The Scrapper

Warning: This is a story about my Dad. My Dad, Patrick Ward, had a rough life. So...this story contains a few "colorful" words and I hope they do not offend. I am compiling these stories and self-publishing them for my Dad's 60'th birthday next year. I chose to leave the story as it was told.


“Jack leave em’ alone.” Patrick said as the engine of their muscle car revved and roared between gears.

“Get your hand down,” Pat said as he tried to reach over and grab Jack’s hand, which was waving the middle finger out his window at the neighboring Mustang.

“I don’t want to fight right now.” Pat yelled.

“Awe shut up.” Jack said, arrogant and drunk. “They look like nuthin’ but a bunch of Claremore assholes to me.”

Jack leaned over Pat and tried to wave his hand out Pat’s window. Pat threatened him again.

“Quit it you dumb ass.”

Jack down-shifted to 3rd to try and quickly pass them. The car roared as the gears flew into speeds too high for 3rd year. But the car in the other lane seemed to not care and let them roar ahead.

“Finally,” Jack said. The driver of the other car waved his hand out the window and motioned them to pull over.

“Oh yeah baby, somebody’s gonna get whuped.” Jack said and kept checking the mirror to make sure they were still pulling over.

“I’m not fightn’ this for you Jack,” Patrick warned.

“I DON’T NEED YOU TO FIGHT NOTHIN YOU ASSHOLE,” Jack screamed defiantly.

The liquor always made Jack’s attitude worse. He was a mean drunk. Worse than mean, he was stupid. Jack took a half-empty beer bottle and chunked it out the window at the Mustang.

Pat and his friend Jack had been drinking since 11:00 that morning. It was 4:00 and by now their blood could have been used as a disinfectant. Between the two of them they had polished off 3 bottles of Jack Daniels and about 17 cans of cheap beer.

Now, there are two types of drunk drivers. Those who drive very slow over-cautious, and those who drive fast and reckless. The slow kind, Jack… was not. So these two greasers were taking a joy ride at 90 to nothing in Jack’s 58 Impala on Route 66 between Claremore and Foyl Oklahoma, both of them drunk as a Kentucky wino.

(To be cont...)