Pap had never really been satisfied in any of his miserable fifty-something years. He found his solace at the bottom of the bottle, and he didn't intend to change anything about this lifestyle- especially now that he had that good-for-nothing son, Dingleberry Finn. Booze was his best friend, even if it destroyed his liver so much that the only sustenance his stomach could handle was gruel... sweet, sweet gruel. Sure, maybe he couldn't remember his wife's name anymore- had he even had a wife? Was Dingleberry actually the bastard child of Judge Thatcher's sister, Lorraine?- but it was all a blur anyway, and as long as he could feel the sharp, sour bliss that resulted from guzzling down gruel boiled in whiskey, he would be happy.
This is why Pap really got the heebie jeebies when he reached into the frayed pockets of his pantaloons and felt only his hairy thigh. His trouser pockets, which he had patched up with lint, spit, and a clump of Miss Watson's hair that he had gingerly swiped from her bonnet when she was sleeping, no longer contained the dollar he'd been planning to spend on that day's booze. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his bony, sun spotted hands began to shake. He needed that crisp dollar to obtain his life-nectar, and he needed it now. Committing robbery and rolling a barrel of whiskey out the back door of a bar was no longer an option, as he had attempted this plan twelve times and was now on a lengthy probation. Pap furrowed his brow.
He would have to pry that dollar out of Dingleberry.
xxx
Dingleberry Finn, snug in his bed on the top floor of Widow Douglas's cottage, was startled awake that night by a sudden unsolicited hullabaloo. Rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes, he sat up and listened more intently to the racket- there was banging on the walls coupled with the repeated screams of an increasingly hoarse voice. As consciousness came over him, he was able to make out the content of the shouting.
"BOY, I SWEA'ER ON MISS WATSON'S LAZY EYE, IF YE DEN'T LET M' YIN YER WINDER RIGHT THIS SECON', YER SIVILIZED PANSY BOY ASS IS GURN' HAVE A TASTE OF MY LEGEN'DURY BACKHAN' PAP SLAP!"
Dingleberry's eyes widened as realization dawned on him, and he hurriedly fumbled with the window latch to let the intruder in.
With a gust of dank, putrid air, Pap emerged from the shadows, crawling on all fours into the tidy bedroom where Dingle stood in shock. Pap stood up, still hunched over, to face Dingle, and croaked, "Binglehairy, look et yew- m' own son- in them starchy pansy ass church trousers! Y'think yer better'n yer ol' man?" then, pushing the greasy strands of hair behind his severely sunburnt ear, he continued, "Down to th' reel business- I di'n raise yew fer nut'n. Do yer ol' Pap a favor 'n hand me over a fresh, crisp daller bill. Wit' oll this sivilizin' nahnsense, y'd best at least have yer ol' Pap a daller on ye."
"I don' have ta do ya no favors, Pap," replied Dingle, arms crossed. "Go back 'n drink yer booze."
"Ye' lookin' ta git yerself tanned, boy? That right there's the PRABLEM, Dingle! Yer Pap's broke as his rickety ol' bones! These gotdamn sissy ass prudes best have a good inheritense on 'em, 'cause once they's gon' bite the dust yer Pap's gon' be rich 'n he' gon' buy 'im enough booze to cook up FIFTY POTS O' GRUEL!"
"Pap, shhhhhhhhush! Yer gon' wake up the ol' Widder Douglas!"
"Don' give me none a' yer lip, boy; yer' really testin' yer ol' Pap's patience! You 'n all yer frills 'n manners 'n Sunday schoolin'- if I din' need te mooch off th'ol' Widder's funds, yew kin bet yer sorry ass I'd teach 'er a good lesson 'bout parentin'." Pap leaned in, his brown teeth now mere centimeters from Huck's ear. "Now 'less yew wanna be real sorry 'bout not obeyin' dee-rect orders from yer ol' man, yer' ginna han' over a gotdamn daller bill!"
"Y've ne'er e'en raised me none et all, Pap!" Dingle muttered, rummaging under his pillow, where he saved up his humble funds. He handed a moist, crinkled dollar to his father.
"Now tha's what I'm talkin' 'bout!" mumbled Pap, holding up the dollar to the moonlight, then running the damp paper between his teeth for good measure. "Well 'en, I'll be lettin' m'self out now- 'n don' ye dare let m'see yew agin all up on yer high horse, dressed in 'em queer-lookin' starchy britches thinkin' yer's better'n yer ol' hardworkin' Pap, who di'n need no edgy-cation! Makes me wan' drag y'outta here by th'ear, see'n yew disrespek'in yer Pap like this, 'n nex' time you's lookin' like this I swa'er on' ol' Lorraine I'll be tannin' yer ass til high noon…"
Pap continued on like this, muttering as he lowered himself out of Dingle's window, his joints creaking. However, too preoccupied by his rambling, he lost his footing and plummeted to the shrubbery below, landing with a dull thud, branches cracking under his weight.
