Tranny Joe
4372218004_8ddfcb1284.jpg

It wasn't more than five years ago that Joseph Fulkerson found himself at the brink of suicide: he was broke, friendless, and deeply conflicted personally to the point that he hadn't had an erection in two years. Like the quintessential country-song says, he lost his job, his wife, his home, his truck, his hound dog … everything. One minute, he was on top of the world with a pretty good gig working third-shift at the local Boeing plant, with maybe just a little bit of a drinking problem but nothing to get too worried about, and six months later, in the depths of winter, he was living in a YMCA in downtown Wichita and trying to work up the courage to finally kill himself.

Yep, things looked pretty bad for old Joe.

Then he found the secret rooms underneath the showers by the pool.

Drunk on a bottle of cheap whiskey and high on insomnia, Joe found the place where the walls come apart and twist around at night, behind the old deadbolt they put on back in the '70s when those boys drowned. The voice down there told Joe that he was special: a soul balanced on the edge of a razor, caught perfectly between the twin weights of his anger and his fear, like they were tied to his ankles, and him being dragged across the edge of the blade and cut up through his cock and into his heart.

That made a lot of sense to Joe. Explained a few things.

The voice offered to buy Joe's fear off of him. In exchange, it would teach him how to make a special gun, so that he could fix some of the things that made him so angry. As a big fan of guns ever since he first went shooting at age 6, even though the State of Kansas had taken away his FOID card after that hit-&-run, that sounded pretty damn good to Joe. In fact, Joe was so goddamn happy to oblige that he agreed to run a few errands from time to time, and to make it his personal mission to be sure that no one else would ever find out about the secret rooms underneath the showers.

Nowadays, the brutal hatchetman called Tranny Joe isn't scared of anything. Hell, he's the happiest guy you'll ever meet: full of confidence and sure of his place in the world. He's glad to be exactly who he is: a man who loves women so much that sometimes he wants to dress up as one, and sometimes just wants to hit one in the face until she stops breathing. Now, it's not to say that Joe is all full of inner peace or any of that bullshit: he's still a mean old son-of-a-bitch when he's been drinking, but he doesn't cow to anybody anymore. People who mess with Tranny Joe get tagged with his patented Viper-Room Special: a liquid bullet-dose of methamphetamines, cocaine, heroin-like opiates and hard liquor that crawls into the pores of the skin and onsets a series of seizures that can prove fatal if our buddy Joe doesn't quite feel like giving up the antidote.

A whole lot of people have overdosed around Tranny Joe over the last few years. Damn shame, seeing his ex-wife choke to death on her own vomit like that. Her and that new boyfriend of hers.

Well, now, though, the thing is that Tranny Joe still gets scared, sometimes. But when that happens, he knows what to do: he jumps right in whatever vehicle he needs to and he heads right back to Wichita and he meets with the voice in the dark behind all those new locks they put on. And then everything is right as rain again, and off Joe heads to fix some little problem that needs fixing, for his best friend.

Maybe he'll snag himself a Waffle House waitress on his way out to Memphis. Take her out on a date, whether she wants one or not.

Among the few crashers that have met Tranny Joe and lived, he's known as an unrepentant psychopath with a gun that doesn't set off metal-detectors and doesn't make sound when it's fired. The scariest part for most veteran crews, though, is that Tranny Joe doesn't know a goddamn thing about 'Crashers and isn't particularly curious about them, either. He goes where he's pointed, pulls his trigger, and rolls away.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License