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Franky And The Crash
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TITLE (EDIT)
Franky And The Crash
DESCRIPTION
A gruff ragamuffin rampages through a city to become an anti-"pretty boy" -anti-hero. Read it. It's short, like your attention spans.
[1,079 words]
TITLE KEYWORD
Popular Fiction
AUTHOR
Scott W. Hazzard
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I hate my life.
[August 2001]
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
[email protected]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (9)
Are You Happy? (Poetry) A work in progress. [269 words] [Relationships]
Baby's Mr. Pearl (Poetry) Shakin' That Azz [186 words] [Relationships]
Cook Out, Everybody! (Poetry) Hero stuff. [78 words]
Faint Bell - A Story You Should Read Because I Said So, And I'm Smart. (Short Stories) A southern lady waits for her man. No such luck. [699 words] [Relationships]
Falls Street (Novels) A young man deals with sexual desire in a small town by turning commercial. [61,211 words] [Mind]
From The Author (Essays) The wonderful world of Hazzarding. [228 words] [Mind]
Sitting Still (Short Stories) An ex-writer reflects upon his miserable life while receiving a routine lap dance from his favorite stripper. [2,159 words] [Popular Fiction]
Tradegy Of Crows: Chapter 2 (Novels) Hazzard goes to Hell. 'nuff said. [16,121 words]
Tragedy Of Crows: Chapter 1 (Novels) A bitter college student falls into celestial turmoil when a lowly angel makes a bookkeeping error in the record halls of Heaven. Disaffected youth squares off against self-righteous angels, exhausted... [17,696 words]
Franky And The Crash
Scott W. Hazzard

         Harrison was tired of all that femi-nazi talk about men being insensitive brutes. That all seemed too stagnate to be the whole truth. He knew it, thought about debating it, but promptly remembered that he was never considered a smart man. So, he dropped the idea, took up carrying a baseball bat, and proclaimed himself the great savior of the drying male culture.

     Harrison went by the name Franky after that, because Franky sounds like the average Joe. Of course, he could have picked "Joe", but that felt way too obvious. Besides, "Franky" had a nice 1920s feel to it with a dash of James Dean. Of course, James Dean was the type of rebel that women liked. He was the type of rebel they all cried for. Thus, Franky would forever cast him aside and everything he resented… except the crash. That was real life, Franky thought, that was everything he had meant but never could say.

     Franky beat up mailboxes, let his hair grow into a mangy, uncombed brown frazzle, and started doing all the things that women always made men feel bad about. Franky wore muscle shirts, even though he had a hairy back and a potbelly. Franky smoked, a lot, four packs a day, Lucky Strikes, non-filters. And when he wasn't smoking, Franky packed a huge lipper and spat on the floors of restaurants that told him he had to put his butts out. Franky was a whole other kind of rebel; the kind that doesn't do it with class, doesn't know a thing about style, and doesn't give two shits about anybody, not because it's cool to be apathetic, but because he strives to be selfish.

     "Take back the land and all the fat on it," Franky said once when he was beating the shit out of the newspaper stand on 1st and Maple St. The cops locked him up a few times for drunk and disorderly, assault, disturbing the peace, littering, and resisting arrest. He also had some parking tickets, but he burned those on the spot. Franky was a hero, though, because he was always doing what every over-worked, underpaid, yes-man and no man's man wanted to do. Franky would pose outside their businesses, their factories, and their fast-food joints and start beating the hell out of things. And most said he was crazy, but a few knew there was some kind of method to it. Even though they laughed when he pissed on the side of the main office at the paper mill, Franky was sure he was getting through.

     With bat in hand, Franky terrorized the town as a whole, but he only took out his aggressions on a few select targets. He kept at the grocery stores, running in, ripping up teen magazines, and emptying all the diet pills into a pile on the floor. The cops would never get there in time. Franky would be back at the burger joints beating the hell out of the walky-talking thing that takes your order. But if there was one target he hit the most, it had to be that string of beauty parlors on West St. Twice in one month, he ran down and broke all their front windows. Finally one rainy evening in late Fall, he ran inside Bonny's Beauty Boutique and ripped up all their glossy photographs of movie star haircuts and rock star styles, and made a bonfire in the street, fueling it with creams and jells and tonics of all kinds. He ran around it, howling up at the rain, and all the proper ladies rolled up their car windows and called the cops on their cell phones. They shrieked when he stripped off his flannel and blue jeans down to his Fruit of the Looms. He came out of the quick photo both with pictures for all of them. He ran around slapping them against the hoods of their cars.

      Franky was chased back to his pickup truck, a dark blue F150 with chains on the wheels. Ripping at pavement, he rattled that metal down the road about as fast as that truck could take him. The cops were running him down the street, and Franky just laughed when he saw the roadblock going up. He tossed his baseball bat out the window and let it smack against a billboard putting a big hole in the mouth of some rising teenage superstar in designer underwear. With a cigarette lit and killing him, he whirled his head around like a disjointed maniac singer on the stage, and his arms went flailing into the air as he let go of the wheel.
 He was going pretty fast when he spun into the side of the movie theater. The truck flipped over the curb and smashed through the tall glass doors to the cinema. He was dead in the lobby when they found him, his cigarette still burning by the side of a hairy, flabby arm. It takes a lot to roll a truck like that. No one's quite sure how it happened. He wasn't even going too fast. Some kid found his bat by the roadside, found that it was chipped, and never touched it again. It ended up like most of his memorabilia, in the trash with all the broken glass, the cigarette butts, and spent, outdated magazines. They say that some of that stuff gets recycled, but who knows how much and where it goes.
When they found out that Franky's name was really Harrison, that's the name that went in all the papers. It was like "Franky" had never existed, just some strange celebrity of the daily news police blotters. They wrote that Harrison had a nervous break down, and suddenly, all things were excused, like they never happened. Over the years, people forgot the specifics behind his rampage, just accepted that he was a sick man, but no one ever forgot that car crash, the pictures in the paper of busted metal and shredded red carpeting, and the blood, too. The women pouring out of the theaters screaming, the popcorn boy staring befuddled and amused, the old careworn woman dropping to her knees to curse, the paparazzi taking deep six photographs, and the guys in the factories who only heard it on the news and wished they could have been there to see the crash, and the blood… It was real life. It was everything he meant to say, but didn't have the words to say it.

      
      

 

READER'S REVIEWS (3)
DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.

"This guy just keeps getting worse. He's like a big pile of stupid with a dash of dumb sprinkled on top. If you read this, you're probably dumber now, too. I say we tie this guy to a tree and throw ninja stars at him. That'll be a lot more fun than reading this piece of donkey poo poo." -- Hazzard.
"Scott Hazzard is plain stupid in a big dumb bag. He's a big pile of steaming poopie, and for my money, he should be rocked along side the head. This story is no good. Where are the clowns? People love clows! Where are the talking animals? People love talking animals! I want dancing! I want girls! I want dancing girls who talk to animals! What's wrong with this Hazzard? Why does he try to make me think? He should try thinking himself, about punctuation and spelling. Let's get 'em." -- Albert the Destroya.
"Whilst I was reading this I discovered something huge inside my right nostril, I kept reading and picking, reading and picking and as I reached the conclusion of the story, my finger emerged with a booger that looked similar to the Mona Lisa, I know what I am going to keep!" -- Concerned about the gherkin relish.

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2001 Scott W. Hazzard
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
August 2001
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2401
 

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