Chapter 1: Introduction
Kirk M’Caine sat at the corner desk, scribbling something in a dull notebook. The teacher, an aging anorexic named Mr. Huell F. Brender, leered over in his direction, expecting an answer to a question he was more than willing to ask.
"Mistah M’Caine," screeched Mr. Brender.
"Hyes," said Kirk, nervous and uptight.
"Have we not yet finished taking notes?" asked Mr. Brender.
"Well, no," said Kirk. "I was just trying to figure out my 2 plus 10."
"Sad boy," said Mr. Brender. "Would you like to share that with the rest of the class?"
"No," said Kirk.
"Tut, tut," said Mr. Brender. "So perhaps I will instead. Hyes, it appears our young Kirk has not yet mastered his 2 plus 10."
"A damn shame," commented the rest of the class. Kirk began sulking under his desk.
“Get out from under your desk, Mr. M’Caine,” scolded Mr. Brender.
“Yes, Mr. Brender,” said Kirk and resentfully obliged.
Then came recess. The football jocks, perhaps best represented by those extraordinarily heavyset twins in their Wide Wolf shirts, ran out the door at the sound of the bell, trampling the frailer children like Kirk in the process.
“One alligator, two alligator, three alligator!” shouted Jacques, an all-American boy with broad shoulders and a buzz cut.
“I’m an alligator in the sack,” commented a mildly effeminate child of Italian descent.
Kirk tried to play with the football jocks but had no understanding of the rules. Said rules had never been taught to him and he wondered who had taught said rules to the remaining children.
So he ended up playing alone with himself.
Ah, Kirk. You were always one of my favorites, ever since I first drew you as a blatant rip-off of The Simpsons' Moe Szyslak. Your "whisky tavern" may not appear much nowadays but your Pepe Le Pew-esque pathetic lust will always be fun to write. I do regret writing you as a "serial rapist" in my second novel though. This work is an attempt to remedy that complete demonization of one of my favorite characters. This is not a serious novel, just a fun little romp with Kirk, perchance Jezebel, maybe even Keef or Rod - just anyone we want to revisit from that 48,000-word first novel everyone hated. So sit back and read what may one day become known as my third novel, Kirk.
Kirk walked the most run-down streets of Corralberg, looking for a whore or at the very least, a slut. He hadn't gotten laid in 18 months and it was quite a drag. The last chick he had been with had slept with all three members of a crappy white rap group from Hempleton in North County.
"It took me six months but I finally achieved my slut goals," that skank had said. Kirk laughed at the time but perhaps it was time he visited the free clinic again as he hadn't been to one in nearly 10 years. Maybe. He was definitely asymptomatic so he didn't give much of a shit. Plus it was a pain in the ass to wait in the waiting room. He never cared for Fugazi, penners of that post-punk hit "Waiting Room" as much as others did either. His ADD was definitely kicking in. Or was all ADD called ADHD now? Fuck it, thought Kirk.
Finally he approached a 20-year old Cal Pale chick with a nice rack. "Hey, how's it going?" he asked the chick.
"Hi," said the chick. Kirk grinned. She gave him a "hi" which was better than the more reserved "hello" though not as great as the more casual "hey."
"What's your name?" Kirk asked the chick.
"Eliza," replied the chick.
"That's an English-ass name, Eliza," said Kirk.
"Thanks," said Eliza.
"I'd like to get to know you better," said Kirk. "What are you doing later?"
"Just hanging out with my sorority sisters," said Eliza.
"Why hang out with them when you could hang out with me?" asked Kirk.
"Because you're a creep," said Eliza.
"I'm a creep but I'm a good creep," said Kirk.
"I'm gonna go now," said Eliza and walked off.
"Dammit," said Kirk and discreetly wanked all the way home.
Kirk was growing increasingly sexually frustrated. He went home and looked at Arsebook pictures of all of his favorite chicks. He then saw that there was a Subpar concert going on at Corralberg Brewing Co. and thought there might be some chicks there so he went there.
"How you all doing tonight?" asked Billy Ne'erdowell, the lead singer of Subpar. "I smell some chronic in the house, I like it, I like it!"
Kirk was not a cannabis user but smiled halfheartedly. "I'm glad people like things that they like," he said to himself.
A nerdy guy approached Kirk. "Oh hey, Kirk! It's your old buddy Thom from Corralberg Community College!"
