Johnny Buckets wore a Spider-Man sweat suit.
He hung upside down from the ceiling of the first class carriage, in the fast train from Oslo to Bergen.
Cracking open an Aass beer, he gazed out the window into the green, brown, and white Norwegian countryside.
Someone in the row behind him said how you ain't seen nothing until you’ve seen a middle aged Polish woman speaking Chinese and that those glaciers would soon be gone because of global warming.
Johnny downloaded an “InfoWars” podcast. He gritted his teeth as he sucked down the Scandinavian suds.
“Can’t I get a fucking Budweiser in this country?!” he erupted. “Fucking faggots!”
A sharply dressed man in the seat facing him grimaced, crossed his legs, checked his watch and looked away…
Johnny Buckets hiked up his pants and hit Bergen “like a fucking asteroid.”
The weather was damp and rainy. The mountains hugging the city were molars.
In the driverless Uber Johnny Buckets laughed and did impressions of the language in onomatopoeia…
“Hey, where the fuck can a nigga get some bacon cheeseburgers and shit?” he inquired at the front desk.
None of the staff seemed impressed by his “Make America Great Again” hat or his Joe Pesci t-shirt...
Tourists snapped selfies with architecture, but Johnny Buckets pushed past them on his way to the “Roll & Rock Bar and Diner” on Skostredet 14.
He spit out his first bite.
“This is real beef?!” “Bacon soggy like used toilet paper!” “FUCKING SOCCER BALL KICKING, MANBUN EUROFAGS!”
Johnny Buckets dug out his phone from his fanny pack, got online, gave the diner a shitty review on TripAdvisor and trolled a "libtard" on a fantasy football site.
Then he stuck in his ear buds and listened to the soothing musical stylings of DMX, and Black Rob’s “Whoa.”
Whilst eating the tolerable freedom fries, he drank a coke. It was then decided. That night he was going full retard.
He left no tips, went back to the hotel and shaved his head in the bathroom mirror….
Johnny Buckets got to the club dressed as Freddy Krueger.
A robotic DJ fistpumped and thumped dubstep remixes of Deadmau5. All in automation.
Johnny Buckets slammed a series of shots of Finnish vodka. The spinning room smelled of cinnamon.
“Damn Norwegian bitches look like transvestites!” he lamented. “And not the hot Thai type of transvestites neither!”
Though after a few more shots, the tall, broad shouldered “Nordic pussy” began to look slightly more enticing.
“Gonna go rape and plunder some of this Viking boo-tay!!” he exclaimed and proceeded to be shot down by every single girl in the club.
“Now I understand Anders Breivik!” yelled Johnny Buckets as he was ejected cold into the night by security.
Back at the hotel, he felt like jerking off, but was bored of PornTube, Kardashians, and artificial vaginas, so he hit up an international escort site to find himself a slapper.
On it, he found one in his area; tall, Russian, high cheekbones, looked like Melania.
“Fucking right… Russian va-jay-jay… Bet she takes it in the fartbox...” he clicked “like” and paid in Bitcoin.
An hour later, he was nearly passed out on his bed, streaming a prison documentary on YouTube, when his door spoke in musical claps.
He stumbled up, let in the light, and saw Melania, looking just like her picture from the website, though even taller than expected, at least six inches higher than him.
He smiled. She smiled back.
Then, from behind her, a couple tattoo faced, big, burly Russian lizard dudes stormed into the room.
Johnny Buckets' smile was eaten back by a blizzard of fists.
He fell to the floor and curled into a fetal ball as they punched, kicked, and cursed at him in Russian and broken English.
Melania rummaged through his room, filling Johnny Buckets’ Versace backpack with his laptop, phone, wallet, passport, prescription pills, and folder full of tickets to Hobart, Auschwitz, Orlando, Newtown, Babi Yar, Beijing, Blacksburg, Killeen and Las Vegas.
“Bitch even took my sunscreen.”
Melania then peered into his room’s safe, but it was open and empty. She nodded to the Russians who relented their assault. The three began to exit the room.
One of the Russians snatched Johnny Buckets' red cap from the coat rack, put it on, and whispered “Donald Trump” as he chuckled and pulled the door closed.
