Bogeton Wolftucks

Anyone familiar with Atlantic City knows that all sorts of species can be found living under the boardwalk. We all feel bad for them.

One day, back in January 2011, I was walking the boardwalk, and spotted a big pack of seagulls a few blocks north of States Avenue. They were big gulls that have a lot of feathers on them, resembling fur. I’m totally stoked on these dudes. They look furry and ****. So, I dodged a few members of the 800 Bloc street gang, and headed onto the beach.

I’ve been trying to communicate and catch seagulls for twenty years to no avail. Many a post-surf morning has been spent chasing seagulls. I don’t run after them or anything, rather I chase them like some horror film villain, slow and methodical. I know catching one is a pipedream, so lately I’ve been concentrating on initiating conversation. I’ve been doing this a long time, and quite frankly, I haven’t had much success. But I will never quit trying.

This pack of gulls had made their way near a jetty at the shoreline. I approached the pack and was making good progress when I heard a voice behind me that instantly reminded me of that Chester Cheetos Dude.

"Excuse me chap.”

I turned around and a rather large dog was right behind me, looking-me-over with a disturbing look in his gleaming eyes. He must have come from under the boardwalk, some thirty yards from the water’s edge.

“Allow me to present myself,” the Irish Wolfhound said, “I am Bogeton Wolftucks. I am from Wales, and I eat surfers.”

Can you imagine what it is like to be on a deserted January beach and having what appears to be a dog talking to you? At that moment I was truly feeling enraptured in some 1950’s Twilight Zone episode. I felt as if I was in some deserted town - in some desolate make-believe world completely disconnected from reality.

Fearing he sensed that I surfed, I tried to throw him a dodge. In my best Jeff Spicoli voice I said, “ Uhhh, I guess you’re **** out of luck, dude, I’m no surfer. I’m a bodyboarder.”

Bogeton Wolftucks was not having any of that. Angrily he stated, “THOSE PETRID TECHNACALLITIES MEAN NOTHING TO ME. I, Bogeton Wolftucks, from Wales, will eat any rider of any surf…unless they can beat me in a hand of poker.”

I still wasn’t clear whether this was really happening. My mind quickly assessed the situation and my options. I scanned the beach and the boardwalk, but absolutely no one was around. This area is north of the main casino and commercial section of the boardwalk, and bounds an almost ghost townesque ghetto neighborhood trying its hand a gentrification. I was all by myself. My options limited.

What could I do? I couldn’t out-run this natty-haired mongrel, and the dude probably outweighed me by a good twenty pounds. Where were the 800 Bloc and their trusty 9 millimeters? They were just on the boardwalk a few moments earlier. I was utterly confused and so shocked by this situation that panic didn’t override the incredulous feeling overwhelming my brain and senses. I had no choice. I had to play a hand of snooker with this boardwalk-dwelling scoundrel. The Twilight Zone music played in my head – here I was alone on an Atlantic City beach, playing poker for my life…against a dog. A dog from Wales of all places.

 

I accepted his challenge, and we both headed under the boardwalk, Bogeton trailing behind me. This short walk felt like my own Bataan Death March. We arrived at his spot under the boards, and immediately Mr. Wolftucks poured himself a glass of cheap brandy. The son-of-a-***** didn’t even offer me a nip, which I felt was rather rude. Bogeton had this sitting area consisting of a ragtag table and two chairs. I wondered how many surfers faced their mortality in this motley canine’s chamber of horror.

Dudes, I hadn’t played poker in ages, and the finality of the situation bombarded me. I was starting to sweat as Bogeton dealt the hand. Shoot, my luck wasn’t of the good kind in those days, either. Bogeton picked-up his cards, quickly examined them, and smiled, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth. I’ll never forget that look. He had me. A look of deep satisfaction settled upon his face, accented by this vibe of impatience. He could not wait to eat me. I hesitantly gathered my cards and took a painstakingly slow look at them. I could not believe my eyes – three Kings. Not too shabby, I thought, as a sense of distant hope began to emerge, slowly beating-down the fear I had felt. However, that damn peculiar smile on Bogeton’s furry face reminded me not to count my chickens just yet. Everything depended on the next few seconds. My whole life rested on the upturning of some goddamn playing cards.

Bogeton couldn’t wait any longer, and threw-down three Jacks !!

Yes !! I jumped-up, hitting my head on the bottom of the boardwalk, and slammed my three Kings down on the ramshackle table. I screamed, “Ha, Bogeton Wolftucks there will be no eating of human flesh for you today, sir!”

Bogeton looked dejected. However, being from Wales, he was an honorable fellow, and permitted me to go on my way. He knew other opportunities would come, and had his heart set upon eating Ben Gravy. Even Ben Gravy’s name sounded delicious.

So, yeah, you guys who surf in Atlantic City, be wary of Bogeton Wolftucks, for he eats surfers. Unless, of course, lady luck happens to shine your way on that fateful day. Oh, don’t believe this story? Then I challenge anyone to walk along the beaches of Atlantic City on a windswept winter night, north of the main commercial section of the boardwalk. I dare you.

 

Hey, Barry, you wannabe-interesting-type....

Go post stuff aboot your phantom surf sessions. Maybe you're tired from all of that surfing today.

Crewsby on CBS, actually this is a bit o' a test to see where today's state of mind is on here.

Plus people need to develop some real feuds on here like the good ol' days. The one's that sort of exist today just don't compare. Like, M-Fitz and Trevolution had a three day fight on here - like, constant. One of them even created a new account using a format of the other dude's name so he could make him look bad. Now that's cut throat internet hassling.

Today's b!tching and pseudo feuds suck.

 

Speaking of groms.

Maybe we should watch what we say on here as we have a rather large group of impressionable middle-aged gremmies on here.

 

What? Isn't anyone going to call this "balegerint?"

Man, this is sad state of Swellinfo these days. It's like the dark ages.

At least last time I got called "balegerint" and accused of doing too much drugs.

 

Nah Barry's alright. He doesn't even believe half of the shat he says. He just likes to be the thorn in people's surf predictin website message board sides. Barry toys with those who take surf predictin message board sites too seriously and everybody else.

I guess it's better than waiting around for The Wheel of Fortune to air, which most older people do.

I fight better with delusional people, usually of meager intelligence, who really believe their own nonsense. MIS is smart so that was an exception. Has a weird belief that people can work together to over throw governments and live peacefully, but he ain't mentally challenged like some of my past detractors.

And yeah, I don't do nothing on here anymore. I don't know. Why help Micah's old site when Micah always shat on me? No more entertainment for free. I need drug money. And I'm just not as spunky as South Jetty Bill was. He was a little excitable. Cue Morgan Freeman's speech to the Parole Board in Shawshank......now.

 

You stayed at one of them now-demolished motels in West Atlantic City? Oh man, GP. You living on the grimey side and reckless. B!tchen.

Hey you didn't kill all of them hookers did you?