Fubar Read Online Free PDF Page B

from the pot, cigarettes, and twisted, wooden-tipped, flavored cigars would have set off every fire sprinkler within a mile if there were any.
    The bullhorn was passed around again since a different guy’s voice spoke.
    â€œDenning, you’re now called Dung!”
    This slob twitched forward a little. He was about five-two and must’ve weighed two hundred, with light apricot hair and fading pimples like in a connect-the-dot book.
    Nobody asked him a question yet but he blurted out unevenly, “My, my father’s a surgeon at the Mayo Clinic.”
    â€œLicks the bedpans clean, don’t he?” some guy with a New York accent yelled out.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œUh, I mean, I guess so, yeah.”
    â€œHiggins!”
    He took an awkward step forward, making his left club foot obvious. His blond wavy hair was brushed straight back and with a dimple in each cheek, he looked a lot like James Dean.
    â€œWhy you limp?”
    He didn’t hesitate answering. “Birth defect.”
    â€œYour parents sue the doctor?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSue the hospital?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œParents sue each other?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œParents sue you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou sue them?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGrossberg!”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œHiggins family ain’t Jewish are they?”
    â€œGuess not.”
    Another voice came out of the bullhorn.
    â€œHolmes! Why you talk like an asshole?”
    His thin face and chalky complexion made him look like a cadaver.
    â€œFrom England, sir.”
    â€œWalsh! Know why you’re called Watson?”
    He was a tall, barrel-chested guy with green eyes, cinnamon hair, and a freckled face that looked right off a Wheaties box.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œCause you and Holmes are asshole soccer buddies.”
    He scratched his chest over the blue NO FEAR tank tap, revealing a ring through his left nipple. “If you say so.”
    â€œBatman! Used to be named Bingham. Home town and major!”
    He was my size, but stocky with his light brown hair already starting to thin at the top of his head. A silver piercing was above each eyebrow.
    â€œNew Orleans. Majoring in fucking around.”
    First guy here that I liked.
    â€œWhat’s that hairy shit growing under your bottom lip?”
    â€œFlavor saver.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œKeeps the flavor of pussy alive longer after going down on a girl.”
    â€œRasoom now known as Zoom! Why you always carry a toothbrush and stink of Listerine?”
    The pledge standing on my right had rancid BO, a gut like a pregnant cow, and tiny pearl teeth.
    â€œGood oral hygiene.”
    â€œCan’t gargle away AIDS pussy!” was somebody’s great medical advice that got a few laughs.
    â€œRawlings! Why you here instead of at a school with a football team?”
    At about six-four and at least two-fifty, this guy looked tough enough right now to play in the NFL. He had no neck, just muscles that connected his earlobes to his shoulders. “To raise my grades to play ball for UCLA next year. Sponsor pays me two thousand a month and gave me a new Xterra to go here and train every day.”
    â€œCastle! Why you here?”
    He was standing to my left. He was about five-ten, skinny as a broomstick, and so bowlegged that he must’ve been conceived when his mother was fucked on a saddle. He ran his right hand across the top of his dark oily hair that was probably soaked in Pennzoil.
    â€œKilling time waiting for my father to die. He’s a multi-millionaire.”
    â€œVysell, why your high school grades shit?”
    He was about six-one, with reddish-brown hair, droopy eyelids and a deep dimple in the middle of his chin. He always seemed to smile. An intricate barbed wire tattoo circled each biceps.
    â€œDidn’t learn much,” he mumbled almost through clenched teeth like a ventriloquist. “School