The Spartanburg Incident

This story goes back to around 1997, when I was playing with Dick Delicious and the Tasty Testicles. Anyhoo, we are doing a gig in Spartanburg, SC and we don’t have a stripper for the show. Our friend, Scott Corkren, is an interesting guy: When he’s not filming midget porn in a swamp behind his house, shacking up with runaway gutter-punks, or blowing up televisions – he’s a professional architect. He tells us that he has this 18 year old bimbo who wants to dance for us (catch my drift right – she was 18, OK? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge…) and would drive up to meet us at the show with the jam tart. Problem solved.

The show was at the old Ground Zero Club in Spartanburg, South Carolina, which shares a parking lot with the local police precinct. We rolled into town and a short time afterward Scott shows up with his chick — I can’t remember her name, but she was already really hammered. We get our drink on, hit the stage, start jamming, and the girl gets on stage dancing around her panties. Midway into the set, Scott jumps up on the stage, and starts beating this girl mercilessly with a 15 inch runner dildo. Then she gets hold of it and starts flogging members of the audience about the head, neck, and face. It was quite a sight to see.

By the end of the show this girl is completely wasted, she drags me off into a bathroom, gets buck naked, and starts blowing me. Outside the bathroom door a decent sized group of people gathered watching, and I’m like:

“Hey, if you guys are so into bone scanning – you should have become radiologists…you fucking fags!”

To get away from the crowd, we go in one of the stalls, where she continues honking on bobo, and informs me she like me to cum in her face, so I leave a pretty good batch of baby batter on her forehead and pose this challenge: “I dare you to walk outside with my load all over your face.” She agrees, and walks back into the club, naked, with my dong malt hanging off her chin like a sperm stalactite. The people that were hanging around outside start cracking up so hard they are having convulsions rolling on the floor.

So she has a couple more drinks, lays naked on top the bar bar, and various club patrons start playing a game of “hide a fifteen inch dildo in the pickle parlor”. While they are violating this girl’s twat with a foot and a half of polyurethane; I get a hold of this black magic marker, and start tattooing swastikas, 666’s, pentagrams, upside-down crosses, and the obligatory “I HATE NIGGERS!” all over here naked body.

Things are getting pretty crazy, so the guys that own the place leave the bar open for some after-hours fun. Now, it’s down to just a select group of like ten, or so, locals, the dildo girl, a waitress, bartender, and the owners of the club. We are hitting the Jaeger, smoking weed in the club, while the slut-n-dildo show continues into the night. Most of the people are sitting on this table near the bar. The girl decides to take a break from Mr. 15-inch and walks over to this wiggery-looking guy in pimp hat, tries to undo his pants to blow him, but the guy pulls away.

I step to him “What kind of pimp wouldn’t take a free blowjob? You don’t deserve to wear this hat.” I take the hat off is head, and put it on mine.

I was just kidding, of course, but I could see in his eyes that he was about to hit me for my indiscretion. I decide to beat him to the blow (no put intended) — one well placed right cross broke his nose in probably fifteen different places. A gallon of blood comes spurting forth all over the place, and this guy is bloodier than Jesus in a Mel Gibson flick. I instantly felt bad for fucking him up so bad him and step back behind a barrier on the other side of the table. Once the shock wears off, the guy starts walking over the tops of the tables coming at me, I’m telling him to chill because I didn’t want to clean his clock again. Before he can jump down on me, I kick the tables he’s on out from under him, and now he’s lying on the floor – helpless.

It’s then, when I start to feel shit slamming into my head, that I turn around to find his two redneck cousins are pelting beer bottles, pool cues, barstools, and just about anything else they can find! Now, I’m fighting all three guys. Scott Corkren, sensing that police were probably on the way; and an underage drunk girl, tattooed in swastikas, with a fifteen inch dildo hanging out of her might be a liability — decides to move her out to the van. Just in time, because the bartender had called the police (they are right next door, remember?), and within thirty seconds the place is crawling with pigs.

As soon as the cops show up, the main guy I was fighting inexplicably decides to punch the waitress in the face, and flee out the front door. The cops see this, and run after him — which was a blessing; because his Ike Turner job on the waitress had taken a lot of the heat off me. We walk outside and stand by the van to talk to the cops. I am covered in blood, with broken glass hanging out of my head. I start telling them that I don’t know what was with that dude, and how “he just stated going crazy”. In the meantime, the Ole’ Ike had got away on foot, and it was looking like the cops were about to let us go free, when from out of the van….

“I JUST NEED SOME FUCKING DRUGS, WILL SOMEONE GIVE ME SOME FUCKING DRUGS!!”

The naked jailbait impaled on a rubber dildo had woken up, and didn’t realize that there were six or seven cops right outside the van. The cops stop go over to the van to investigate, open the door, and find this naked underage slut cover with fresh “I hate Niggers…” tattoos screaming about wanting drugs. And what do you think was special about the first cop to shine his flashlight in the van? I’ll give you one guess. That’s right…HE WAS A BLACK COP!

I knew it; we were done for — the cops start asking who the girl was with. To my surprise, my architect friend, who stood to lose his license over this fiasco, immediately claims her. Love is a hell of a drug, I guess. Skipping any perfunctory questions; they cuff him, and walk him across the lot, directly into the police station. By this time, the sun is starting to come up, I’m thinking that he’s fucked, and we ought to a least start getting together some bail money or something, but ten minutes later Scott emerges the police station…un-arrested! Holy god damn molly, Jesus H. Christ on a crutch — this was a certified miracle or a really big payoff! Cheerleaders get out you pom poms and sing along:

EXT-OR-T-ION, EXT-OR-T-ION, EXT-OR-T-ION, WHAT’S THAT SPELL?

EXTORTION!

That was the Spartanburg incident.

More stories to come,
Jay

Quick epilogue: It wound up; the guy whose ass I kicked was a notorious asshole who was always causing problems with people around Spartanburg. A year after this incident was sent to prison for shaking a baby to death – making me a kind legend / hero in those parts.

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I'm the singer / guitarsist / do everything guy for this rag tag outfit. It's glorious!
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