White Skates
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A Thug On Ice Skates free porn video
This is not a good hockey story. If you want a really good hockey story, read SA Penn Lady or MugsyB (‘The true North, strong and free’). This story was written because it hurts if I don’t write it, and also so I don’t have to write any more of Ch 2 of ‘A New Birth of Freedom’. Any excuse will do. This story has homophobic and anti-Semitic language, which mirrors the world, not me.
*
Zec Pribl didn’t hear the siren, and barely saw the red lights flashing. He hung his head, exhausted, long past seeing or caring. Five brutal playing minutes, with only two TV timeouts and the stoppage caused by his goal (second of a worthless season, whoop-de-fucking-do), against possibly the greatest Montreal Canadiens team ever, had worn him out.
His helmet fell to the ice, bouncing off the tip of his skates, his feet had no more feeling, although maybe he’d broken a toe again (if he had, it was time number thirteen that he could remember). He dropped his gloves, a reflex, but kept hold of his stick. Never drop your stick unless it’s broken, let them pry it out of your cold dead hands, he thought.
They were done skating off the ice, the pride of Atlantic Canada, the hands that held high the torch from McRae’s poem in the old Forum. ‘To you from failing hands we throw The torch, be yours to hold it high.’ When he was young, when life could still be beautiful for a kid from Sydney Mines going to play in the National Hockey League, when he could still dream without sneering, those words were his heartbeat. He would hold high the torch.
Well, here he was, fifteen years later. And there was no fucking Torch.
The holders of The Torch had beaten his Islanders 5 to 1, and it was only because their stars were short-shifting to avoid injury that it wasn’t 25 to 1. Piotr Shevstoff was as near to goalie perfection as an imperfect world would allow. If the Isles had five shots on goal it was more than their average lately, and Shevstoff turned each aside without even a sneer, as sneering would merely demean him.
Zec’s goal in the third period was the stuff of slapstick comedy, a desperation clearing pass from Joe Antonelli ricocheted off the skate of George Bigginhill, the Canadiens’ second-best right winger, a transplant from the Coventry Blaze of the UK Elite League, and onto Zec’s stick. Zec, dropping his hold on Hypolite De Comminges’ stick, hoping the linesmen, ref, and the ubiquitous TV cameramen hadn’t spotted him, started up ice from deep in the zone. Zec managed to get around Suicide Syd (Norris Trophy shoo-in Sydney Mines Blake, another refugee from Sydney Mines–the poor bastard was named for the fucking place), how Zec would never know, as Zec was dragging his lead-loaded ass up ice. Maybe Syd was too busy laughing, or calculating what his next salary demand would be after Norris Trophy Number Three. Then Zec was alone, scuffling his skates like a beginner, closing in on Piotr the Great.
He couldn’t juke or stick-handle. His left foot slipped, Piotr thought Zec might actually have learned a fake and dove right, and Zec blasted the puck high on the glove side. The red light went on. The siren went off. The scoreboard above the rink lit up, and the few hundred masochists who paid to watch this farce (or got given tickets by others less masochistically inclined) and remained in the Coliseum, gave some thin cheers.
Zec was glad to breathe. The goal didn’t matter. The Islanders would lose their eleventh straight home game, and thirteenth over-all.
And goals weren’t Zec’s job. Zec was an enforcer. His job was to instigate fights, incur penalties, take away scoring chances, be the bullyboy, the tough guy. He had gone back fighting with his face masked with blood again and again. His blood had reddened the ice of every garden, coliseum, stadium in the league. And he had reddened that ice with other blood, damn fucking right he had, every fucking chance he got.
And when no decent team would keep him, he wound up in the falling-apart Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum. Christ Jesus help the poor fucking veterans if that was the best they could do for them!
But his real job was to protect the has-beens, never-wases and never-would-bes that now wore the Blue and Orange, a pathetic lot, now turning into clown clothes the uniforms that had once adorned the greats.
That motherfucker turned cocksucker, Assistant Coach Mick McRafferty, kept him on the ice for five whole minutes, after he’d played twenty of the previous forty. Head Coach Dengton Molleson, nominally in charge of line changes, was, as usual, in a semi-stupor. Dented Dengton never met a bottle he didn’t like, and the squeeze bottle behind the bench, reserved for Coach, was full of vodka–at the start of the third period, anyway. By now it was fucking empty and sucked drier than a tit.
Zec would have cursed out Mick, but realized it would do no good. The team would either be sold or go bankrupt. He and the rest of them would be sold for scrap if anyone was dumb enough to want any of them.
He was still looking at the ice, long after his own team had left, long after the PA announcer bade the fans a safe trip home, and had been greeted with obscenities. Once you could have brought your children to the Coliseum, and they wouldn’t have heard a word they wouldn’t have heard in Church. Now, it was an aural pigsty.
