Part 6: What does Fred Savage eat on Thanksgiving?
Ten minutes after I met him in the men’s room, Fred Savage had thoroughly jacked my B.A.L.L.S.
Now, if you’ve been following along so far, you understand the context of that statement and derive nothing untoward about it. If, for some inexplicable reason (maybe disinterest or dyslexia) or just to spite societal conventions, you’ve chosen to read this before the previous chapter, now would be the right time to go “tee hee hee”.
Earlier, I had mocked Fred Savage. I alleged that his star had peaked and plummeted a decade-and-a-half ago. Typical American naiveté. Fred Savage never went anywhere; in certain circles, he has as much juice now as he did during The Wonder Years. In fact, Fred Savage is huge in Europe. He’s what the French call “La Shiznit”.
Of the seven newly knighted members of my badass soldiers, only two were still breathing. Bobby’s head and spine had been ripped out, just like Billy in Predator and, I think, Robert Blake’s wife. Ross and Tony had been impaled on table legs and staked to the mirror behind the bar. And as for Don… Well, I imagine the family member’s of the children he raped probably feel that having a whole bottle of Seagram’s 7 jammed up his rectum was, to some degree, karma. Just before Dennis died, he wept over his friend’s body, blubbering like a fat hippopotamus would blubber if its pedophile rhino buddy had been killed.
Even Jackie had been incapacitated. He dangled from a ceiling fan, tied up in his own lasso and drooling onto the table under which Hoochie McCrackslut was hiding.
Fred Savage paced back and forth atop the bar. He had stripped off his denim shirt and jeans, now wearing just a loincloth that didn’t even cover the butt tattoo that said Little Monsters ’89. He snarled and chomped on parts of Ross’s innards. He seemed oblivious to the broken booze-covered glass that his bare feet crunched down upon.
Only Walker, Angel and Bruiser stood against him. Walker fired from his six-shooter and Angel got close enough to swipe at Fred Savage’s legs with Angry Kitty-style scratch attacks. Bruiser had thrown chairs and tables and bottles and candles, even the dart board, though curiously not any of the darts. Finally, he had no choice but to rush Fred Savage with the big-ass bowie knife all bikers are required to keep in their boot sheath.
“Rrrrrrrrrrr…….Feast….rrrrrrrrr,” Fred Savage growled after Bruiser sliced open his belly and shoulder.
“I’m gonna stab you right in the motherfucking heart!” Bruiser shouted and lunged forward with the tip of his blade pointed directly at the spot he had declared.
It’s impossible for me to know what Bruiser or any one else was thinking that night when all this horrific shit went down. If I could know, I suppose, this would be a much different story. Probably gay-er. The point is: I can’t know for certain, but I imagine immediately after saying “I’m gonna stab you right in the motherfucking heart” Bruiser regretted it. Had he known these would be the last words he would ever say, he might have come up with a better last line, something like “Tis a far, far better thing I do,” or “I love you, Charlene,” or “Night Ranger is God!”
Or, hey, maybe he would have said, “I’m gonna stab you right in the motherfucking head,” and when Fred Savage went to block his face, Bruiser could have then delivered the killing strike right to his motherfucking heart.
But, sadly, that wasn’t what happened. Bruiser stabbed right for the heart. And Fred Savage, knowing exactly what part of his body was in danger thanks to Bruiser’s bold and premature declaration, deflected the attack. He snapped Bruiser’s wrist and sent the bowie knife flying across the room.
While all this carnage was going on, you might ask what the hell I was doing. Well, first of all, any one of you who witnessed this would have shit out your mouth in utter terror, so check your goddamn tone with me!
Second, my job was done. Walker brought me in to help identify the enemy and I did just that. Right after Dennis was beaten to death with the stumps of his own arms, I nudged Walker and said, “That’s four former child-stars I’ve seen. I’m sure that’s technically a streak.” Also, I’m a lover not a fighter.
Bruiser’s limbless torso sailed over my head. As I watched it crash through the window and skip across Lankershim like a stone on a pond, I heard Jackie calling my name (sort of).
“Hey—Volcanic Clitoris—get me down from here!”
But how, I wondered. He was bound tight with his lasso and swinging from the fan. I couldn’t just untie him—Jackie’s lasso had mystic powers, unless that was just bullshit he said to impress me. Then I spotted the answer—Bruiser’s bowie knife had stuck in the wall a couple feet away from me. I rolled across broken bottles and yanked the blade out.
