By staff writer Mitch Cundiff

I do not like the city of Austin. Not because it is the capital of the great state of Texas, but for other reasons. I have never seen such a collection of freaks and bums in my life. I can not walk down the street without getting hassled for spare change, or almost getting run over by some douchebag riding a fucking unicycle. As I write this, I cannot determine whether or not these thoughts were developed after numerous trips, or if I developed them after my first trip to this shit-hole of a city. You see, on my first trip to Austin I was almost killed by one man, then almost raped by another man. Then I cried.

The night started off normally enough. We were in our hotel room drinking Jager and Red Bull getting ready to go to a strip club. For one reason or another, we decided to take an adventure to the lobby. We were sitting around on the sofas laughing at some heifers who were checking in, when a black man walked in. You could even go as far as to call him a “thug.” Ourselves, being white guys, hoped to elevate our cool status by chatting with this roughneck gentleman.

Me (drunk): What up dawg?!
Guy: Man, my ride didn’t come get me, I’m fuckin’ stranded.

The conversation continued and he seemed like a pretty decent guy, so, us being the good Samaritans we are, we invited him to our room. We got to the room and everyone was officially drunk. They asked who our new friend was, and we explained his situation. Someone (not me) invited him to go to the strip club with us. He smiled to reveal his gold plated grill, which impressed everyone. I, however, was not impressed; I only roll with platinum.

Life is a highway, I wanna RIIIDE you ALL NIGHT LONG.

We hit the road, and I rode with John. John thinks he is black, so he was playing some “screwed” song that made me want to cut my ears off and throw them out the window. By the way, our friend’s name was Ja-rell. I wish you could hear him say it because there was such a pause between “Ja” and “rell” that I thought it was his first and last name. After a ride of John trying to be cool, we arrived at our destination.

This is when the whole night started to go wrong.

Ja-rell: Shit y’all, I don’t have any money, can y’all spot me sum?
Us: Uh, sorry man.
Ja-rell: Fuck y’all, I don’t need this shit, I’ll sneak in!
Us: Yeah, whatever.

I thought this would be the last time we would see Ja-rell. I was actually kind of sad, then I thought about the prospective vagina awaiting us and my sadness faded into oblivion—a very dark, hairy oblivion with the scent of lady parts masked by too much perfume and cigarette smoke.

Ja-rell sauntered off into the darkness of the parking lot, and our agenda turned to getting someone to smuggle our beer in for us because we were all too young. There was a group of about four guys sitting in the back of a pickup drinking beer, and I, being drunk and bold, decided to approach them.

Me: Hey man (hiccup) wil yoo bring this en for (hiccup) us??
Guy: Uh, what’s in it for us?
Me: Yoo can hav som (hickup) of our beerz.
Guy: Okay.

I think this guy thought that “some” of our beers meant “all” of them because when we approached him in the club he denied having any of them. We weren’t really in a position to argue though, as the large X’s on our hands indicated. As the vagina-smoke mixture filled my lungs, the hairs on my arms rose. We had encountered a few snags, but now we were finally here. Paradise.

I have never seen such a collection of sexed out, scarred, and weather worn strippers in my life. The ones who didn’t have bruises, had scars. The ones who didn’t have scars, probably had 10 different kinds of AIDS. One of them had such a potbelly, I thought a heaping pile of babies would spill onto the dance floor while she was making the rounds. Most of their vaginas looked like they were pieced together from various other vaginas. Non-human vaginas. ANYWHO, we were not going to let these under-bit dick puppets ruin our adventure. We parked into a circle of four chairs and let the good times roll.

