Sarah Weinman - Sex, Thugs, Roll, and Rock & Roll

Beardy, wasting no time, missed the miniscule drop of blood on the champion’s nostril by an inch with his Q-Tip, sinking it right into Scuzzy’s left eye.

As the buzzing pain shot through bone and marrow, Scuzzy rocketed off his stool, oblivious to Viddi’s foot on his own, plummeting facefirst onto the canvas.

“You okay, comrade?” inqueried Viddi, snarling at Beardy before Scuzzy could answer. “You broke his beak, you muttonhead.” Viddi brandished the empty Alabama Mama bottle at his cutman-in-training. “You KO’d our guy, you dumb beatnik. Gimme that smelling salt.”

“Eh, strictly speaking…” Beardy looked around, furtively.

“We have but one recourse,” slurred Viddi, pointing to Scuzzy’s snoot.

“Is always this way?” Prompted by some avatistic sense of caution, Scuzzy covered his nose with his glove.

In the opposite corner, Referee Thorndigger took a hurried peek at Mambo’s mangled face and shook his head as the sullen cornermen administered to the scars of defeat covering his proud visage.

“No two ways about it. We’re seeing this thing through.” Viddi grabbed Scuzzy’s nose with both hands. “One day you’ll thank me for this,” reassured Viddi as he began realigning Scuzzy’s nozzle.

“What’s up with Scooter?” asked Referee Thorndigger as Scuzzy tried desperately to extricate his nose from Viddi’s grasp.

“He’s just excited to be in America.” Viddi’s response was drowned by the cracking of Scuzzy’s nose.

With the blood from his cleft schnozzle spouting profusely all over the canvas, the Bucharest Brawler sprinted in wild pursuit of Viddi around the ring, peppering him with expletives seldom heard even in the roughest nautical haunts of the Rumanian capital.

Before Thorndigger waved the match off, Mambo had long left the ring, pronouncing his professional integrity compromised.

A postfight medical examination of YMCU champion Dimitri Sciatscu, the Bucharest Brawler, revealed the most formidable amount of illegal substances found in any athlete in recorded history-absinthe, tequila, Norwegian wormwood liquor, PCP, peyote juice, lighter fluid, motor oil, juniper sapling juice, nitroglycerine, liberal doses of Danish Jolly Cola, barnyard cocaine, Grand Marnier, Old Spice, and six substances yet to be identified. The Katzenjammer Twins contemplated instituting legal proceedings against the New York State Boxing Commission for divulging the secret ingredients of their new concoction, patent pending in Uruguay and all three Baltic States.

Dimitri Sciatscu was never seen or heard from in the United States of America again. Rumor has it he became a gymnastics instructor in his native village of Timisobiurest and left for a holiday resort in southeastern Bulgaria every time a local boxing match was announced.

Wallace Beerbauer, head of security at The Banana Ballroom, was issued strict orders to shoot Viddi on sight should he ever show his face within a ten-block radius of the establishment.

Thus ended the only match in boxing history where a fighter was disqualified for attempting to strangle his own trainer in the middle of the ring with a championship belt that has yet to be claimed by anyone in the muddled world of leather and glory.

When Dad paid for art school, they never said anything about career possibilities. Not for a fine arts degree at least. Although, if they had, I’m sure it wouldn’t have included drawing a giant Mexican force-feeding his giant cock to a drawing of a chick with giant tits.

Maybe I should explain.

I had to run away to Mexico. Drug charge, too pretty for jail, blah, blah. I’m far from my father’s hard-knocks upbringing.

“I brought myself up with these two hands. I fought tooth and fucking nail, every day, for the shit you take for granted!”

Whatever, Dad. It all amounts to having to draw cartoon rape and giant cock. For pesos no less.

It sucks.

Well, not for me directly, but for this one drawing I’m doing? Well, all I can say is I hope this girl’s colon is double-jointed.

When I got caught with some drugs-to be specific: two hundred vics, 150 percs, a shitload of reds, and a handful of whites (or at least what looked like whites), half kilo of smack, bundled and ready to go, and a half pound of weed-I got caught with a dealer friend of mine’s entire inventory. Noah’s ark for the drug addict. I know it sounds unbelievable, but it’s actually pretty simple.

“Hey, can I leave this here for a couple days?”

“Sure, man.”

Just like that, I’m fucked. Well, there might be more to it than that, but you get the picture.

So now I’m in Mexico City. Drawing giant Mexican cock. Which is great. Hey, fuck you. At least I’m making money off my artisticness, or something.

Now, I don’t know what the stereotype is for the great people of Mexico. The Irish and the Asians are supposed to be tiny. Black people are rumored to be huge-it’s part of the reason I fled to Mexico. In jail I’m sure I would have ended life as a condom.

So, what’s the common misconception? Because most of the Mexican women I’ve seen are pretty small. If all the guys down here are walking around with that shit hanging between their legs, then I just feel bad.

Inadequate, but bad.

So I got arrested, somebody was looking for the drug dealer, but they found me. It didn’t help my case that I had looked in the bag, and by looked I mean rifled through it and taken two of fucking everything. What a great weekend. I mean, I don’t remember shit, but it must have been great.

I threw a huge party. I invited everybody. I parceled out the contents of the bag.

I did not, however, invite la policia. Somebody else must have.

“No, Officer, I am not a drug ‘dealer.’ I gave all those drugs away for free! They weren’t even mine!”

Nope. Nope, I’m drawing Mexican cock and violent rape cartoons and living in Mexico City.

When I got down here, I had no prospects. So with that and a pocket of money (courtesy of Dad), I ended up in a bar.

Crossing the border wasn’t a problem. My court date wasn’t for a few months and Dad’s attorney convinced everyone I wasn’t a flight risk. He was there when Dad sent me off. In fact we both got envelopes. His was fatter by far, and he echoed my father’s sentiments with a grunt of assent.

“I don’t ever want to see you again, you hear?” Dad held my eyes while the lawyer grunted and looked into his envelope. Asshole.

“Okay, Dad,” I said, and my heart was in it. I mean, Dad never wanted to see me again. I’d been praying for that most of my life. Also, we both know what prison would be like, better heartbreak than ass-rape.

So this was a good thing. Let’s just hope ass-fucking isn’t a national sport in Mexico the way I heard it was in jail. Word to the wise-if you’re ever thinking about doing something that could land you in prison? Watch Oz …seriously, ’cause if that shit’s even half true, fuck that. Oz is about the worst concept on earth. It’s a soap opera for dudes…Wait, I’m not finished…mostly about dudes, and heavily involving penetration of either meat or knife variety.

Either way, no, thanks.

So I got in the car and did what I was told to do. I drove and never looked back.

Hey, you know what the hardest part of drawing a big dick is? Not the head itself, that’s easy-it’s the fucking veins. They’re a pain in the ass. You need them to wrap correctly and make it look cylindrical. I fuck up more veins on dicks than anything else. A pussy is east to draw-it’s either a vertical line with a bunch of short strokes for hair, or it’s a vertical oval filled with something. Easy. Give me pussy any day over dick. Even as an artist I’m straight.