"Oh hey," replied Kirk, not recognizing the nerdy guy.
"Hey, so my band is playing after Subpar and I was wondering if you wanted to do merch for our show."
"Sure, why not," said Kirk.
"That's great! We'll pay you $30," said the nerdy guy. "Oh, by the way. Do you have a girlfriend?"
"Uh, no," said Kirk. "Why?"
"Just asking. Didn't mean to pry," said the nerdy guy. "Well, looks like we're up now!" Billy Ne'erdowell got off stage and the nerdy guy got on. Kirk walked over to the merch booth.
"Hi, everyone!" said the nerdy guy onstage. "My name's Thom and this is my one-man band Thom Ass! I don't play any instruments, it's just my beautiful voice a capella! But you can pretend that I'm playing an acoustic guitar if you want, and call it 'acoupella!' Get it?"
Kirk was confused. Subpar was a big name. Why were they opening for Thom Ass anyway?
"At the merch booth, we have Corralberg's own Kirk M'Caine!" said the nerdy guy onstage. "And ladies, he's single! He will give you sex!"
Kirk waved at a nearby woman with jet black hair and ocean blue eyes wearing a black dress with sunflowers on it but she ignored him. So he decided to approach her directly.
"Hey, how's it going?" asked Kirk.
"Hello," she replied. Not good, thought Kirk. When a woman replies with "hello" as opposed to "hi" or the even better "hey," it's never a good sign. But he decided to keep his head in the metaphorical game.
"My name's Kirk, what's yours?"
"Mandy," she said.
"Oh yeah, like that one song," said Kirk.
"Yeah," she said.
"You know that guy turned out to be gay?" asked Kirk. "I mean, who knew, right?"
"Look, my friends are here and I haven't seen them in a long time," she said.
"Really? I don't see any friends," said Kirk. "Do you have any single friends? I mean, unless you're single, which in case I'm interested in you but if you're not single, then if you had any single friends, I'd love to get to know them, or at least meet them, because I don't see them here, but you said they're here and I believe you even though I just met you and don't know if you're a liar, but I try to trust everyone and believe that nobody is a liar even though obviously liars exist."
She walked away and he went back to the merch booth.
"Didn't like that song either, huh?" asked the nerdy guy onstage. "That's okay, we'll never play Maroon 5 again. Here's one you might actually know...COLD HARD BITCH, OH SHE WAS SUCKIN' MY DICK!"
Kirk walked out of the bar before realizing he never got his $30. He went back to the door and a similarly scrawny and nerdy bouncer wearing an R.E.M. shirt scowled at him.
"I need to go back in. I need to get my $30 from that other nerdy guy who was onstage."
"Do you have an ID, my good sir?" asked the bouncer.
"Well, no, but..." started Kirk.
"Then how did you get in in the first place?" asked the bouncer.
"I, uh, don't know," said Kirk. "All I know is that that other nerdy guy who was onstage still owes me $30 for working the merch booth."
"He is still performing, sir," said the bouncer, peering in. "And I don't see you working the merch booth, so..."
"Well, I left because he sucked, but..."
"Then why do you believe he owes you anything?" asked the bouncer.
"It always comes down to entitlement, huh?" asked Kirk.
"Does it?" asked the bouncer.
"Look, I've had a rough night," said Kirk. "I didn't score, and there was this hot chick wearing sunflowers, and uh..."
"That's my girlfriend you're talking about," said the bouncer.
"I don't believe you," said Kirk.
"Well, actually we broke up but she's still mine and you can't have her," said the bouncer.
"I don't think you were ever dating her to begin with," said Kirk.
"Even if that were true, and maybe it is, maybe it isn't, why would it even matter to you?" asked the bouncer.
"Because I love her," said Kirk. "She is so beautiful and I love how infectious her smile and eyes are."
"Calling smiles infectious may be a compliment but calling eyes infectious is not. Saying she has infectious eyes implies that they are diseased."
"I meant they're mesmerizing, like the blues of the ocean," said Kirk. "You know I was a surfer?"
"You were not," said the bouncer.
"Well, I was a surf rocker, like the Beach Boys or the Ziggens who don't surf but still write surf rock music."
"You leave the Ziggens out of this, mister," said the bouncer. "I will not have their good name tarnished by a scud boy like you."
