“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 7)

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”.

On Winspear Avenue near Main Street, there’s a quaint bungalow-style home. Nicki O’Shea entered through the front door, her silky, black hair tied back in a ponytail. Her roommate, Tracy Cohenstein, was sitting Indian-style with her feet tucked under her thighs, mediating on the living room couch. Nicki dropped her book bag in the kitchen, grabbed a Seagram’s Golden Wine Cooler from the fridge, and skipped into the living room.

Tracy opened her eyes and said, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“It’s Friday, baby!” Nicki twisted off the cap of her fruity adult beverage. “Summer school classes are killing me, so we’re goin’ out tonight and gettin’ fuuuuucked up!” She took a big swig.

“I don’t know.” Tracy pulled on her knees. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood for that.”

“Why not? Ya ain’t gonna get laid sitting around here, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t, necessarily, wanna ‘get laid.’ That’s kinda your modus operandi.”

“True, but come on…” Nicki put her drink down. “You can’t tell me that watching all that porn doesn’t get your juices flowin’.” She made a circle with her left thumb and index finger, and poked her right index finger in-and-out of the hole.

“I’m not watching it.” Tracy bit her nails. “It’s a job.”

“Well, it’s a great job. The only better job would be starring in it.” Nicki took another sip of her wine cooler. “Anyway, think about going out. We’ll hit Third Base — first round’s on me.”

“Alright, I’ll think about it,” Tracy said begrudgingly.

“Good.” Nicki left and went into her bedroom. A couple of posters decorated the walls. Over the headboard of her bed was the Guns N’ Roses Appetite for Destruction album cover — a hint of what she wanted to any man who might join her. Taped to the wall near her dresser was an Animal House poster of John Belushi in the block-letter “COLLEGE” sweatshirt with a stupid, confused look on his face.

Nicki wanted to decide on her outfit before making dinner, so she went into her closet, pulled out a few tops, and laid them on her bed for inspection. She then flipped on her radio and the live version of U2’s “Party Girl” was playing, which fit her mood perfectly. She danced as she removed her top and bra, and put her hands in the air. Her nineteen-year-old breasts bounced with such beauty and grace, they’d make a grown man weep.

She slipped on her favorite — a hot pink, low-cut option which made her jiggle and pop in all the right ways — and smiled at herself in the mirror. If this doesn’t get me some major dick tonight, I don’t know what will.

Scene 6 | Scene 7 | Scene 8

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 2)

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”.

Magnum offered to drive and picked up Bob from the house his mom had moved into. From Binghamton, they drove an hour north to Syracuse and parked near the Carrier Dome. Zabka drove west from nearby Utica and met them at their designated transfer point and nearly the same time.

Magnum and Bob grabbed their bags, jumped into Zabka’s black Camaro, and they took off for Buffalo. For a good chunk of the way, the three of them argued about and insulted each other’s hometowns. The phrases “the armpit of the state” and “the asshole of New York” were used to describe their locations. By the time they got to Buffalo, a neutral third-party would’ve said the winner was a toss-up. 

Zabka steered his muscle car off of the New York State Thruway and drove north on highway 290. He was singing along with the Grateful Dead song on the radio — “Livin’ on reds, vitamin C, and cocaine. All a friend can say is… ‘Ain’t it a shame?’ Truckin’… up to Buff-a-lo!” A slow-moving eighteen-wheeler merged in front of him and wrecked his joyous mood. He laid on the horn and floored it, veering around the trucker and taking the exit’s curvy offramp at a screeching 75 mph.

After straightening out on Main Street, Zabka loosened his grip of the steering wheel. “Did you see that asshole?” he queried his passengers.

“Yeah, the nerve of that guy,” Bob answered from the seat beside him. He turned and looked at Magnum in the backseat, cramped between their luggage, and they chuckled.

Zabka’s face relaxed, clear of the black-eye that was on the horizon. He stuck his arm out the window on that sunny afternoon and floated his hand up and down like a plane as it cut through the wind. “Are you guys excited for tonight?”

“You mean for Earl’s shindig?” Magnum asked.

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Zabka had a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What are you up to?” Bob examined his friend. “You got somethin’ planned?”

“Let’s just say Zabka has a few tricks up his sleeve.”

Whenever Zabka referred to himself in the third-person, Bob knew something good was in-store. “I expect nothing less.”