One stripper came right over and sat in my lap. I told her I didn’t have any money, but that was just code for “I don’t want scabies.” She took a hike and ventured to Dawson’s lap. The last time a girl came that close to Dawson’s lap, his mom was bending him over her knee and giving him a spanking, so naturally, he did not complain. I scanned the room for any attractive women whilst the stripper coaxed Dawson into a lap dance. Even though Dawson’s stripper had fallen off the ugly tree, I was willing to look past the armpit stubble and crack sores to see her for what she was: a naked chick. She wasted no time in getting naked, and did the usual lap dance routine: ass in face, titty shake on head, vaginal exposition, ass in face. But, on the second time around for the ass shake, she held it for a little bit longer, and Dawson’s face turned from one of ecstasy to one of horror. He didn’t say anything though, and let her finish the dance while he stared into oblivion. He handed her the twenty dollars, and she got her shit and left.

Me: Dawson, what the fuck happened?!
Dawson: I’m not sure… I don’t really know.
Me: What? You have to know, out with it!
Dawson: …She opened her butthole at me.
Dawson (still stunned): It looked like it was breathing, man…

Our good friend had not yet encountered a flaring butthole. This was his first time to a titty bar so he was not accustomed to stripper mating calls. We calmed down, and the reality set in that we needed beer, and lots of it, to salvage this night. We scouted the nearest victim. A middle-aged balding man with glasses and an ice cold bucket of beer to his right. He was distracted by the Jello wrestling in the middle of the club, so it was pretty easy to steal the beer. At one point, someone dropped a beer, and the familiar *clank* sound echoed. The guy looked back to see four smiling faces, all holding beers, then looked down at his own bucket to find it almost empty. I’m sure he considered saying something, but what would one old fat man do against four drunk 18-year-olds? He turned back around and put the bucket in his lap. That fucking coward.

We all got a lap dance or two, and were actually having a pretty good time. Strangely enough, the women even got more attractive. Weird how alcohol does that. Then, without any fucking warning at all, Ja-rell plops down onto a chair next us.

Us: Holy shit! It’s Ja-rell, what the fuck?!? How’d you get in?!
Ja-rell: Y’all shut the fuck up, we have to go. NOW.
Me: What? You just got here!
Ja-rell: NOW.

We all looked at each other and came to the consensus that we didn’t want to aid a fucking criminal, so we left. I prayed that Ja-rell would not get in our car, because all I wanted to do was get to the hotel room, jerk off, and go to sleep. I don’t feel the need to explain it, but after about an hour of
debating, John and I ended up taking Ja-rell home.

Ja-rell was fucking pissed. Between him bitching in the back seat, and John playing the music way too loud, I was irate. I decided it would be a good idea to tell Ja-rell how much of a burden he had been all night, and that no one liked him. Funny how alcohol contributes to these situations.

Now, Ja-rell had said that he lived in South Austin, so we kept asking him which streets to turn down. But he would not answer, and continued to just tell us to turn left or right. This was very disconcerting because parts of South Austin are not exactly, well, fucking livable. I had never really been to the ghetto, and this blind left-right game into the side streets, along with a potentially dangerous man we had never met before in our back seat, made me a little paranoid. Just to be safe, I took all of my shit, (phone, wallet, etc.), and stuffed them under the front seat—a pretty coherent move at the time, now that I think about it, considering how sloppy I was. We pulled up to a light and sat there for a couple of minutes and everything was very quiet. The music was off, and nobody said a word. I was on edge, but decided to speak up politely.

Me: Hey man, we’ve all had a long night, can you just get out here and walk?
Ja-rell: No. Fuck you. Keep driving.

I jumped out of the front seat and grabbed Ja-rell’s shirt and tried pulling him out. John was yelling something, but I could not understand it. This is when I see Ja-rell, still in the car, reach in his back pocket and grab something long and silver that shimmered in the light. It could have been a fucking toothbrush holder, or it could have been a gun, but I wasn’t going to stay around long enough to find out which one. I ran my ass off down the street, constantly looking back to see Ja-rell still chasing me. I heard what sounded like a car crash, but kept running and hopping fences until I lost Ja-rell.

I sat in a backyard until I could catch my breath, then tried to assess the situation. There I was, trapped in the fucking ghetto, drunk as shit, with no clue where I could be. I reached into my pocket to get my cell phone so I could call John. FUCK. I left my phone in John’s car.