"Scud boy?" asked Kirk. "That's a new insult to me. I thought I had heard them all. Scum boy, that's an old one, but scud boy?"
"Ever heard scuzz boy?" asked the bouncer.
"Maybe," said Kirk. "One of my favorite liquors was called scuzz but I haven't come across it in a very long time."
"Well, we don't sell scuzz," said the bouncer. "But even if we did sell it, you wouldn't be able to order it because you don't have an ID."
"I'll have to go home and get my other pants then," said Kirk, and promptly left.
Kirk sighed as he went through his only other pair of pants (which he had bought for only a couple of clams at Write Ade many moons ago) and saw there was no ID in them either. I bet Bert Susanka of the Ziggens never got carded, he thought. Wouldn't it be great if the Ziggens could help him get back into that bar and get his $30? He relished the thought and it wasn't long until he found himself square face into the face of Bert Susanka and the Ziggens themselves, walking down Pine Street (or was it Bush? Those streets were parallel).
"Why, if it isn't our biggest fan, Kirk M'Caine," said Bert Ziggen.
"I know you have all our albums," said Jon Ziggen.
"That Tim the Dinosaur, he ate all the cheese," said Dickie Ziggen.
Brad Ziggen said nothing.
"Why won't you say anything, Brad?" whined Kirk. "First you won't be my Arsebook friend and now you won't say anything to me."
Brad Ziggen said nothing.
"I can't believe I'm saying this but fuck you, Brad Ziggen! I bought all your albums and this is how you repay me, by not even speaking to me? I even have the vinyl LP nobody else has!"
The Ziggens disappeared and Kirk was left with only himself. He went back to his sad apartment, lay down on his bare mattress, and stared up at a couple of roaches on the ceiling.
Suddenly the phone began to ring. He checked and it was his mom, Zecharia M'Caine. Kirk sighed and let it continue to ring. He was a grown-ass man and there was no reason to talk to her at this point, especially after how emotionally, verbally, and physically abusive she was, the latter at least if you considered spanking physical abuse, which Kirk didn't.
Kirk decided to leave his apartment again and left his phone at home so that his mom wouldn't try bothering him again. On the way downtown he realized he had to shit like a motherfucker so he used the Corralberg Mission's shitty restroom and it saved his life. He noticed there was a Mexican girl about 19 in the restroom even though it was the men's room.
"Hey, how's it going?" Kirk asked the Mexican girl.
She spoke no English but started holding his hand. Kirk grinned and they hooked up right there in the Mission restroom where the hobos usually did it. He then left without even getting her name. She was only his second Mexican after a 40-year old widow from a few years prior. There would be many more Mexicans to come, at least Kirk hoped there would be. He couldn't expect anything from anyone and he knew that.
Yet again Kirk retired to his lonesome apartment. He eyed the same sad roaches and listened to a lover's quarrel between the troglodytes upstairs, one which started with frenzied lovemaking, then transpired to a perhaps self-entitled young woman's cries of "That's so fucked up!" and "You're so rude!" and culminated with drunken laughter. Such were the woes of one Kirk M'Caine, only a peon in the dog eat dog world of Corralberg, CA.
And what of ol' Rod? Yes, Rod Niccolo, our gay Italian friend from the pizza place. Well, let's just say time had not been so kind to ol' Rod, and that's not counting the times he died and went to hell and got AIDS! Ah, Roddy, Roddy, Roddy. He was currently working at said pizza place, as a matter o' fact. It was just him and his cousin Grover, who was twice as hairy and fat as Rod was.
"Let's get a movin', Rod," said Grover, flipping some pizzas from an old oven.
"But boss!" replied Rod. "You told me I'd be promoted to assistant manager by now!"
"Not the way you're workin', Rod. I might have to promote that feeble old Victor before I promote you."
"Dammit, Grover," said Rod. "I quit."
"You can't quit because you're fired!" shouted Grover. "And you didn't even start a fire this time around."
Rod walked out of the pizza place, irritated with his loathsome cousin Grover. What would he do for work now that the family business had canned his ass? He didn't know. Frankly, he didn't want to know. Perhaps work was something he could do without.
Without any knowledge of what he could do, Rod walked down Bush or Pine Street, whichever one was more convenient, and promptly bumped into Kirk.
