Grundish & Askew by Lance Carbuncle Page A

reunite it with its masticated other half. Grundish holds the open end of the nugget bag toward Askew, offering him his friendship with a side of trans-fat-soaked, breaded mystery lumps.
    “Naw,” Askew shakes his head and peers into the Beef Palace bag. “I gots me some a’ my own.” He extracts two bags of mystery nuggets and sets one on the coffee table beside a still-sleeping Turleen. He pulls out one nugget and sets it on the pillow just under her nose. The old lady stirs, nostrils flaring. A light trickle of saliva runs out of the side of her mouth, hangs briefly on her cheek, then drops and soaks into the fabric of the couch. Studying his own mystery bag, Askew pulls out a lump half the size of his fist and bites into it like chomping on an apple. His face twists. Confusion dawns on the features. His thumb and pointer finger probe the inside of his mouth, searching through the mushy mass of fried mung and extract a beak. Askew holds the beak twelve inches before his eyes and examines the tooth marks scraped on the curious bird part. [12] “Dammmn,” he smiles, “I got me fried chicken parts. And I thought I scored the jackpot with a giant corn-fritter.” The smile is less complete than before biting into the parts-fritter – a fragment is absent from the right front tooth.
    “Damn, dawg. It looks like you chipped your tooth,” says Grundish. He pops a full nugget into his mouth. “Mmmm, corn.”
    Askew’s tongue explores the rough edge of the chip, “Aww, it ain’t that bad.
For all intensive purposes
it don’t make no difference. So long as I can still hold a cigarette between my teeth, I can’t get too upset about it. “
    “I thought you were gonna quit smoking.”
    “I am. Next month. I can still puff away right now while I’m getting used to the idea, right?
    “Yeah, I guess so.” Grundish grabs a fried salad roll-up from the bag and starts in on it. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that talk we had about the Fuckers.”
    “The Fuckers?”
    “Yeah, the Fuckers.” Grundish wads up the greasy paper from his fried salad wrap and throws it at Askew. The wad bounces off of Askew’s forehead. “Are you daft, Boy? The Fuckers. We talked about this two nights ago. The people that shit on us. The people that just don’t belong in society. Ms. Velda. The Buttwynns. Remember? The Fuckers.”
    “Yep. I remember now.” Askew gets up and grabs two beers, one for himself and one serving of hair of the dog for Grundish. “Matter of fact, I had a delivery to Buttwynn, today.” He nods his head and smiles. “And I got the fucker.”
    “What’d you do?”
    “I shook his pizza really hard so that the cheese would stick to the top of the box. That’ll teach him to be such a shitty tipper.”
    “Yeah, Buddy. I applaud your efforts. You’ve got the right attitude. But you’re pussing out. You need to do something more. Really show him he’s a Fucker.” Grundish chugs his malted brew. The throb of the hangover begins to back off. He dips a breaded frumunda cheese [13] stick in ranch dressing and shoves the whole stick in his mouth.
    “Like what? I don’t want to lose my job.”
    “You do two things for me and I’ll tell you what to do. Number one, go get me another beer. And B, put another mystery nugget under Turleen’s nose. That one you gave her is gone. She probably wants another.”
    Turleen’s nugget is gone, even though neither Askew nor Grundish saw her eat it. And she is still asleep. Askew gently places another nugget under her nose. Again, the old lady stirs, nostrils flaring. Another trickle of saliva runs out of the side of her mouth, hangs briefly on her cheek, then adds more moistness to the already-stained upholstery.
    “Well, here’s another beer. Now, you tell me what to do.”
    “I can’t give you specifics. I can only lead by example,” Grundish says. “Like what I’m getting ready to do. Take notes if you like, and learn from the best.”
    “What are you