Magnum added, “I hope it includes girls.”

“Of course it does, you dummy.” Zabka bounced up and down. “We need to christen the new house.”

“Speaking of girls,” Bob said. “I was just thinkin’… how many girls did we have in our house last year?”

Zabka shrugged. “Plenty, I’m sure.” He began a mental tally. “To start, there was Earthshaker — that ginormous chick from the Base that you banged. Good lord, you truly have no shame.”

Bob rolled his eyes. “First of all, I did not ‘bang her.’ We…”

“Yeah, ya did. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. No need to be ashamed — if Magnum were in your shoes, he would’ve banged her too. Ain’t that right?”

Magnum fiddled with his mustache. “Umm… I don’t know about that.”

“Oh shit! Even he wouldn’t’ve banged her!” Zabka feigned sincerity. “Seriously, Bob, how low can you go? Have you hit rockbottom yet?”

“Listen, dickheads… she took advantage of me in my very vulnerable drunken-state. We barely got outta the bar before her mouth was playing Hungry Hungry Hippos with my balls. She was like, ‘Nom, nom, nom…’ just goin’ to town. The chick was nuts! Literally! I’ve never had a girl laser-focused on my sack like that.”

“I bet you’ve had dudes laser-focused on your sack like that,” Magnum remarked from the peanut gallery.

Bob rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on.”

Zabka added, “She certainly didn’t have a nut allergy!”

“Certainly not!” Zabka added.

“She shoulda went to Ball State, not UB.” Magnum was proud of his sexual wit.

Bob chuckled before he continued recounting his escapade. “Also, as I recall, we didn’t go to our house. We went around the corner to her place. And finally, she wasn’t that big — you tend to exaggerate. She just had a little bitta junk-in-the-trunk.”

Zabka threw his head back and laughed. “A little bit?! She had a shit-ton! She’s shaped like a pear, and I thought her ass was two garbage bags overstuffed with marshmallows!”

Magnum also shared an insightful observation. “Yeah, her ass was so big, it had its own zip code”

“Okay, enough,” Bob said. “You made your point. And fuck you, guys. I’m telling you, her mouth has superpowers.” He was glowing. “That shit was magical.”

Magnum looked up and tapped his chin. “Oh, I know. There was the woman that hooked up our cable. She was kinda hot.”

Bob replied, “Dude, she was as old as your mom. Plus, she worked for the cable company, so that doesn’t really count. Okay, so who else?”

Hmm… oh, I remember.” Magnum stroked his mustache. “These girls rang our doorbell and I invited them inside.”

“You mean the ones selling cookies?” Bob shook his head. “The Girl Scout and her mom? Come on, man.”

The three of them sat in silence, racking their brains.

“You see my point now? Last year… it was pathetic.” Bob glanced at Magnum and then Zabka to make sure they absorbed the gravity of it all. “Did anyone even get laid?”

Magnum moved like he was going to respond.

Bob stopped him with his hand. “Before you say it, your hand doesn’t count, Magnum. We had zero, zip, nada, none.” He hung his head and held up his hand in the shape of a circle. “Zero fucks.”

“Okay, Bob,” Zabka responded. “You made your damn point. We didn’t fuck any women last year — zero fucks given. The closest we got was your cock-n-mouth tryst with Earthshaker. I agree, it’s shameful.”

“You wanna know what the really sad part is?” Bob asked rhetorically. “No women got to receive pleasure from our dongs.”

With an exaggerated frown, Zabka added, “Yeah, I feel sorry for them.”

Bob continued, “All that aside, here’s the good news — it’s a new year and we’re in a new house. We’ve officially hit the reset button. Plus it’s our last year in college. We need to go out on a high note.”

“With a bang!” Zabka added.

“Should we set a goal?” Magnum asked. “Like the number of women?”

“Well, there are six of us in the house, soooo… we should easily be able to pull in two girls each. Real girls — not girls working for a utility company or selling shit door to door.” Bob did the quick math. “So that’s twelve.”

Zabka offered, “Shit, I could pull in a dozen myself. What are you guys gonna do?”

Magnum said, “Yeah, I could do that too.”