My first instinct told me to head to the highway and walk east from there. Or… fuck, was it west? My sense of direction was completely fucked up so I just starting walking randomly. You know those moments when you feel completely helpless and in no control of your destiny? This was one of those moments; I was totally lost. I found my way to what seemed like a busy street and starting jogging. I was so desperate I would have stopped a car and asked for directions, but it was around 2:00 in the morning and everyone was either asleep or getting robbed by guys like Ja-rell, so the streets were empty. I could have been getting a butthole flared in my face at that moment, but instead, this.

I jogged for about another hour when I spotted a car dealership coming into view. Holy shit, dealerships are always on the interstate! Never in my life had I been so happy to see 1% APR financing on all pre-owned vehicles. I would have bought them all. I ran through the lot, and low and behold, the nurturing bosom of I-35 awaited my footsteps. I needed to go north, so I looked up at the signs and got going. My sense of urgency was no longer pressing because I knew where the hell I was—so I just walked. It was actually sort of nice outside. Crackheads scampering, prostitutes sucking. I was listened to the sounds of the city one comes to enjoy.

Well, about three hours into my walk, my drunkenness started wearing off and it started to get pretty muggy outside. I took my shirt off and slung it over my shoulders, leaving only my cut-off undershirt on. I walked on the side of the frontage road when a Chevy Blazer pulled by me very slowly. It was a man driving—a black man, not as if that was very important. He continued creeping along and pulled onto a side street about half a mile ahead of me. This was kind of unnerving, but there was nothing I could really do about it.

I came up on the street where he turned and he was sitting in his car with the lights off, engine still running. As soon as he saw me approach the street, he flipped his lights back on and drove towards me. I was like a deer in headlights and just stood there. Then, he rolled down his window and said something.

Guy: Hey dawg.
Me: Ugh, hi.
Guy: You lookin’ pretty sexy there dawg.
Me: Huh, what the fuck?!

It was kind of hard to see him because of the headlights, but he was definitely holding something. My first thought was “Oh shit, I hope he doesn’t hit me with it and rape me.” Then I got a better look and… OH MY GOD. This dude was PLEASURING HIMSELF. I instantly realized what was happening and freaked out.

I didn’t say anything, I just turned and ran. He said something, but I couldn’t understand it. Again, I found myself hopping fences, but made sure I knew where the interstate was. Did this just happen? Why me? I ran for what seemed like an eternity. Invisible black wieners were chasing me, hitting me over the head, causing me to run faster. Two hours later, I saw a familiar site. It was the bridge that led to our hotel. I was so happy, but so fucking tired at the same time. Again, I decided it was safe to walk. My feet felt like lead weights and I’m sure my balls smelled something fierce. Then I could see it: our hotel.

It stood magnificent, casting a shadow over the street from the newly risen sun. I passed a bum on the street clutching a bottle of Tussin, mumbling incoherently at me. I did not even look at him. I hate bums, and after almost getting killed and raped, he was the last thing on my mind. I blindly floated toward the hotel, its incandescent lighting and freshly pressed sheets a luxury I was looking forward to. I ascended the elevator to the 4th floor and swayed down the hallway, unable to grasp what had just happened to me, let alone how I had made it back. I banged on the door and someone answered.

Someone: Mike? Wha… what the fuck? Where’d you come from? *Yawn*
Me: Out of my way.

I walked right past him, fell into the bed, and immediately went to sleep.

Wehn I woke up in the morning and told everyone what had happened, no one fucking believed me. After all the trauma I had been through the previous night, I was insulted. Well, their minds all changed when John entered the room looking just as tired as I was. He confirmed everything, except when I was almost impaled by the gentleman in the Blazer; he laughed his ass off at that.

Oh, and the accident I heard as I was running from Ja-rell? That was John. He spun his car around to come after me and slammed right into a lamp post, completely fucking up his car. By the time he got it running, Ja-rell and I were long gone. He said he was going up and down the interstate looking for me all morning, but I find that hard to believe because I was on it for at least four hours. Fuck you, John.

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