The Slobster Debacles: Entry 3

Castillo was the scariest fucker I knew. And he had a big dick to boot. I remember, every once in a while, we'd be standing there in the warehouse, cracking open warm Guinesses, and he'd just whip that shit out...of course, you'd look away, but as the thing virtually rolled out, like some thick serpentine carpet, you couldn't help but catch seconds of circumference and length that were beyond belief.

"Put that shit away!" you'd yell, forearms clenched like twin pit bulls over your eyes. "You're giving me adequacy issues!"

He'd do that weird laugh of his - head bucking back and forth, an open grin, a sound like bone chips rattling under radial tire loosening out.

Sometimes Castillo would disappear for long stretches of time. Before and after these hiatuses, you'd often find him talking to the boss in quick cryptic whispers. Something was up.

One night after one of these instances, Castillo approached me. His eyes darted left and right as he drew nearer, as if the aisles and shelves themselves were tapped. As he gripped my buggy whip of an arm in one of his bronzed mitts, he said, "Listen you're a pretty smart guy. There's something I need to know."

I gulped hard. "Yeah man, sure, anything I can do..."

His eyes lightened a touch, but his tone stayed stone serious. "Listen," he said, "let's say you happened to get yourself a punctured lung...would you die?"

My mind flashed back to some of the few instances of such an injury that I was aware of. I told him what little I knew.

"I never heard of anyone dying from it. Fucked up...yeah. Surgery...sure. Months of hellish rehabilitation...yep. But not dead."

He lightened up, seemed to get even broader and taller as balled-up tension left him. He playfully wrapped me between the shoulderblades.

"Thanks man. I feel better you little fucker. You need anything, just name it."

I couldn't resist the urge.

"Not for nothing Castillo...why do you ask?"

The second those syllables escaped my lips, it occured to me that their very utterance was a bad...potentially tragic misstep. But Castillo simply adopted that big open grin and extended his hand.

"Maricone came for me with an ice-pick. I laid a hurtin' on one of his boys. He lunged for me, but lost control of his shit, and I fed it to his ass!"

The handshake ended and I nodded. I knew at that point that Castillo was the scariest fucker I knew.

A couple of days later, we had a heavy pull - full truck of canned goods, detergents, HBA. It was gonna suck.

Then Jerry showed up...a half hour late as usual. Me and Castillo had already banged down a few hot muddy Guinesses. But Jerry looked flushed and angry. He was short, stocky, powerful...but had sensitivities as dainty as China Dolls.

"On the way in...some fuckin' kids started calling me a fag! What's wrong with these little punks? Somebody needs to teach them some discipline!"

Castillo perked right up . . . you could almost see his ears rise and a generous stream of saliva on his jaw.

He shot a quick jab into the truck wall and said, "Fuck man, at 7 o'clock we go and find these little shits! Where were you when this went down?"

Jerry wasted no time. "Corner of 76th and Atlantic," he replied.

Well, that tore it.

We spent the next hour and a half pulling and breaking down mile-high skids of painfully heavy shit . . . shit that tore your arms up and left them hanging like ragged moth-eaten curtains in some widow's house. Then 7 rolled around, a son from war.

Castillo took the lead and we hit the streets without a spoken word. 76th and Atlantic was just a mere couple of blocks away, and as we exited the parking lot, we could almost make out the shapes on the corner.

Still no exchange of words. There were three kids on the corner as we approached, 3 skinny white kids, all with flat tops, windbreakers ans sports pants.

Castillo stopped, eyeballed them . . . then grabbed the tallest and slammed an open palm into the side of his face. The thud was deep and sonorous.

"Is this the bitch?" he screamed, grabbing the faltering punk by his windbreaker.

"NO, NO!!" screamed Jerry plaintively, waving his arms in a way that told me he was already losing his belly for it all. Castillo relaxed his grip, then slapped another one.

"Bitches," he said "I'd kill your asses just to break the boredom of a Sunday afternoon. Go home and suck each other's dicks."

The three punks said nothing . . . they simply reeled, and the two stricken mooks rubbed their battered mugs. Jerry was aghast now, his frail nerves stretched and tensed like so much shrink wrap.

"Listen, man . . . they're gonna be looking for us. Let's just go back and forget it."

Castillo frowned, looking hurt like a kid whose Tonka trucks were about to be taken away. We headed back, the three of us, wordlessly as before.

But there was grim knowledge, knowledge as certain as light . . . that Castillo was the scariest fucker you'd ever wanna meet.