Zabka slapped his knee and laughed along with Bob. “But seriously, think this through. The others in the house are Satan, some other useless bastard that Satan knows, and Jimmy “The Italian” — so, a stoner, probably another stoner, and a short guy who’s prematurely-balding and talks like he’s been kicked in the nuts. Something tells me they won’t be chipping-in.”

“Yeah, they’re completely useless,” Bob agreed. “No way they’re putting any points on the scoreboard.”

Zabka nodded his head. “Yep, so that just leaves me — the lone wolf. I’m gonna get more tang than a Space Shuttle mission!”

“Whoa… don’t put all your vaginas in one basket.” Bob tapped his chest with both hands. “I’ll contribute.”

“Perhaps,” Zabka replied. “I guess you did show some promise last year.”

“Yeah, and what about me?” Magnum asked.

“What about you?” Zabka replied. “With all due respect, this is clearly a two-man operation. But don’t let that stop you from giving it the old-college-try.”

“I’ll show you guys.” Magnum folded his arms. “Heck, I may even decide to get a girlfriend.”

“Highly doubtful,” Zabka responded. “Sorry, just being real.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Magnum leaned forward. “I have a plan.”

“Um-hm, sure ya do.”

Zabka eyed a car with a few girls in his rearview mirror and put on his black Ray-Bans. He slowed down to take a closer look and let them pass on his left.

The girl driving had parents from India, and the other two were caucasian. They were cute and having fun car-dancing to some Janet Jackson song.

Zabka stuck his head out of the window and yelled, “Hey, pretty ladies, what’s going on?!”

They looked at him like they couldn’t understand.

He made a nob-twisting motion with his fingers. “Turn down the music!”

The girls obliged and stared back.

“Let’s go grab some food.” Zabka offered, “Our treat.”

Magnum gave them a friendly, yet awkward, wave — the type Mickey Mouse does during a parade.

Bob gulped at the thought of spending money he didn’t have.

The girls giggled together in a manner that was full of rejection. The Indian girl accelerated and they took off. The bumper of their car had a blue and white UB sticker on it.

“Well, there goes that,” Bob said. “Hey, you tried.”

Magnum leaned forward and said, “Don’t elevate the vagina.”

“How ’bout that for a pearl of wisdom,” Zabka replied. “What does that even mean?”

“My dad told me that and basically explained it as, ‘You don’t reward a girl just because she’s a girl.’ I feel like that advice fits here.”

Bob thought about what he said and offered his interpretation. “I guess, maybe just the thought of it — the chance that we might ‘get some’ — makes us irrationally raise vagina to a level where we haven’t reached yet, and we do things unnaturally. Don’t go overboard — don’t think too far ahead — and treat it extra special before it deserves it.”

The discussion jogged a memory in Zabka’s head. It was of advice his father had given him soon after he failed miserably to court Nicki O’Shea. Her reaction was bad, but what she did afterwards was downright cruel. The pain still stung, and his embarrassment still lingered. He reentered the present with his head glowing like a light bulb. “You know what? You’re goddamn right. Vagina deserves nothing for nothing. Ain’t nothin’ special about it.”

Bob said, “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Listen to me,” Zabka said. “When we don’t even know a girl and we’re just figuring her out, we jump too far ahead and give it status it hasn’t deserved yet — then we lose their respect. Vagina needs to earn it to be elevated. I’ve been too nice for too fucking long.”

“Yeah, you’re Mr. Nice Guy, alright.” Magnum half-joked. “Although not as bad as Bob.”

“Well, at least we can talk to girls without chewing on our tongues.”

Bob nodded in agreement with Zabka’s supportive retort.

“I”m being serious,” Zabka emphasized. “And you guys have been too nice as well. Bob, take you for example. Remember what happened on spring break last year?”

Bob shrugged. “Um, not really.”

“Then let me remind you. You were trying to get with this girl and, after a while, her friend told you to buy a drink for the girl you were talking with. And what did you do? Even though you didn’t have much money and were living off one Subway footlong a day? You did what she said and bought her a drink. Then what happened?” He paused dramatically. “I’ll tell you… she left and you got nothing, zip, zero. Ring any bells?”

Bob folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Girls take advantage of nice guys, and why wouldn’t they? Nice guys let them — it’s their own fault. Women see them as weak and pounce all over it.”

Magnum added, “Yeah, I’ve heard about girls bragging about going out and not paying for one drink all night.”

