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| The Tucker Cross |
I was renegading in Bermuda. Three years prior, I found my way to town after inadvertently passing out in a storage container bound for the islands. I’d been fucking around on this cargo ship, ya know, as I’d lured the captain of the dream boat with plans to rape n’ rob the candy-coated sonofabitch. Well, I had a shitload of ecstasy I’d lifted from some dirt bag kid the week before. I was hoping to hop a cruise ship and pass the shit out to all the old people, but instead decided to ingest it all whilst butt-fucking el capitano.
Anyway, I came to after three weeks stuffed into this fuckin’ box without food or water. I survived because I chewed off most of my love handles and munched on the occasional diseased rat. When I was finally dumped onto this rotting dock near the Maritime Museum, I’d lost forty pounds and was addicted to drinking urine. It really sucks to be addicted to urine, because you can’t chug the vile tincture from hell without puking your guts out (unless you’re a fucking psychotic Superman.)
So for the first few months, I ran around the island snatching at young man sucker-peckers. I grew these real nasty rat claws so I could tear open big boys’ britches with the force of a fucking jet turbine. I also developed this fucked up piece of property I still keep on the bathroom wall: a vacuum face mask, which would clasp to the tip of targeted man pecker and suck at the bladder, forcing relief from the victim. It was really fucked up. So I’d usually hop and skip around town, not really showering or sleeping or taking care of myself in any way. I looked like an unholy nightmare.
After about nine weeks of this nonsense, I was wrested from my toilet nest near the police station (copper piss is bliss) and forced into some sort of rehab program or some shit by a bunch of nuns. I was a real maniac for the first year of that god damned shit. Because I had lost so much weight and looked like a fucking rat child who had been consuming ONLY urine for the last 63 days, they thought I was some sort of malnourished child and not the 45 year old serial killer considered armed and extremely dangerous by many government agencies including Mossad, the GRU, the Guanbu, MI-5, the FBI, the CIA and the NSA. I couldn’t get out of there. I mean I just couldn’t. Every time I would rebel, refuse to eat, murder someone, break shit, rape a nun, set something on fire, etc….the god damn fuckers would just throw me right back into circulation. Every day it was pray, eat, clean, pray eat clean. I had to live with all these other little fuckers that would beat me up and make fun of me at night. I really hated it. Then, our youth group pastor began to touch me inappropriately. I would run screaming and crying to the head mistress or whatever and she would just backhand me and send me back to the father. He would put on this god damn puppet show with a Kermit doll and a mouse doll and then stroke my noodle and make crazy voices like fingernails on a chalkboard. I would throw my hands over my ears and just scream and scream and he would laugh until tears were running down his face.
During the fifties, I stayed in Bermuda, briefly, while working on my human sex trafficking gig. I knew this piece of shit that lived nearby, so eventually I was able to get a message to him. We’d done some work together in Egypt on Operation Damocles when I’d forged my way into Mossad. One night, Manny was his name; Manny sneaks into the monastery and slips me a little .380 pistol along with a note. The note basically said that he would scratch my back if I’d scratch his dick. Well I knew the fucker was into high-profile theft so I reluctantly complied (although Jesus God in heaven I would do anything to get out of that hellhole from hades.) So that night, I left a note outside my window for Manny, letting him know I was down. Fuck me I wanted McDonald’s. I waited for Sister Ignacio to ring the bell for lights out and feigned sleep. At final check, I slipped from under my covers and tip toed down the hall into my youth pastor’s room. He was already asleep and snoring, an open Bible spilled over his chest. I cocked my lil .380 and put it in his ear. Then I open my fly and whispered, “Padre? Padre?” He slowly opened his eyes and smiled when he saw me. I felt his grody paws go for my crotch. Well what he didn’t know was that I found a bear trap in the maintenance shed and loaded it, then shoved it in my pants. When that iron fucker snapped shut on him, his eyes went enormous. In less than a nanosecond, I pulled the trap out (three of his fingers were sheared clean off) and shoved my throbbing hooligan into his throat before he could scream. While he lay there, gagging on my sweet honker, I slit his throat with a little pen knife, the whole while humming the happy birthday tune. When the mother fucker eventually died, I snuck out through a side door and into the night.
Manny met me around the corner with a half-gallon of nasty island swill or rum and I downed the shit in about 45 seconds. I was breathing fire and covered in blood. Manny took me to a nearby cemetery, where he hashed his plan. It was a gay plan, but I was out of the church and free so I kept my promise. His idea was to lift this stupid gold cross or something that had been found somewhere in a sunken ship or some god damn thing I don’t fucking remember. I also wasn’t listening much because I was horny as all god knickers. I was supposed to start work the next day as this curator security guard or something. I had a lot of connections in the industry, you know, political figures and the like that I’d been blackmailing over the years. Anyway, this fucking cross was supposed to be coming in to the Bermuda Maritime Museum. The Bermuda government bought the god damn piss pilot for an undisclosed amount of bullshit just in time for the fucking Queen of England to take a peep at the thing. I’m always down to rock dope Jesus pieces so I did what I was told.
I worked for the fucking maritime museum for seven days. Seven days I spent, barfing into the exhibits, plugging up the toilets and masturbating on the steps in front of mortified tourists. I was real long into one of these rubbing sessions when I got a message from Manny – the cross was set to arrive the next day. Well I blew my load all over this whimpering frog-like motherfucker and stumbled inside my shack. After injecting several gallons of sterno into my left foot, I promptly fell unconscious. I awoke to my alarm with a nasty snort around 8am. I had twenty minutes to get to the van, that held the piece I was about to steal. I removed a brick of cocaine from under my mattress and began snorting in preparation for what would become one of the most perfect heists of human history. This is April 27th, 1975.
I burst from my shanty about 8:05, my pants were around my ankles and I was throwing up violently. There was a little café nearby and many of its patrons ran screaming from my display. I just screamed at them “YOU’LL NEVER KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE, MOTHERFUCKERS!” and made my way to the parking lot three blocks from the ocean. Manny knew a guy that was supposed to drive the van from the loading area with security. Once he ditched the douches with a decoy van, he dumped the actual van in a parking lot. Sure as shit, the van was sitting there. I looked around a little, pretending to be some drunken asshole. When I was sure all was clear, I snuck into the bushes and found the keys waiting for me in a little tin can. Nearby was my museum security detail uniform. I threw on my anal rags and casually fell into the van. Once inside, I drove the cock wank wagon to a nearby loading dock and parked near a fuckin’ tiki bar. I scrambled to the rear and found the iron box holding the treasure. I got a D minus in ceramics in kindergarten, so I drummed up this real shittttty plastic version of the cross using a torn picture that Manny gave me (I kept the pic to masturbate to whilst pooping every now and then). The thing looked like shit. No I’m not joking; it looked like a long dump from a rotting child horn that had been touched by King Midas. So I swap the shit cross for the real deal, package it up all nice, wipe my prints from the crap and lock up the van. I dumped the real deal into a satchel and stumbled away into the day. Supposedly, Manny’s guy was gonna take the van from the tiki bar back to the loading dock where the actual transfer team weren’t even set to arrive until the next day.
I found my way onto a banana boat set for the states and took the loot with me. I ditched out on Manny. I heard the poor bastard was arrested by Bermuda police and tortured to death. I never met his associates, so I never was able to get ahold of anyone (not that I would have anyway.) I made my way up through Delaware where I had the cross melted down. I traded the stones from the fucker for drugs and sold the gold to the guy I had melt it down for $350.