We have the first chapter of Rude Jude's book "Hyena" along with a chance to win your very own copy.
Jude Angelini is a character. Not like one of those floppy assholes on the show for kids about puppets and trash monsters, but like one of those guys you meet in real life and only have a concerning “What the fuck” to say about his antics.
Best known as Rude Jude, Angelini is the host of the All Out Show on Eminem’s Shade 45 channel on SiriusXM and is utterly vulgar to a comfort. Described as “equal parts Bukowski and Simon Van Booy,” Angelini shares some of his most ostentatious conquests in his autobiographical work, “Hyena,” — a collection of short stories that pushes limits of what constitutes entertainment in the prudish world of I’d-rather-nots.
“'Hyena' is a voyeuristic journey about Angelini’s larger than life character as he struggles to come to terms with some of the most basic human emotions,” says the book’s description. “Angelini unequivocally relives tales of his drug use, sex life and relationships both professional and personal with heartfelt candor, exploring the inevitability of what it means to be human in the most confronting way possible.”
It’s also isn’t a book for the faint of heart — or in more specific terms — people who can’t stand a little fucking cursing or dirty lip service.
Below is the first chapter of “Hyena.” To read more you can purchase the book on his site or pay attention to our feeds tomorrow for a chance to win your very own copy of “Hyena” from Free Shit Fridays.
I’M IN A CAB LEANING MY face out the window, gone off Percocets and ketamine. This motherfucker crosses the street in front of me looking just like Goose from Top Gun. I’m thinking that was fucked-up how he died, leaving a wife and kid.
I say, “Rest in peace, Goose.” And the cab drives off.
Earlier at Jeff’s high-rise apartment, I copped some drugs from a Dominican with a silver briefcase. Jeff got the MDMA, I got the vials of Ketamine. I cooked the K in the oven. He had some Australian chick licking the Molly off his fingertips. Just the three of us. They’re rolling, I’m not.
She said she doesn’t do K cuz it makes her lose control.
I tell her in that case, do as much as you want.
She does as much as she wants; Jeff does, too. We’re chopping it up with his cheese knife, snorting the lines with a wrinkly one-dollar bill; it’s all the Dominican left us. This goes on for hours, rolling and K-holes and she’s grinding her teeth, rubbing her thighs together. I tell her to come cuddle, but it’s awkward. She don’t even know me. She gets up and we pretend like it never happened.
It’s around then I realize, she’s not fucking me solo. Either he’s gonna fuck or we’re all gonna fuck. So how bad do you want it? Bad enough to see your homeboy naked, hairy ass and all? I smashed chicks back in the day with cats that are like my brothers. Toss ’em up, one in the mouth, one in the vagina, it’s nothing. But I don’t know with Jeff.
Shit, if we can be all the way honest, it’s kind of what I prefer for threesomes—two dudes and a chick. With two dudes, I can focus on the chick. With two girls it gets complicated; I don’t know where to look, who to pay attention to. I’m trying to eat pussy and smash at the same time. Shit’s hard, like doing algebra.
I tried it once with Annie and her homegirl after a night of whiskey and muscle relaxers. I couldn’t get my dick to stay hard. I even ate two Viagras, nothing. I just ended up eating them out and we’re hitting each other.
She’d be like, “Eat my pussy, bitch,” and slap me upside the head.
And I’d be like, “Yeah, take that, bitch,” and smack her across the face.
I usually don’t go for all that bitch shit, but since I couldn’t get my dick hard I figured we were on some aggro dyke shit, so I let it slide. When they came, they excused themselves and went home with no eye contact. I’m standing there buck naked, limp dick, thinking about how we just murdered my roommate’s new couch.
That was the last threesome I had. I don’t know if I wanna jump back in with hairy Jeff and the assless Australian, banging it out doggy-style while he’s getting head, shooting me a thumbs-up. I feel like he’d wink at me midstroke, like, “Yeah, we’re killing this, bro!” and I wouldn’t know where to look so I’d look down at his nipples and a piece of me would die inside.
So I bail and Jeff fucks and I’m in the cab thinking about Goose. We would’ve had to have been best friends like Maverick and Goose to run a busto on that chick, or she would’ve had to look like Nicole Kidman to get me to double up with him. But she’s not that cute and we’re not that close and that’s okay. I’m nodding my head to Modest Mouse on my iPod looking at the East River as the cabbie drives over the Williamsburg Bridge. I kinda wanna tell him to turn around. But I don’t.
So I link up with Brad and we rage all night just like the last six nights. Popping pills and doing K. We’re on his roof watching the sunrise and talking about aliens. New York looks like a Nintendo game, like Megaman. Shit gets real digital on this ketamine.
“This place ain’t natural,” I say. “We been around for thousands and thousands of years on this planet, and now they got us walking on concrete. What the fuck is that? Shit, I couldn’t tell you the last time I walked barefoot on some earth, touched some dirt. Shit out here, you gotta take a fucking train just to lay on some grass. They trying to kill us out here.”
New York is nice to look at, but I’m ready to go.
We’re back down on the fire escape taking rails of K to the face. I’m swabbing the blood out of my nose with wet Q-tips, giving him the ketamine pep talk to get him motivated. He’s like a bunch of my friends: creative and talented and not doing shit.
He’s scared. I recognize it, cuz I’m scared, too. Doing shit is scary, waking up is scary, getting up every morning, looking in the mirror, and trying to like yourself is fucking hard. I get it. I keep telling him, “All you got to do is do!” I’m saying it over and over. “All you got to do is do!”
I’m hugging him, telling him I love him.
I woulda ran a busto with Brad.
It’s six thirty in the morning. I go to bed. I got a flight this afternoon.
I call Assia from the airport. It’s her birthday. My old boss Tony from the pager store told me that no matter what, you always gotta see your kid on her birthday. When old people tell you shit, you should listen. I kept that up till her grandparents moved her down to Florida. Now I give her phone calls.
I call Assia, but she doesn’t answer. I leave her a message on her birthday. My daughter gets a message. I tell her I love her. I tell her I’m proud of her. I tell her fifteen years ago on this day when they pulled her out of her mom, her head was all pointy and I was pissed-off with the doctor that they messed up her head. I tell her they told me it’s just from the birth canal and that her head would be okay. I tell her her head turned out just fine and I couldn’t be happier with her. I tell her I love her, I tell her goodbye.
I get on my plane and fly.