“You see?” Zabka said. “Too often we play it nice… and nice doesn’t win.”

“Yeah, okay. But what would we do different?” Bob asked.

The Dead song had ended and a Mighty Taco commercial was squawking in their ears.

“First of all, you need to fix the tunes.” Zabka whacked Bob. “You’re in charge. Put in the ZZ Top CD…” He grinned. “El Loco.”

Bob slid in the CD and the blues-rock song began. It started with an uptempo drum beat and maracas until the dirty guitar kicked in. Their heads were bouncing.

Zabka cranked up the volume and sped up to the girl’s car.

In a panic, Bob said, “Hey, what the hell are you doing?”

There was a devilish look in Zabka’s eyes. “You’ll see.”

Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 1)

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”.

The day before…

Tracy Cohenstein’s real first name was Tirza. She went by Tracy so she didn’t sound quite as much like — in her words — “A super-Jew.” Not having classes on Friday, she spent her day engaged in, again — in her words — “Doing happy stuff.” That morning, she served breakfast at a homeless shelter, and in the afternoon she finished knitting a sweater and completed some extra-credit homework for her Investigative Journalism class.

Now, with her roommate Nicki O’Shea not around and the place to herself, she was enjoying her favorite guilty-pleasure — watching a romantic-comedy. As the final scene in Pretty Woman began, Tracy sat on her living room couch with a box of tissues in her lap. Having watched it nearly a dozen times, she could quote practically every line. She’d been told she looked like a younger, and perhaps even more attractive, version of Julia Roberts, the female star of the movie. Tracy’s chocolate-colored eyes were the kind that pulled you in and could’ve been Van Morrison’s inspiration for “Brown Eyed Girl” had she been born when he wrote the song. She looked stunning, even in baggy-sweatpants, a t-shirt, and no makeup. Her appearance was unblemished, except for one flaw. One embarrassing, yet well-hidden, flaw.

Tracy watched intently as Richard Gere’s character stood out of a limousine’s sunroof while he was driven through a rundown L.A. neighborhood. With Verdi’s La Traviata opera playing for all to hear, Julia Robert’s character went out onto her fire escape and saw him below holding a bouquet of red roses. As he climbed the ladder to her top-floor apartment, she couldn’t wait and rushed down. When the love-crazed couple met in the middle, their lips inches apart, Tracy pulled out a few tissues and spoke along with the dialogue.

Richard Gere asked, “So what happened after he climbed up the tower and rescued her?”

With a half-smile, Julia Roberts answered, “She rescues him right back,” and they kissed like they meant it.

Tears ran down Tracy’s cheeks — just your average day in Hollywood where a rich businessman “saves” a prostitute. Not feeling the least bit odd about longing to be Julia Robert’s character, Tracy’d gladly turn a few tricks to have a fairytale like this one come true.

While the closing credits rolled, she wiped her tears and wished that Chad Stanwick, the president of Sigma Alpha Mu and her ex-boyfriend, would’ve been her “knight in shining armor.” Ironically, if the rumors were true, Richard Gere and Chad Stanwick shared the same fetish — a rather peculiar one satisfied by prostate-tickling gerbils.

Tracy clicked-off the television and double-checked that her roommate wasn’t around as she moved to her office. Once in the room, she shut the door for additional privacy. She went to her desk and opened the bottom drawer. Waiting for her inside was a package that had been delivered two days before and she knew it contained her dirty little secret. She ripped it open and pulled out a videotape. After reading its label — a play-on-words for what happened to be her favorite romantic-comedy — she was immediately intrigued. Before putting it in her VCR, she read the blush-inducing title once more and sincerely hoped it would live-up to expectations.

Scene 0 | Scene 1 | Scene 2

zerofucksgiven

“Zero F*cks Given” (Scene 0)

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”.

Once upon a time in Buffalo, NY…

Bob dropped his fork, clanging it on the table for dramatic effect. “Who the fuck orders a salad?” He glared across at Zabka. “No good story ever started with, ‘So, I was eating a salad…’ But here you are, like a dickhead, eating a fucking salad.”

The Steer’s waitress flashed some extra cleavage while handing out the rest of the table’s lunch orders and second round of drinks. She adjusted her cowboy hat, pulled down her red and black, checkered, flannel shirt, and asked, “Y’all need anything else, boys?”

