about certain things that he made you question your own position, even as you realized he was completely nuts. He