"Hey, asshole!" snapped Kirk. "Watch where you're goin', ya turkey!"
"Oh, well if it isn't Kirk," said Rod.
"Not you again, Rod," said Kirk. "I thought our days together were numbered."
"That might have been so but it's not anymore," said Rod. "Anyway I'm looking for a new job, I'm thinking like a real job, and was wondering if you had any leads."
"Leads, eh?" asked Kirk. "Look, you. I haven't worked a payin' job in 10 years except for that merch gig I did the other night which I didn't even end up gettin' paid for. I live entirely on SSI and EBT."
"Sorry to hear that, Kirk," said Rod. "I had no idea you had been out of work for so long."
"Yeah, so what's it to you, then?" asked Kirk. "Is there anything you actually want?"
"Well, now that you mention it, I'd like to bury the metaphorical hammer," said Rod. "I'd like for us to be friends again, as it were."
"Well it ain't," said Kirk. "And it never will be. I don't need friends except for chicks to fuck."
"You sicken me," said Rod and left.
Kirk saw another chick who he remembered from his old poetry days. His haiku-writing skills were a little rusty after all these years but he thought he could still impress her with a spontaneous poem. He approached her tactlessly and began to improvise a little number that went a little like a this:
"How it goes when time is tight
The time that binds woe
So things that weren't are so now"
"Like, what the hell was that, man?" asked the chick. "That didn't make any sense."
"Did it or didn't it?" asked Kirk. "I liked it personally."
"Yeah, that's because you wrote it," said the chick.
"Okay, I'll try a love poem this time. Ummmm...
"Mandy's jiggling boobs
All the things I'd do to her
There's a lesbian scene at the end"
The chick slapped Kirk and Kirk walked away.
Kirk decided to work on his poetry more. He had always wanted to be a published poet like that Ginsberg guy who wrote about gay sex. He even thought he might write a novel or three in the future but for now, poetry remained his favorite outlet. There were so many chicks out there that he wanted to write poems about.
He then realized that perhaps the reason why chicks hadn't been digging his poetry lately was that he was showing Japanese haikus to American chicks. He needed to find Japanese chicks instead.
So he dialed his old bandmate Kirk Masonian from his old grunge band The Kirks, who he knew had an Asian fetish.
"Hey Kirk, it's Kirk."
"Hey Kirk, it's Kirk."
"Know any Japanese chicks, Kirk?"
"Just one, Kirk. Her name's Fujiko Fujiki. She lives on 3432 Bush Street. Pay her a visit, won't you, Kirk?"
"Sure will, Kirk. See you, Kirk."
"Bye, Kirk."
So Kirk went to 3432 Bush Street and knocked on Fujiko Fujiki's door. A tall, voluptuous Japanese-American woman opened the door.
"What's going on? It's 3am," said the woman.
"Hi, my name's Kirk," said Kirk.
"Kirk? I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again," said Fujiko.
"Oh, you're thinking of Kirk Masonian. I'm Kirk M'Caine," said Kirk.
"Oh," said Fujiko. "Well, come on in."
So they shagged
all through the morning. At some point during the act, Kirk looked over and saw the wall behind them - it was covered in framed photos of various celebrities Kirk recognized from television shows he watched. Among those, Kirk also noticed a picture of Kirk M'Caine, signed with gratitude and best wishes. This caught Kirk off guard – surely, this must mean that Fujiko genuinely appreciated his artistry despite being turned off initially.
After their tryst concluded, Fujiko offered Kirk breakfast.
Though hesitant at first due to potential embarrassment, Kirk accepted graciously. He felt hopeful that finally, a chance encounter led to positive results; it seemed to validate his belief that people warmed up to him eventually. After enjoying a hearty meal consisting of bacon, eggs, hash browns, and coffee—which, considering his financial situation, should’ve made him feel guilty, yet somehow it didn't—he thanked Fujiko profusely and prepared to depart.
Fujiko smiled softly, knowing full well that this wasn't exactly the most ideal beginning to a relationship. Still, she admired Kirk's ability to remain optimistic amid adversity. "Take care, Kirk. Let me know if you ever need anything."
"Will do, Fujiko," he responded warmly.
They shared a tender moment, both reflecting upon the uncertainty that lay ahead. Finally, with reluctance, Kirk bid farewell and ventured outside once more.