"Ohh, by the good Lor'," groaned Pap after regaining some semblance of coherence, "I been punish'd. I di'n dew nuthin' ta deserve this!" He rotated his head so that his cheek rested against the cool dirt, soil and grass still lodged in the holes of his teeth. The dampness of the ground offered him some comfort in this trying time.
He lay there under the bushes for a good long while, making sure his aching joints were still intact. By a sudden act of God, his eyes widened with realization and he jolted up to a sitting position.
"By the good Lor'! It's a sign!" breathed Pap with astonishment. "He's meanin' ta tell me I gotta fine' m'own way t'afford me booze, I can't keep relyin' on m'good fer nuthin' sonofawhore kid ta giv' me no more crinkly dallers… gott'make m'own dallers, m'own fresh crispy green dallers…"
Pap's jaw hung loose as the best idea he'd had since abandoning sobriety hit him. He scurried to his feet, cursing as twigs left scratches down his blotchy face, and ran off down Widow Douglas's finely trimmed lawn, off to fulfill his destiny. Only Pap's voice could be heard cutting through the cool stillness of the night.
"All th'money's in strippin'- I'll take after m'mother- I'M GON' BE A STRIPPER, LOR'!"
xxx
The following night, as Dingleberry Finn was once again tucked in his bed, muttering about the widow trying to sivilize him, he was interrupted by the clinking of small pebbles against the house. He leaped out of bed like a jumpin' Mississippi River bull frog, undid the latch, and stuck his head out the window.
"Well, I'll be! If it ain't Tom Sawyer!"
His partner in crime stood barefoot, illuminated in the sliver of light from the window, grinning, all buck-toothed, up at Dingleberry.
"Shuddup, Dongle, we're goin' out teh'night," he whisper-shouted up at Dingle.
Dingle wasted no time kicking off his sleeping trousers, or whatever the widow had called them, and wiggled into his worn pair of britches. He grabbed his straw hat, which was a necessity for all his adventures, before climbing out the window. Shortly, he was at Tom's side, and they crouched in the shrubbery, in fear of being caught by one of the slaves out watch, or worse, Miss Watson.
"Tom, am I ever glad to see ya," Dingle whispered harshly. "You won't believe what Miss Watson's doin', tryin' to done make me sivilized, her n' her fancy clothes n' sa-lads n' all them rules- why, it's like jail!"
"Golly," said Tom as he shook his head. "Well, Imma here teh bust yew out. We're goin' teh stir up a rukus, me n' Tom Sawyer's gang of robbers." Tom poked his head out from the brush, surveying the garden. He flicked his hand from side to side, and made whistling noises.
"Dernit, Tom, ya'll know I dunno what all them fancy gestures be sayin'"
Tom's brow knitted in frustration, "robbers are s'posed to know secret code, Huck."
"Aw shoot."
Tom and Huck crawled, somersaulted, and tiptoed their way through the garden, all while making bird noises and obscene hand gestures, and flattening at least three patches of miss Watson's flowers. The boys were almost past the house, ducking behind the tall hedges, and Huck let out a hoot. Suddenly, a light shone in their direction.
"WHO-SUH THERE?"
Huck and Tom both froze in their places, as the figure holding the lantern grew nearer.
"Shoot! It's the night watch, Dingle, whudda we do?"
Dingleberry whispered back, "Don't worry none, he's just ol' Jim. I reckon I got a plan."
"I knows its yew, Dingleberry, I seen yew n' yer frien' rollin' like hogs 'round Miss Watson's garden. Yer nuthin' but trouble, I reckon, an' when I git yew-"
PSSSSHHHHHFFFFFFFFFFFTTHHHHPPPPPPPPPPPTTT
Huck let out the biggest, smelliest fart he'd ever done so in his entire boyhood. This was one of those farts that made your eyes water, and the stench was so concentrated, you could taste it, so putrid you gagged. Before they had a chance to experience the stench, Huck yelled to Tom, "HEAD FOR THE HILLS!" and they both took off, leaving poor Jim in the fart cloud, hooting and hollering, "SIVILIZE THIS!"
Jim cursed at Huck, and fell to his knees in the dirt, sputtering.
The two ran through the moonlit yard, their tall shadows dancing over the landscape, toes gliding on dewed grass, the sticky heat of August in the air, and the cool sweat that matted their hair and collected on their backs.