So far, I hadn’t been crazy enough to challenge Fred Savage, but a sudden jolt of heroic bravado was surging through me. A voice in my head that sounded strangely like 500 year-old Tom Waits said, “Sure, you could walk over and cut him down… if you’re a pussy.”
“A pussy I ain’t,” I said, and gripped the knife blade between thumb and forefinger.
“Who’re you talking to?” Jackie asked, then seeing what I was doing, shouted, “Don’t you dare!”
But I dared and I threw the knife across the room right at the taut line of rope suspending Jackie in midair.
“Motherfrrrrrrrrrr,” Jackie howled, “You got my leg, fucker!”
Indeed, the knife aimed so purposefully at the rope had instead come to rest in Jackie’s shin, two inches below (in this case above) his knee. The blood that dripped down landed on Hoochie McCrackslut, who was still cowering under the table. Jackie’s blood trickled in her hair and she freaked.
She knocked into Walker in her panic. He dove for the gun that had fallen from his hand and Angel somersaulted away from Fred Savage as he leapt forward. Fred Savage grabbed Hoochie and pinned her against a table. She screamed, and kept screaming even after he ripped the flesh right off her face.
This was too much for me. The last of my elite cadre was gone. I loved that woman.
Extreme close-up, slow-motion, I shouted, “[HOO-CHIE]!!!” or whatever her name was.
And, for the first time since our fun conversation in the men’s room, Fred Savage noticed me.
I wasn’t afraid anymore. I pushed aside a table and started marching right towards him. He wiped his forehead with Hoochie’s skin and then mopped his sweaty chest and armpits. I unbuttoned my orange flannel shirt and slung it over the back of a chair. Then I cracked my knuckles and got right in Fred Savage’s face.
Faster than he could imagine, I grabbed him around the neck with both hands, pulled his face to mine and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Fredo,” I whispered, “you broke my heart.”
Then I threw up all over him.
After the thirty-something Vodka and Cranberries I drank, my vomit looked red as blood. I figure Fred Savage must have assumed it actually was blood because he opened his mouth to catch some of it.
From across the bar, I heard Jackie laughing and saying, “Who’s the Wizard now, bitch?”
Before I could move, Fred Savage spread his jaws wide and sank his teeth into the top of my head.
Yeah, that’s right, Fred Savage bit into my head like a mango and that’s the last thing I remember for a long time.
I woke up in the hospital with doctors and police asking me all sorts of questions. I wouldn’t answer any of them until I heard what happened from Walker.
The rest of the battle I’ve pieced together from Walker, Angel and Jackie’s testimony. Apparently, right after it looked like I died, Angel went full-on Angry Kitty and started hacking away at Fred Savage’s face with her cat-scratches. He was barely able to get away from her before he stumbled right into Walker, who had just retrieved his gun.
“I’m gonna kick you right in the motherfucking nuts!” Walker said, but when Fred Savage dropped his hands to protect his goodies, Walker shoved the barrel of his gun right in Fred Savage’s throat and unloaded. That’s my bro.
All their stories seem to corroborate this, although Jackie’s version includes him winning the Kentucky Derby and being declared TIME magazine’s “Cock of the Century”. That might be bullshit, but I wouldn’t know. I read Newsweek.
“So Fred Savage was possessed by the Indian demon spirit?” I asked Walker when they let him into my hospital room.
Walker exchanged nervous looks with the others. “Actually, no,” he said, “we’re pretty sure it was his brother Ben that turned out to be the demon.”
“Then why did Fred kill everybody at Rocky’s?”
“Hell if I know,” Walker confessed. “That’s just how he likes to party, I guess. The French don’t call him La Shiznit for nothing.”
We ended up keeping the whole fiasco pretty quiet. I told the police I didn’t remember anything because part of my brain was eaten. I also told them that missing part of my brain was what prevents me from furiously masturbating in public. Suckers.
Like I told you before, I wanted to keep this story to myself.
Maybe I’ve been afraid that by acknowledging what happened, I would be thrown into the same kinds of action and danger that Walker and Jackie are constantly in. Or maybe I kept silent out of respect for Walker who tried so hard to protect me in the aftermath. Then again, I had someone bite into my skull so maybe I don’t owe anybody an explanation why.
Anyway, now’s not the time for silence. Now is the time to embrace my “talent” because now’s when Walker and Jackie need it. My brother sent me a message: There’s a situation involving one of the kids from Saved by the Bell.
As I’m walking out the door, I hope it’s the black chick.
Back to Chapter 1