Dark 39 Big Lebowski Style

I ain’t the guy you piss on; I was the guy you pissed and walk away. I was not a coward; I was a veteran from the Desert War. I cared not for world politics; I was the one left in refuge chute. Okay, I am named the Dude; with my huge frame. Well, my chest muscles had reclined to sedentary posture. My freedom years had me more of a potato couch. That was when I found my new career.

I was into the porn business as the distributor. Well, I ain’t got the courage to perform in one; I may have the tools for the action but the intent to use has dampened. Well, it did not pay off.

I was bashed in by two blokes on mistaken identity. They had me over the laundry machine buck naked, and I thought the shower head was going to soil my unseen part of my body; you hardly do pay attention there except maybe your lover or the doctor doing the up-chute check. I swore on my poor mother’s bed; she ain’t dead as yet. Probably be by next Christmas, but who’s monitoring it. Not poor me since she told my relatives last Christmas, I was into the distribution. Everyone assumed it was drugs. And they stopped inviting me for dinners. Even Uncle Brien who used to get the older editions for free. The darn family was all bad cooks anyway.

Well, back to bashing.

It was not I balled any of their mothers or sisters; given their looks, I would settle for a pint by the alley. They did me good tanning; they left the skin intact though but the red welts stayed for days. What did they want?

It was definitely not the bowling competition I was meddling in. It was about some missing lady which I knew not about. I told them I was clean as a whistle and that’s the cause of the bump me over laundry machine.

“Sorry, mate. We got you wrong. Your name was spelled wrongly? We are leaving you now. Take care, and there are some rashes on your butt.” I was insulted then for both the wrongful assault and the rashes were my bloody birthmarks. My mum attributed them to the midwife marking my butt with a red marker.

“Hang in there, Dude. It was a bad take.” I heard my bowling pals. I told them during the bowling practice. I did my banging on the pins and then a Whizzer came into my mind. I researched on mistaken identity. I had It figured. Maybe one of my own went missing. Well, I wouldn’t mind if its one of my nieces but I doubt they were worth looking out for. They would have stood up in any line up anyway. They were built like me; hardy and huge.

Then I hit the headlines. And found the link.

“Mr. Bowski, I doubt very much we are related.” I looked across the desk at the man who was the slimmer version to mine. That was not all. He was rich while I was measuring the barrel bottom.

“And my wife missing may not be of your concern, Mr. Bowski.” I heard the statement from the other man. I should call him Rich Man and I was the Poor Man. I was to say more when the aide to the Rich Man interrupted us. They whispered to each other and then I was left alone to enjoy my beer. Well, they do have a good beer at rich man’s homes.

Then the offer came.

“Take the briefcase and exchanged it for my wife.” It was a simple request. The bloody issue was I am not the other Bowski. I am Matthew ‘Dude’ Bowski, and he was Brian ‘Boss’ Bowski. And I don’t have millions in my banks. I do have are in my loins.

“Who…. Where?” I mumbled. The instructions were simple. It was a lengthy drive to the desert with the briefcase. I was to do the exchange and then wait for instructions. It was the same like in the war; you wait for instructions.

And wait.

“Fuck the exchange.” I heard my mates. We were at practice then. We do our practice nightly. I was to drive later that night. My dudes were Big Mac; another veteran and Huge Balls. Okay, we were all six-footers and looked like retired quarterbacks but we never played that. We are just ten pins bowlers.

“Yeah, we stick to bowling. Let the other do the exchange. He is rich and he can get the muscles for it.” Big Mac was not one to mince his opinions. He was busted twice for subornation. “Remember, Kandahar. We were told to go in hot and the LT took the sense, and he called in for second confirmation. It worked then and our asses were secured.”

“I remember Kandahar. I also remember the number of times we ran smack into ambushes.” Huge Balls cut in. “Hey, we are not in the Army no more. We got no Hummy to protect us. No M240 cover fire. Only….. bowling balls. And huge ones too but they are not ammo loaded for the guns.”

Hard advice they were. Like when you watched porn and then it all came out empty.

For nothing or worse, a moment of pleasure.

I took the advice not to listen. I drove that night.

“Hey, bastards. I ain’t got the bag you wanted. You have the bag I wanted to give away. So, we are square off.” I turned to my car and heard the screams.

“You frigging bastard. I will see you in Hell.” The wife of the other Bowski could be heard. I guess Brien won’t miss her. He went for the aide instead. It was his bent that made the missus mad and she went with the kidnapping. And ransom. Except there was no ransom and I won the bowling game. The runner up was the Rich Team led by the Aide. I guess both of us won. 

That next morning, we sang ‘We are the Champion’. And we were huge fans of the recording artists. So were my sales of porn discs. A mate named Bowski bought a lot of gay themes to send to the relatives of his ex-wife. After the celebration of the huge sales, the team; we slept on the open desert some distance apart. We all snored loudly like in Kandahar. It sounded like the drop of the ten pins in that one crucial throw.