Out of breath, the duo made it to Tom's top-secret hideout, a cave hidden in the mountains. Inside, a group of town ruffians already sat, circled around around a lantern.
Huck and Tom stood, legs spread apart, hands on their hips, staring down at the boys. Tom Sawyer's band of robbers was the roughest and toughest around. Although, they had yet to go on any missions, or much less burgle anything. But Tom always assured the gang that the biggest heist of their lives was coming.
Tom put an arm around Dingle and said, "Y'all, this be Dingleberry Finn, m' best sidekick in alluv me adventures n' such."
Dingle bashfully tipped his hat, as the robbers hooted and hollered.
"SIMMER DOWN!" Tom yelled. Silence washed over the group, as they obediently sat, awaiting their leader to speak.
Tom rubbed his dirty hands together, and mud shavings floated down onto some kid's head.
"Now, lissen here," he began, earning the full attention of each member. A few boys scooted closer to where Tom stood above the lantern. "The ol' brothel down yonder, I hear that's where real men go, n' that's where boys become men." The lantern cast dramatic shadows across Tom Sawyer's face.
"Tomorrow night, lads- we become men."
xxx
When Pap reached the nearest brothel, it was nearly one in the afternoon. As soon as people had begun filling the desolated dawn streets, he had run around asking where to find employment in this newly-discovered career. Most of the time he was shooed away or slapped by concerned mothers holding their children, but eventually, he found a few drunkards like himself, and of course not before partaking in a few shots of rum, he inquired as to where the nearest strip bar would be.
"Huhn!" one of the drunk men rumbled. "Why, it's right down th'lane o'er there, ye can't miss it. Disguised on th'outside as some pharma-ceutical-bullshit merchant's. Go'n ask fer Sweet Crangle."
"Sweet Crangle, eh! Thhhhanksfer all yer help, m'good man," replied Pap, slurring his words as he stood up, bracing himself on the makeshift barrel table. He companionably slapped the drunkard on the back, pressed a passionate kiss to his elbow, then took off down the road, hooting.
"Stupid bastard's goin' the wrong way," muttered one of the men in the group as he got up to piss on the side of the nearest shack.
Pap's drunken detour cost him an hour or so, and he arrived at the doorstep of the secretive brothel after high noon. The sun was high in the sky, and his shirt was soaked in sweat, rum, and spit- this was a good day.
"Good Lor'," mumbled Pap as he stepped inside the rickety building, "this better be the place- if I get shooed outta another 'stablishment fer pokin' my poor head in th'door 'n shoutin' fer Sweet Crangle, I'm callin' it quits."
"Did someone say… Sweet Crangle?" exclaimed an balding man playing poker with himself at a corner seat. Before Pap had time to react, the man slammed his cards on the table and dragged him by the shirtsleeve to far end of the store, into a smaller room concealed by a raggedy curtain, and down a set of stairs into a dimly-lit crevasse below.
Pap hardly had time to adjust to the new lighting when he felt himself thrust forward onto a cold stone floor. The air was unbearably humid and opaque with dust and other unknown substances. His nose was filled with the intermingling odors of sweat, alcohol, smoke, and some undertones of blood.
Just the way he liked it.
"How'd yew hear 'bout Sweet Crangle's Chick Shack?" asked a sonorous voice. "'N if yew done d'scovered this place by acci-dent, y'know we gon' hav' te kill ya."
Pap looked up, and looming over him was the round, dense figure of who he presumed to be the man in charge. He wielded not one, but two pimp canes; his teeth were either made of gold or pure infectious plaque, and his unsightly combover consisted of exactly three fine strands of hair. He wore a pair of pants around his arms like a jacket, finely starched white slacks, and farming boots, through which his toes jutted out.
"I had a vision from God," croaked Pap. "I'm 'ere lookin' fer a job. I gotta buy booze. Have pity on me, lad!"
The man smirked, and nodded in understanding. "We been needin' a… unique performer 'round here. Hopin' ta draw in a new crowd. Gotta fund me third pimp cane, after all…" He lifted one of his golden canes and pried open one of Pap's top eyelids, then his nostrils, then his jaw, as if giving him a medical examination. "... Alrighty, ye pass me health inspection. Y'know our motto here: mo' scabies, mo' rabies." Dropping a pimp cane, he lifted one of his grubby hands to his hairy, matted stomach and let out a resounding laugh or series of belches- it was impossible to tell which.
"So, I… When d' I start?" asked Pap, astonished yet pleased.
"First customers start comin' in 'round dusk. Now git backstage 'fore I stick this cane up yer crapper."