The Curse of the Hornswoggled Honcho

After a long hiatus, The Wither Port Review returns with more newly-discovered writings from the great Chickenhead Antonucci. Here we learn how Chickenhead was nearly arrested for stalking a rock goddess.

March 25

The Curse of the Hornswoggled Honcho

It had been nearly a year since my roommate Steve was burned by an unruly gang of Puritans for being a warlock. He had toiled all semester to try to break the Curse of the Bambino. Well, Steve would have been glad to know he died for a good cause. Eight months later, the Boston Red Sox won the World Series, and eighty-three years of disappointment was a distant memory. By Christmas, however, word had been going around about another curse, “the Curse of the Hornswoggled Honcho.”

Through word of mouth, Honcho somehow became Hondo. This in itself was a mystery no one would ever solve. Who was the Honcho, and exactly how did he come to being known as Hondo? This didn’t matter. I would solve this case either way. The rumor became that the curse had something to do with Yosemite Sam and either John Havlicek or John Wayne. My gut told me it was Havlicek, a former Boston Celtics star with the nickname Hondo. All these curses seem to have Boston roots.

On question puzzled me. Why Havlicek? Why not Russell or Cousy or Bird or McHale? I had my other roommate, Charlie, help me do some research on witches and warlocks. All he found were a couple of movies about witches and a Bewitched marathon on TV Land. The Bewitched marathon was no help. They were the later, hippy episodes with the second Darrin. The movies were The Witches of Eastwick and The Craft. I threw out the first one immediately. I could never watch a Cher movie. That dame just makes me ill. Charlie and I sat and watched The Craft together, and there was something about it that caught my interest. I studied the cast: Robin Tunney, Fairuza Balk, Neve Campbell and Rachel True. It was a dead end. Charlie studied them also, then excused himself into his bedroom. I knew he would be no help.

Then I realized what it was. It was the soundtrack, the music. Something in the soundtrack to this film would lead me to the answer. I went to my CD collection, where I happened to have The Craft soundtrack. I made sure to keep in mind the mysterious Boston connection. There were two artists that I knew of on this CD that were from Boston, both of which I was quite familiar with. They were Letters To Cleo and Juliana Hatfield. There it was, clear as day. JH. Juliana Hatfield. John Havlicek.

I didn’t know what this curse was all about, or why I was trying to break it. I just knew I had little time. The next evening Miss Hatfield was playing at the Paradise in Boston with her old band, the Blake Babies. This was my chance. I drove there alone and waited by the back door. An hour later, there she was. She was a pretty thing, much smaller than one would expect in person. Like I suspected she would, she brought her dog. I didn’t know the dog’s name, nor did I care. I pulled out the juicy steak I brought with me and waved it around. Sure enough, the dog came towards me. I threw the piece of meat in the dumpster. The dog leaped in to get it, and I closed the door, trapping the canine.

When Juliana came running, I grabbed her, tied her up and put tape on her mouth, then stuffed her in the back seat of my car. I drove to a secluded area and stopped, jumping in the back seat with her. When I pulled the tape off of her mouth, she didn’t have many kind words for me. That was for sure. I gave her a big kiss to shut her up.

“Miss Hatfield,” I said. “I’m your number one fan. I love you. I have thirty-two of your CDs. That’s including EPs and bootlegs. I have three T-shirts, one that you actually signed, and three posters. I also have some videos, including bootlegs from ’93 and ’95 of you in Philly and Washington, and an in-store in Bridgeport. I’ve seen you live four times. Well, actually, I saw you twice in Cambridge, at the Middle East, and then twice in one day during your Newbury Comics tour last year. I was in Shrewsbury and Natick. My favorite CD of yours is Become What You Are. I love “My Sister” and “For The Birds.” Those are my favorite songs, but I also love “Little Pieces” and “Feelin’ Massachusetts.” Did I mention that I love you?”

I was rambling on like a madman. It wasn’t long before the police arrived. Someone saw me leave and gave them my plate number. I was busted, and they weren’t buying my curse story. I knew I had to come clean.

There was no Curse of the Hornswoggled Hondo, or Honcho. It was all in my head, a sort of psychotic, delusional reasoning to kidnap Miss Hatfield. I needed help. The whole thing, John Havlicek, The Craft, Letters To Cleo, just absurd pieces in my maniacal puzzle. I began this thing convincing myself I’d be a hero. I ended up a sad, pathetic, strange and creepy stalker and kidnapper. My roommate Steve had good intentions. He died a hero in Boston and all of New England. I was as low as Charles Stewart, the Boston Strangler, and John Salvi. Maybe even Bill Buckner. Massachusetts didn’t have the death penalty, but I knew, when the time came, I would be going straight to hell. Then I’d realize my life-long dream of stalking Sylvia Plath.