One drunken fan came lurching down to the glass beside him. ‘Pribl, you’re a cocksucker. C’mere and suck my cock!’ The man gestured to his fly. Zec took the stick, pried the glass loose, and spat the mucus that gripped his throat straight into the man’s face. ‘Go fuck your mother, asshole, if you can find the whorehouse she’s in,’ he replied.
Fortunately the refs and linesmen were gone, and the TV cameramen too. The fine would have been more than he could afford. The drunk looked at him stupidly, and started to cry. Zec felt like he wanted to cry, too.
He went to the locker room, which was its usual filthy self. The hot water was mostly gone. Jupey, the equipment manager’s subassistant, remained, reading a porn mag. Zec gave him his equipment and, stepping carefully around the debris that hadn’t been cleaned in two days, went to the shower. He didn’t care about the cold water, or that the whirlpool was still broken.
He got minimally clean, dressed, and used the office phone (strictly off-limits to players, but he didn’t care) to call a taxi to take him home to Mineola. ‘Home’ for Zec was a co-op apartment that he kept out of foreclosure by paying some interest and keeping the rent current, after the guy from whom he’d rented it decamped with Zec’s security deposit.
The New York Islanders Hockey Club, L.P., had been sold six years ago to a bunch of Jews from Palm Beach, who needed something to boast about at the club besides how much money they made with their special friend Bernie Madoff. When their special friend got through with them, their special enemy Irving Picard started in. Most of them were bankrupt in all but name, but their obligation for salaries and rent would strip them bare, so they hung on. And only a sale of the franchise might ever get them even.
They’d sold every player worth anything, sold every high-round draft pick, kept Molleson on as Coach because he was cheap, and McRafferty because he could coach a little when Molleson was in the bag, which was pretty fucking near always. They didn’t run giveaways or promotions, and the fan base, if you could call it that, was beneath contempt.
The taxi showed up. The driver wanted to talk hockey, so Zec practiced saying ‘Un huh’ and ‘yeah’, and gave him the minimal tip. The driver started to whine, so Zec threatened to bust his fucking ass. The driver recognized Zec and left in a hurry.
To sleep, perchance to dream, or to eat, perchance to belch? Let’s try food, but first, a wee dram. He walked from the co-op down to Partners’ on Willis off Third Street. It was late, maybe 10:45, but they might still have somethin
g.
As he reached the door, he saw them. The guy was beating up on someone, pushed against the wall, and his two friends were egging him one. ‘C’mon, Billy, whack that dyke!’ ‘Yeah, man, beat her queer ass!’
The girl was bleeding, he could see that much. One or two people left the bar, but they were clearly wearing their ‘I ain’t gettin’ involved’ shirts.
Zec was angry. He was always angry, but now he was really angry. He didn’t like queers, although he roomed on the road with Duncan Lytle, the goalie, a bear of a man (in more ways than one), who, it was said, ‘swallowed more hot cum than you swallowed cold Molson’. But Dunc kept his lifestyle to himself, along with his .882 GA.
Zec socked the first egger-on with a beautiful left sucker punch on the upper lip and nose, buckling the guy’s knees and sending the blood cascading down his jacket. The second guy turned and reached for what looked like a gun. Zec knocked his hand upwards and jabbed two fingers at his eyes. As the guy screamed and covered his face, Zec pushed him against the beater, who had turned toward him, cursing. Zec pushed the two of them into the wall, grabbed the blinded guy by the hair and slammed his head into the wall twice, then lifted his foot and crashed the heel of his boot across the other man’s instep, breaking it. Another scream. The first guy, the beater, raised his hands: ‘I give! No more!’
Zec took the girl away from the wall. Her nose was bloody, she had bruises on her face and neck, and she was growing two lovely black eyes. She was heavy, a candidate for membership in the Great American Obesity Epidemic, big shapeless tits, black short hair and a thin mouth, out of character with the rest of her face. One eye had closed up, the other was dark brown under the bruising.
Zec turned back to the men. ‘If I see you again, shit, I’ll fucking kill you. And if you go for that gun, I will kill you now.’ The beater was helping his friends. They said nothing.
Zec started the girl walking away. ‘There’s a hospital at the train station. I’ll take you there.’
‘No, no hospital, just get me home.’
‘That piece of shit could have broken your nose, and you could be bleeding internally.’
‘Are you a doctor?’
‘No, I’m a thug.’
‘A what?’
‘A thug. On ice skates.’
‘You’re not wearing ice skates.’
‘Only when I work. You wanna doctor?’
‘No, get me to Birchwood.’
‘OK, I live there. What building?’
‘Two.’