Zabka looked up at her and replied, “Naw, Sugar-Tits. Unless ya got a twin sister?” The look on his face was one part self-amusement and two parts severe hangover.

Daggers shot out of her eyes. “I gotta name and it ain’t Sugar-Tits — it’s Wendy.”

“Whatever. Like the fast-food joint?”

She stared at his face, wanting to punch it, and was pleased to see that someone had already taken the liberty. She commented, “Nice shiner. You should really put some ice on that,” before moseying away in her cowboy boots and denim shorts.

The ring around Zabka’s left eye was swollen and dark purple. “Ice?” he mumbled. “I don’t need ice. Pussies need ice.” He stabbed his fork through lettuce and a cherry tomato, and his shaky hand brought it to his mouth. He had to concentrate to not drip any dressing on his cheap suit.

Magnum, their college housemate, echoed Bob’s previous statement, “Yeah, no good story ever started with, ‘So, I was eating a salad…’”

Zabka chewed, his face scrunched, pondering those words of wisdom. “Yeah, but what if I was tossin’ some chick’s salad?” He raised his eyebrows. “That’d be a good start to a story, right?”

“It sure would… except you’re not.” Bob threw his polyester tie over his shoulder. “Anyway, if we don’t have a blast today, it’s your goddamn fault.” He attacked his greasy cheeseburger, devouring half in one bite.

“Whatever.” Beads of sweat were on Zabka’s forehead, and his skull was pounding.

“You look like shit. Did you throw up in the bathroom?”

“No…” Zabka took a sip of his Bloody Mary. “But I wish I had.”

Magnum felt compelled to share, “Well, I feel great.”

Bob replied, “Yeah, Magnum. That’s cuz you’re a freak of nature.”

As buddies do, they called each other by their nicknames — Zabka, because his doppelgänger was William Zabka, the blond actor in The Karate Kid whose character is an arrogant prick; Magnum, although younger and taller, for his bushy mustache, naturally tan skin-tone, and likeness to the TV private investigator; and Bob, the jovial moniker for Robert. And although it was 1993, they looked like they forgot to leave the ’80s.

Bob said to Zabka, “Come on, you need more than a salad. We have a big day ahead of us.”

“I’ll eat what I wanna eat.” Zabka grabbed an olive from his drink and tossed it at Bob, hitting him between the eyes.

Bob wiped tomato juice off his face. “Asshole.”

“Listen, I couldn’t make it to the gym, so I’m eating light.” Zabka flexed his arm and made a muscle. “You don’t get a ripped body like mine without sacrificing every once in a while.” He looked at his friend. “And Bob, you could stand to lose a few pounds. So don’t give me any shit.”

Magnum asked Zabka, “Seriously, why bother? You know today’s gonna be a repeat of last night… you’re gonna drink a hundred beers again. What’s the use?” He was also wearing an off-the-sale-rack suit and popped a new roll of 35mm film in his Kodak compact camera.

It was a muggy summer day, and they were having lunch in a restaurant-bar called The Steer. Located near the University at Buffalo’s city campus, it was popular with students from Long Island. Its dark wood interior and the large bull’s skull and horns that hung on the wall gave the place its western vibe. A country pop-song by Billy Ray Cyrus started playing in the bar.

Magnum commented, “I’m so sick of this song. It’s on the radio all-the-damn-time.”

“Achy-Fuckin’-Breaky Heart?” Bob was physically agitated. “This sucks donkey-balls.”

Zabka said nonchalantly, “I’d Achy-Fuckin’-Breaky that guy’s nose if he was here.”

“Why? I figured that tard was your idol. Why else would you have the same stupid mullet?”

“Cuz I make it look cool,” Zabka replied. “To be honest, I could get up and line-dance to this shit and make it look cool.”

“Oh god, please don’t.” Bob closed his eyes and shook his head. “But seriously, Zabka, why’d you make us come to this hellhole? I hate this fucking place.” He watched a group of girls in matching sorority shirts and with matching nose jobs, chat up the bartender. “Oh, that’s right… because you’re sniffing around for Tracy Cohenstein.”

Magnum’s eyes grew wide as he thought about the last time he saw Tracy the previous school year. It was the end of spring semester their Junior Year and she was sunbathing in her backyard. He was perched in a tree with binoculars.

