Rum Punch and Imperialism on the Equator (chapter 1)

Reads: 86  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Two young journalists go to foreign sweatshops to find out where the products we use in every day life are made. This is only chapter one, so tell me what you think.

Submitted: June 06, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 06, 2013



“I’m not a professional on the topic of border security,” said my business partner as he shielded his eyes in terror. “But this might be a cause for concern.” Just then the hood of the Chevy pickup truck burst through the guard rail of an American border station, as we sat in the bed of the truck with the wind blowing our skin back.

“Fuck the police!” screeched our driver as he swung his fist out of the window.

“I like him.” I declared to my partner. I turned my head around so fast that I thought I got whiplash. I was terrified. What would these border patrol rapists do to us? Castration or Chinese water torture? No, that would be too mild of a punishment for this crime. I stared at the fading light of the border station and waited for a sign of hostility, but nothing happened. Complete silence. As the station disappeared into the distance I came to the sudden realization that we were safe. I wiped my head clean and relaxed my nerves, my forehead was drenched with sweat and my face showed clear signs of paranoia.

“Well, that couldn’t have gone much better,” muttered my partner as he laid his head against the cold steel of the trucks bed and dropped his sunglasses over his eyes.

After a minute or two of reflecting on our stunt we were back to our relaxed state of mind. Aah yes, two young boys in the back of a pickup with nothing on their minds but the whistle of the wind and the stars above. Our journey had just started and any doubts we had about it were quickly disappearing as our vehicle descended deeper into the bosom of Mexico.

  About thirty six hours ago my business partner and I were in a fist fight with two well-groomed heterosexual boys. I tried to use my words but nobody wanted words everyone was thirsty for blood. The confrontation started on a warm summer night at a biker bar on the west side of Madison, Wisconsin. I was sitting at the bar talking the bartenders ears off. I was rambling about politics, religion and the legacy of Paris Hilton, when suddenly my business partner broke through the front door. You could tell just by looking at his eyes that his blood was laced with a thick coating of alcohol.

“Norm!” I screamed. He stumbled in with his eyes red and his feet stumbling across the concrete floor. I always felt that his small black hair and his Steve Urkel rimmed glasses gave off the wrong impression. This man was dynamite, at first glance he might seem like nothing but if you light a match you better run for the hills because his fuse was small and his boom is big.

“GOD DAMN THESE IGNORANT CRETENS!” shouted my partner as fell on the bar stool beside mine, “Fucking Nazi bastards.”

“Maybe you should tell me what’s wrong,” I said in a dry tone.


“Maggie’s farm, what the hell are you talking about?” I asked.

“These fucking pedophiles down at the press office.” Then my partner yelled at the bartender for a scotch on the rocks. “How am I ever supposed to be proud of my work if I always get stuck with these bogus assignments?” He had stopped his ranting and he was searching through his jacket pockets. Finally he pulled out a piece of paper and stuck it in my face. “Here you read this shit.”

I grabbed it and held it up to the neon light shining above the bar.

Mr. Campnell,

You’re next article will be a very special piece. I’m giving you this assignment via letter because it’s a top secret assignment that I would only give my best journalist. You are going to cover America’s struggling economy and loss of jobs. We have set up interviews with capitalist leaders and large CEO types.

Our only concern is that we have seen your work in the past and all though the quality is above proficient, we have noticed some very rebellious and preachy words in your last few articles. I want you to glamorize these CEO’s because the paycheck is going to be very handsome for all of us. If your article has any negative feelings towards these men we’ll throw it out. It may take some lies to restore the public’s faith in the economy but it’s for a good cause.  


Fats mcfatts

“I understand your anger” I muttered to my partner as he was slurping down his scotch like there was a prize at the bottom.

“How will I ever make a journalistic breakthrough if I have to tip toe through the tulips with these assholes?”