‘I live in two, too.’
‘Well, two too to to you too.’
‘Is that why they were beating you up, ’cause you’re a clown?’
‘No, because they claim I was hittin’ on his girlfriend.’
‘Were you?’
‘Yeah, but they set me up. They were off on one side, she was by herself, she saw me and was playin’ me, you know, givin’ me looks and that, so when I made a move, she took me outside and he jumped me. She took off and they jumped me.’
‘For fun.’
‘You could call it that.’
‘They could probably use a hospital.’
‘Good.’
‘I was gonna eat. Jeat t’night?’
‘No, I was gonna eat her, but….’
‘Are you a lez?’
‘Bi.’
‘Buy what?’
‘Bisexual, go both ways, AC-DC, ya geddit?’
‘Look, here’s The Printinghouse. It’s more expensive than Partners’, but I need some food. And they know me, so no cops when they see your face.’
‘I can cover you. I owe you.’
‘It was strictly fun.’
‘You the white knight in shining armor?’
‘Once I wanted to be. Now I’m just a thug….’
‘Yeah, on ice skates.’
They went in. Denny the manager looked at Zec and at the girl. ‘Y’wan’ the cops, Zec?’
‘No, we shouldn’t disturb them while they’re countin’ their money. Give her two icepacks and a towel. And give me a Jack D up, icewater on the side, a bacon cheeseburger medium, no fries but slaw if you got any, and a draft.’ Turning to the girl, ‘You?’
‘Same, and two Tylenol. And the check.’
‘You don’ needta do that.’
‘I know, but I did.’
‘You have a name?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, what the fuck is it? I don’t wanna keep callin’ you ‘you’.’
‘Melissa, but my real name is Scout.’
‘Scout? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
”To Kill a Mockingbird. Scout.’
‘Tequila Mockingbird? How do they make that?’
‘No, it’s a book, about a lawyer and a trial in the South, and the girl is named Scout.’
‘Sounds like a fucked-up book to me.’
‘Well, fuck you, it’s my fucking name….’
‘Calm down, Scout. One fight per night, OK?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Zec.’
‘You Jewish, like Zachary? You don’t sound Jewish.’
‘No Czech Canadian, like Zechariah.’
‘Like what?’
‘Zechariah. The Bible. Prophet. My parents are religious as hell, haha, so when I was born, and my sisters and brothers too, they opened the Bible and stuck in a pin, and the first name was the book, and the second name was the nearest word that could be a name. They found Zechariah chapter nine, verse ten, and the word was battlebow. So my name is Zechariah Battlebow Pribl.’
‘Wait a minute. I saw your picture in Newsday. You’re a basketball–no, hockey player. For the Islanders?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Shit, no wonder you cleaned up those bastards there.’
‘I toldja, I’m a thug on ice skates. Now if this was like what I was told it should be, you’d be twentyone, and have honey-blonde hair, blue eyes and a beautiful toned body. I’d be young too, maybe twentythree, just come up to the NHL, with electric blue eyes and long blond hair like Hypo de Comminges….’
‘Who the fuck is Hippo de communng?’
‘The one who’ll make ’em forget Gretzky.’
‘Who the fuck is Gretzky?’
‘Never mind. You’d be experienced enough to know how to pleasure a man good, but virginal enough to take home to Momma. And I’d be loving and considerate. And my teammates would be real pals, real good guys, instead of a bunch of shits I can’t stand. And we’d all support each other, and care about each other, and we’d have a Coach who was like Jesus instead of a drunken excuse, and the team would go on to win the Stanley Cup, instead of being sold like waste paper for recycling. And….’ He choked. He picked up the empty whiskey glass, snarled at Denny, ‘How much is this?’ and when Denny replied ‘On the house, guy, you scored a goal tonight’, he threw it at the wall and it shattered.
He shouted, ‘because I don’t fucking care any fucking more, because it fucking hurts and I can’t make it stop unless I hit someone bad, because I’m a thug and a fucking bum and because when the fucking Islanders fold I have to go back to Sydney Mines and drink whatever’s left of my life away and watch my father spit black snot because he’s got black lung from the fucking coal mine and because….’
She said, ‘I ain’t beautiful, but you ain’t bad. The ice packs and the Tylenol and the Jack D are working. Let’s get dinner and go to my place. I got something that’ll make it stop hurting. Make it stop hurting for both of us.’
‘You can’t get a girl so you’ll settle for me?’
‘Shut the fuck up.’ She didn’t yell, she almost whispered. ‘Take what I give. It ain’t much, but don’t throw me away.’
The food arrived. They ate every bit. She paid.
They left.
She gave, from a battered face. He took. He gave, from a battered soul. She took.
It stopped hurting. For a while.
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