This excerpt is from Dave Lundy’s new novel, “Zero F*cks Given” (still in development) — the prequel to the bestselling comedy “Squish the Fish: A Tale of Dating and Debauchery”.
Chad Stanwick had the type of face you wanted to punch — handsome, yet with a permanent smirk that screamed “douchebag.” He was also the type that never missed an opportunity to boast about being from Newton, Massachusetts — an affluent Boston suburb.
The previous spring, he won the Sigma Alpha Mu presidency by mercilessly berating the incumbent, Billy Schmear. “Do we have tha best pahtees anymore?! Do we hook up with tha hottest chicks anymore?!” he yelled to his fraternity brothers during his campaign. “The an-sah is no! And who’s fault is it?” He pointed at Billy Schmear. “Ms. Pap Schmah’s, that’s who! He’s ta blame! And only I, Chad Stanwick, can fix it!”
The start of fall semester was only a few weeks away, and Chad was standing inside his fraternity house near the corner of Winspear and Bailey Avenues. The place was huge and in shambles — warped hardwood floors, cracked ceilings, and walls soiled with who knew what. It was his duty to ensure the house was impeccable before for the Sammys — the name they called themselves — had their inaugural bash that year.
There was a double-knock on the front door. Chad popped the collar of his pink Polo and turned his New England Patriots hat around backward. He walked stiffly like a lobster-tail was lodged up his rectum, to the door and pulled it open. Outside, there was a man holding a clipboard, and Chad said to him, “Hello, what can you do fah me?”
“Hi, I’m John. We were hired to fix up your house. I’m the foreman.” He glanced at his paperwork. “Are you Chad?”
“Yes, I am indeed Chad — tha president of Sigma Alpha Mu. I’ll be telling you and yaw crew what ta do.”
The foreman raised an eyebrow. “Uh, it doesn’t work that way.”
“Tha fuck it doesn’t. I’m from Newton and I know better than anyone how ta get this place in tip-top shape.” Chad looked at Pablo, Miguel, and Jose, who were leaning against a big white pickup-truck and smoking cigarettes. “Round up yaw hombres,” he circled his finger in the air, “and let’s get ta work.”
What a fucking prick, thought the foreman.
“The hahdwood floors feel like tha right place ta staht. Tear them out first. Then paint tha walls and patch tha ceiling. Got it?”
The foreman shook his head. “I recommend we do the opposite of that — work top-down. The reason is…”
Chad cut him off. “Listen, I don’t even do constahuction and I know more than you. I have a natuahl gift — it’s called this…” he pointed at his own head, “my big brain. And I don’t even do constahuction. So, ya want this job or not? There aw plenty of othah contractors that’d be happy ta take my business.”
The foreman looked at Chad sideways and seriously contemplated punching him square in the nose. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “Doing it your way will add an extra week.”
“I don’t think so. You’ll get it done on schedule like we agreed or ya can vámonos tha hell outta here.”
The owner of the contracting company reminded the foreman of Chad — obnoxious, arrogant, and stupid — and he wouldn’t think twice about firing someone that lost him a job. Knowing this, the foreman caved and agreed to Chad’s demands. He stuck two fingers from each hand in his mouth and blew an ear-piercingly loud whistle. The workers grabbed their tools and walked to the house.