The Hurt Patrol (11 page)

Hee, his soup-de-grace. All on his own. One for the Team.

Because all that hot, humid week, unbeknownst to any of the Hurts, Beau had been reflecting on how best to
up
their revenge. Nothing violent, nothing dangerous, but worse than just shaving cream. And then it came to him, and he had begun to organize.

For four days and nights, Beau had been gathering the tiny ominous fish corpses in a great big Baggie. Now it was full of putrified, slimy, gaggy fish guts—which he was now gingerly carrying. He had kept them constantly wet in the heat, and they had grown
mighty
.

Carefully, he poured the ghastly aspic into the pockets of the tent windows, and then stood back briefly to see if it could be immediately detected. Nope. In the dark, the long wet spots were unremarkable, and the stink was muted. Best part was you couldn't see the fishy, from the outside
or
the inside, trapped in the long fabric funnel. Beau carefully arranged the window flaps exactly the way they had been, pre-fishy trip. He could tell from the uproar that the antics on stage were about to be banned, so he rushed. He scuttled back and stuffed the Baggie and can in the stash hole and quickly concealed it, as the scoutmasters were starting to
completely
lose it with the entire Camporee.

“EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU LITTLE SMART-ASSES SHUT UP!”

It sounded like the scoutmaster's voice was going. He had been screaming so much it sounded like raspy bagpipes. The Scouts, however, feigned deafness and caroled on. Beau stole back to the patrol, and they elevated him up effortlessly as other leaders took over screeching. He was reassumed into the multitude and nobody knew nothin' . . . la, la, la, let us sing....

He looked over and smiled, warbling with the others; so innocent, if a bit breathless.

Eyes ahead, Pete prodded him. “Mission successful?” His gaze and lips barely moved.

Beau's wolfy smile and glittering gaze were his only answer. Very pleased = Beau.

Pete subtly nudged him. “Heh!
Way
to freaking
go,
Beau!”

Pete half turned to the others and his eyes told them all they needed to know, and as the scoutmasters hollered, threatening
everyone
with
everything,
the Hurt Patrol looked around too, trying as hard as they could, as hard as the others, to help find the horrific, and—they were being informed—UN-Scout-like fart-meister who started all this dreadfulness.

So, they got the very first After-Party Camporee Debriefing ever in the history of the Scout/time continuum. They were all in
so
much trouble. And even though every Scout had spotted Hunter by the end of his performance, they'd kept it to themselves. Duh. They might despise him, and even though he was a huge dork and outcast, if you told, then you became an untrustworthy suck-up yourself.

So nobody ratted him out, and the hunt for Hunter the Hurt was thwarted. Eventually the Scout leaders ran out of time because the end of Camporee came, and they never discovered for sure who the master fart-meister had been. Thus it became urban folklore and the tale of the Face-Fart-Song was recounted at countless campfires . . . and Hunter passed into Legend.

And the other Scouts' not ratting him out, their weird, self-interested, semi-protection, healed something deep and broken inside Hunter. Maybe just in time. People get crazy when everyone is so unrelentingly scornful and vicious.

However, since the guys in the Head Lice Clan didn't realize that it was Beau and the Hurts who shaving cream-served them, they were completely the same, hating on the Hurts, and especially Hunter, just like always. As usual, they paid especial mind to wee Hunter's proclivity.

“Hey,
Smiley!
” “Hey there,
Sir Smiles-a-lot!
” “Hey
Smiley-boy!
”

When they did this for the first time after the Awards, the old familiar pain stabbed Hunter and made him miss a step. He'd hoped maybe things would be different.

And that was what Beau had figured. And he was so ready to bring it!

“Hey yerself
, Stink-Pot!
Hi,
Stinky!
Hey,
Stinky
Boys! Hey—maybe wash your BUTTZ up in your butt-lice factory, ya chicken-shits!! Hi, Stank-o! Hey, Swampster!
Hey Swampy!!
”

The Head Lice snarled in return, but moved on because Beau's little vishy time bomb was still simmering inside the semi-porous tent fabric and Beau's prophecy had not yet emerged. But the tiny reeking harbingers had slithered down into and through that fabric, coating the floor seams and all along the outer rim of the tent, to continue . . . infusing, fermenting, and fetid.

And thus, a day later, in the already broiling morning of the next to the last sweltering day of Camporee, the entire group was treated to the frantic spectacle of the entire Head Lice Clan, under the enraged and gagging leadership of the loud head louse, trying to find
that gawd-damn stink!

With delight, they watched them manically flinging everything out of the tent—all their sleeping bags and pillows, dirty clothes, their backpacks, everything—and then watched in frenzied euphoria as the Lice began dumping all the stuff they had collected to bring back: leaves and rocks, animal bones and antlers, and all the gear from their packs; heaving their sleeping bags out and kicking them open—to find nothing!

Next, they frantically tried pulling the pillowcases off their pillows, several of which tore because they were too old and ratty to be used in their houses, and showered old, yellowed, nasty-ass shredded foam-rubber all over the campgrounds, clearly flouting the Scouts' Leave No Trace creed. The Head Lice did not appear to care, though, as they continued every kind of garment rending pandemonium, just trying to find that filthy, remarkable, world-class, gut-puking Stench.

As they continued failing, their search grew increasingly rabid. They couldn't locate the stink. They couldn't
believe
the stink. Finally, the large tent was completely empty, and it looked like a tornado had hit their campground and still they didn't see why it smelled so repulsively. Even when a scoutmaster came in and accused them of “going to the bathroom in the tent, or something” and they
lost
it again, on principle this time, they couldn't come up with a hypothesis.

While the Hurts stood rapt, along with everyone else in camp, Pete slowly turned to Beau. He looked searchingly into his eyes. Beau continued to look all blameless, as had been their successful MO up to now, but his treacherous Ears of the Sun flamed, and he couldn't keep up his guileless gaze, so he looked down as he began smiling involuntarily. Great, now he was random like Hunter.

Pete's eyes grew wide, as modestly, Beau met his gaze and shrugged. Pete mouthed one question: “What did you
do?
” His lips barely moved. Beau glanced around cautiously. He pretended to sneeze—
“Fish!”
—cough—
“Walls!”
Beau rubbed his nose for verisimilitude.

“Gesundheit!”
Pete commended him. “BLESS you, my son!” It took all Pete's considerable self-control not to burst into happy horseplay, or do a little jig. He felt goofy with glee.

The gagging Head Lice gave up toward the end of that great day, after running around pointlessly accusing everyone. They had blamed the Hurts right off the top, but nothing could be proved. But all stinky day they had been noodling on a possible theory. So the Head Lice went to find the Hurts to ask them something. The lead louse, a guy called Chris with an eternal scowl on his face, like, “I smell dookie!” stomped up first, his meticulously moussed faux-hawk oscillating with outrage.

The Hurts had been sitting on the grass at the end of a long day, not doing anything much, when Chris Louse loomed, radiating rage like a heat mirage. They stared at him with interest. Beau glanced at Pete as Chris approached. Pete smiled back, dangerously, and shrugged. He'd be happy to throw down.

Chris Louse gestured at Pete, and began threateningly. “We
know
you did it!” he bawled, getting right to the point, practically levitating as he gestured with pent-up nastiness. Pete and Beau watched Chris perform his hula of fury, unwilling to meet each other's eyes for fear of excessive celebrating.

Chris continued gnashing. “YOU and that Charlie Brown–lookin' idiot”—Chris's orneriness choked him—“and that . . . that
FAGGY fag!
”

The Hurts all quickly looked down, trying to mask their dawning delight, but it was too late. Kyle addressed Pete.

“Well, Pete, as the most obvious faggy fag here, I'm going to have to complain. What proof do they have?”

Rob interrupted him. “Hardly, Kyle,
I'm
the faggy fag!” Rob proclaimed, “No contest! But I, too, must protest, for I, too,
didn't
do it.” He scratched his cranium in his sincerity. So perplexing! Which pissed off Chris.

“WE KNOW IT WAS YOU! Don't LIE!” Chris Louse screamed at everyone, equally.

Pete spoke next. “Nice try, guys! But
I'm
the faggiest fag, of all of us fags, though Beau does pretty well, and Hunter here, as well as being a Charlie-Brown-lookin' idiot, is also an apprentice fag.”

“Almost a faggy fag,” Rob added helpfully.

“Shut up, dick-face! That one!
THAT
fag!” Chris sobbed, stabbing his wrathful finger at Beau.

“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Kyle. “I contend that both my brother and I are easily as faggy!”

“Yeah, why him?” asked Pete. “That hardly seems fair.”

“Yeah, we're all equally faggy here,” added Rob, and then Kyle said, “Yeah, I'm just as faggy a
faggy
fag as him!” Then everyone: “Me too!” “
I'm
the faggiest faggy fag!” “No!
I
am!” “
Nope!
” “Me!” “
I
AM the faggy fag—and so is my wife!” “Hey! I just remembered! I'm also the faggiest Spartacus!”

“Shut up! Shut UP! It's NOT FUNNY!!!” Chris roared. “I'm-a tell MY DAD,
BITCHES
!”

The Hurts nodded helpfully . . .
not
funny, no. They composed themselves obligingly and stood around, attempting to look subdued and remorseful. Hurts = yes indeed, very sorry. Then, softly, they all heard a tiny sound that made them look around.

When they heard it again, not exactly a grunt, more of an
eeeeeeee,
like a baby balloon being squeezed, their collective gaze followed the noise, and they found Hunter, squatting and red-faced, toothily grinning his ass off. His eyes were squinched tight, and he was shaking with repressed hysterics, his arms wrapped around himself as he struggled for control.
Eeeeeeee, eeeeeeee . . .
And as their attention zeroed in, they were electrified to discover a giant horrifying SNOT LANYARD that had projectile/bungeed out his face from the force and now dangled uncertainly, swaying in rhythm to his spasms. It hung suspended like a gooey baby elephant trunk as he clutch/crouched, beaming and moaning and crying and
eeeeeeee
-ing.

“AAAAHHHHHH!” screamed the Head Lice
and
the Hurts, unified briefly by Hunter's Gakky snotfest, before they were again divided when the Hurts began flopping about in an agony of laughter.

In pissy amazement, the Head Lice watched them commence shrieking, all flappy and derisive, and as the Lice faces slowly took in this new reality, it sent the Hurts supernova. Unhinged, they wheezed as the butt-hurt expressions on the Head Lice began to cause them actual pain. Pete could barely speak due to mirth-cramps.

“Whi-whi-
whichoneISthefaggyfagyouguys?
” he wailed, gasping for air.

“SHUT UP, ASS-wipes!” bawled Chris Louse to the chorus of squalling Hurts, as they sprawled, unheeding, nearly urinating in their Underoos with delight. The Head Lice regarded them in pissed-off mystification. Two reasons:

 

Rule 1) Hurts aren't supposed to ROFL.

Rule 2) They are supposed to regret their time at camp, maybe by crying.

 

Rules are rules for a reason, dammit!

And as the silvery sound of the merriment spread, like fairy bells on the breeze, it summoned the scoutmasters. And after they came running, the feuding patrols were required to explain what's so funny.

“What's so funny, ladies?” screeched Scoutmaster Whatshisbutt, the lead louse of the Head Lice. “What's all this, then?”

Chris Louse was frantic. “They called us Stinky! Like before we were! THEY DID IT!”

This set the Hurts off again. If only the Head Lice had intended to amuse up their campmates, like, say, if this was their first attempt at stand-up, they would have been considered iconic. Like comic
geniuses
. The pissed-off Scout leader of the troop of Head Lice blew his whistle to shut everyone up, which didn't particularly help. So he tried going boot-camp on them, as usual.

“SHUDDUP! Shut
UP!
Now, Ladies, who's man enough to man up? Did you do it?”

They had no chance to answer because Chris was beside himself. “YES!” he screeched. “That one—
him
—he did it—and
that
—that balloon-head douche bag was the one who did the fart song!” He clenched his hands in fists of fury. “And I AM going to TELL MY DAD!” he screech/vowed. It was his worst threat. His helmet-haired dad was on the city council and would have them all sent up river.

The Scouts and leaders alike sighed and stared at him without expression. This was not his first tantrum. They half expected him to fall down and start choking himself by the throat this time, as Chris Louse flapped his fists, accidentally doing the Harlem Shake. They pondered what their own responsibility would be in that case, if he did start to choke himself—and they just
let
him. By this time Chris's expression was actively hilarious, as he'd added eye-rolling to the yowling/fist shakes and his usual air of “smell-stank.” Like if there was a thing called
Dickheads Do Shakespeare,
he'd be King Lear. He wasn't the only one eye-rolling either; so was everyone else. Even his own patrol was sick of him. It had been a long week with the “tell-my-dad” announcement every two minutes.