Zabka put his fork down. “Screw you, Bob. Stop trying to stir the pot.”

“Who, me?” Bob placed his hand over his heart. “I would never.”

Zabka shook his head. “Yeah, never.”

Bob was undoubtedly stirring the pot. “You two fucktards were ridiculous yesterday. Like, over the top.” He gulped down some beer and shoved a fist full of fries into his mouth. “Hey, remember the last time we came here? The bouncer launched some douchebag off the steps outside and into the street.”

“Oh yeah, that was hilarious,” Magnum responded. “No offense, Zabka, but I’m shocked that’s never happened to you.”

“Someone’s got the balls to try to throw me out?” Zabka scoffed. “Ha. That’s a good one.”

Bob commented, “Actually, I’m shocked Brewer didn’t toss you outta The Base last night. You were a walking-talking-stumbling shitshow.”

Zabka had a crooked smile. “They’d never — they love me. We own that bar.”

Magnum shook his head. “Everything… and I mean everything… was a fiasco yesterday.”

Bob added, “Fiasco isn’t quite the right word. It was a… clusterfuck.”

Magnum studied his scraped knuckles. “Yep, one giant clusterfuck.”

“I’m mentally scarred by several things I witnessed.” Bob shuddered. “Actually, can we please just talk about something else?”

“Sure. How about hangovers?” Magnum finished his beer and raised the bottle. “Thank god for hair-of-the-dog.”

“More like shit-of-the-dog. Dog shit — that’s what I feel like. So no, I don’t want to talk about hangovers.”

“Okay, then how about the Bills?” Zabka asked. “Their second preseason game is today.”

“Come on, I thought we were changing subjects.” Bob rubbed his temples. “The Bills are the NFL’s version of a hangover. They lost against Detroit last week. Fuckin’ Detroit!”

“Relax,” Zabka told him. “It’s preseason — means nothing. The team’s rusty and, most-likely, partying a fair amount. I’m sure things get a little wild down in Fredonia during training camp. No big deal.”

“To be frank, Buffalo is done,” Magnum stated. “They lost the last three Super Bowls. They’re done. It’s all about Miami this year. Go ’Phins!”

Zabka picked up his fork. “Fuck Miami, and fuck Marino.” He then speared a piece of chicken with his next helping of salad. “Shouldn’t you root for a Hawaiian team, Magnum? Oh shit, that’s right — there isn’t one!” As he gnawed on the meat like a piece of gum, his face slowly turned green. He spit the chicken on the floor and inspected its pink flesh. “What the fuck?!” He dry-heaved. “It’s fuckin’ raw!”

“Here less than twenty-four hours and already someone’s out to get Zabka.” Magnum shook his head. “Shocker.”

Their waitress heard the commotion and hustled over. “Is there a problem with your order?”

“A problem?!” Zabka’s adrenaline had spiked. “You’re goddamn right there’s a problem! The fuckin’ chicken ain’t cooked!”

“I’m so sorry. Let me take care of that and get you a new salad.”

“No! You will not do that! I’ll handle this myself.” Zabka stood up holding his plate, marched toward the kitchen, and slammed through the aluminum swinging-door. “Who the fuck made my salad?!”

The kitchen staff froze, alarmed by the madman with a black-eye.

Zabka scanned for the most-likely culprit and landed on the man who’d been chopping lettuce. “Hey, chico! Did you do this?!” His experience growing up as the only white kid in a Latino high school had kicked in. “Did you put raw pollo in my salad?!”

The Panamanian food preparer replied, “No, sir. I just make the vegetables.” His nervous eyes implicated his coworker — the guy cooking on the grill.

“I see.” Zabka turned to the cook. “So, it was you… Señor Fuckface, eh?” He walked over and dumped his salad on the Mexican man’s head. “Why’d you do this?! Tell me right now, or I swear, I’ll strangle your fucking neck!”

The guy gulped, fully believing Zabka’s threat. “Okay, okay. Some girl paid me fifty bucks to do it. Please don’t tell my boss. I beg you.”

“Some girl?!” Zabka looked around. “So where is this conniving little cunt? Keep talking and I might let you off the hook.”

“She was out at the bar.” He was shaking.

“Take me to her.” Zabka punched his palm. “Let’s go, motherfucker.”

Scene 0 | Scene 1

zerofucksgiven