“Well,” I took the last sip of my beer and continued my speech. “They’re looking at this the wrong way, not only are they protecting the bastards who make this problem, they’re also sending you to the wrong location. If you want to get to the heart of America’s labor and manufacturing you have to go anywhere but America. No modern corporation would deal with American factory’s, the thought of paying their workers or dealing with unions would scare them to death.” I ordered a round of Jim beam and continued. “To find the heart of this problem we must go to these foreign sweatshops and find where all our wal mart products come from.”

“I like the sound of that,” screeched my partner as his public display of intoxication became more aggressive. Evil faces stared us down across the room. “Let’s go to the choke point!” my partner was beginning to fall over in his stool.

“Could you please lower your voice?” asked a man two stools down from us.

“What did you just say to me you fucking pansy?” his sweaty face lifted up from his glass and his red eyes glared across the table.

The man stood up from his stool and his friend stood up with him.  “We feel it would be in your best interest if you kept quiet for the rest of the night.”

These boys had no idea what they were in for, after years of wearing tap out clothing and huffing axe body spray they thought they could hurt my partner. But they could never match his raw insanity.

“I didn’t realize that the american eagle underwear models were in town,” muttered my partner in my direction.

“What did you just say?” screamed the two young heteros.

“I was just explaining to my friend here that I didn’t know they let twelve year old girls out this late.”

“One more crack like that and you’ll regret it,” said one of the boys.

“Well, you dropped your tampon back there and I wouldn’t want you to bleed any more than you’re already going to” laughed my partner.  Oh shit, I thought. Well there’s nothing left to do except drink the last of my beverage and dive into the violent party forming beside me.

By the time I joined the fight there was already blood and spit sprayed across the floor, my partner had one pinned on the ground and he was savagely beating him. He pushed the other boy on the ground but he was standing up now and he was ready for vengeance. I jumped and swung my fist at the bastard, his head bounced off the bar like a bouncy ball and landed in my arms and we continued to beat ourselves into a bloody limbo.

Were we really having a fight to express the dirty inner workings of the newspaper press? Maybe so, but don’t stop now when life gives you a chance to beat a bitchy American eagle model, don’t pass it up. Instead soak his beauty in his own blood and make him pay for the evil that he has inspired through the whole country. True justice.

After the fight was broken up I immediately escorted my partner to the closest hospital. Nothing a little scotch tape and glue can’t fix. They wrapped his arm in a cast, disinfected our wounds and then sent us on our way. I looked in the rear view mirror of the car as my convertible tooled down Main Street. I had 2 deep scars above my lip and a black eye.

“Battle scars are better than any tattoo you’ll ever get,” moaned my partner as he laid his head back and watched the stars in the sky.

When we got back to our apartment which was a very small room on the east side of Madison. I could see the determination in my partners face.

“Let’s do it,” he said as he grabbed his suitcase.

“Do what?” I asked

“Let’s go make the greatest journalistic achievement this world has ever seen.” His hands were busy shoving a giant tube of sunscreen into his luggage. “Let’s go right into the middle of the shit, let’s give the public a taste of truth.” Now he was cramming a package of bologna and a ninja sword into his bag.

Good Idea, I thought. There’s nothing more exciting than a rebellious piece of journalism. An associate of mine once told me that life is shitty everywhere and if our only complaint is that all of our jobs go to foreign sweatshops then maybe we got it pretty good. This may be true but this corporate corruption is a monster none the less, it was a giant beast and it was our job to display the true nature of this beast. It may be a necessary evil but it was an evil thing either way.

Me and my partner jumped in the convertible and blasted the radio. The sweet jams of public enemy were spewing into the summer air.

? Bass! How low can you go? /Death row, what a brother knows

Once again, back is the incredible/the rhyme animal

The untenable D, Public Enemy Number One ?

The only thing that was left to do was load up our bags with rum and hash and find an angry immigrant near the border to shoot us through too Mexico with no delays and no questions asked.

© Copyright 2017 dustin mitchell. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: