BACK IN THE CCCP
DON'T KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU BE, BOY

Lemme tell ya somethin’, cocksucka — black crowds love Uncle Joey. I do a set at this spot in Newark — killin’ it, laughin’, droppin’ heat all night. After the show I’m at the bar with my boy Reggie, big black comic, smooth as fuck. We’re sippin’ whiskey, talkin’ shit, livin' like DOCTAHS, and who the fuck do I see?

Troy’s sister.

She slides right up, all perfume, bad breath, and worse intentions, rubbin’ our legs like she’s tryin’ to buff the paint off ‘em. Next thing you know, we’re back at her place — blow on the table, booze flowin’, music bumpin’.

Now we’re in the bedroom, the party’s at DEFCON 1. She’s on her knees like a SAVAGE, givin’ Reggie’s big, juicy black hog the kind of attention Michelangelo gave the Sistine Chapel. This is art. I’m watchin’ like a critic, leanin’ back in a chair, eatin’ cold fried calamari I found in her fridge — ring after ring, like a fuckin’ seal at SeaWorld.

Then… I hear it.

From the kitchen comes this autistic shriek — high-pitched, panicked — like somebody just told him Christmas was cancelled. It’s Troy.

He comes stumblin’ in, barefoot, eyes dartin’ around, blubberin’, ‘Where’s da big baba boocha Troy's calamari?!’ And then… he sees it.

Me, sittin’ there poppin’ his precious squid into my mouth. His sister, knees on the carpet, mouth full of Reggie’s anaconda like she’s tryin’ to win a Guinness record. Reggie’s grippin’ the back of her head like he’s landin’ a plane.

So my buddy says, ‘Joey, you gotta come see Rocky Horror Picture Show, it’s a blast. Everyone dresses up, sings along, throws shit at the screen.’ I’m thinkin’ — alright, I’ll go, I’ll get weird with it. I eat two stars of death, I’m floatin’ like a helium balloon, ready to scream Time Warp with the rest of the freaks.

The theater’s packed. It’s a fuckin’ Halloween carnival. Then… the smell hits me first. Like a dead raccoon stuffed in a wet gym bag left in the sun. The crowd parts… and there he is.

J-Tard. In full Frank-N-Furter drag.

His Herman Miller chair’s squeakin’ and oozin’ a brown streak down the carpet like he’s marking territory. And his skin? That sickly wet shine like raw chicken left in the rain.

He’s wearin’ high heels but the straps are cut from fungus-covered duct tape, and every time he rolls forward the whole front row leans back ‘cause something drips off him — I don’t know if it’s sweat, pus, or some kinda new disease the CDC ain’t named yet.

He’s screechin’, ‘I’M BASED!’ in a voice like a dying hyena. He’s got a magazine cut-out of Tim Curry’s face taped to his own, but upside-down.

Mid-scene, while people on stage are tryin’ to do the lines, he starts makin’ Formula 1 racecar noises and spinnin’ his chair so fast that little wet flecks of shit and phimosis fungus fly into the audience. A girl dressed as Magenta takes one in the eye and screams like she got pepper-sprayed. The smell gets worse. It’s like moldy cheese melted on a dead body.

People are coverin’ their mouths, runnin’ out. One guy pukes in a popcorn bucket. Some poor bastard in a gold Speedo yells, ‘DEAR GOD, MY SHOES!’

Security finally grabs him, but he’s slippin’ outta their grip ‘cause he’s just… slick. They drag him out leavin’ a slug trail behind him.

Moral of the story, cocksucka? Rocky Horror is meant to shock you — but that night… it infected you.