Mitch Coleborn tries to buy wax in Brazil

Wild hilarity ensues.

He began to push his cart slowly down the beach walk, calling again, “Surf wax!”

Mitch Coleborn, who was wandering up the beach in Rio de Janeiro with a fresh slicked decked surfboard, heard the cry and went up to the gargantuan vendor.

“Hey, stop. Gimme one of these, mate.”

He looked sternly at the young boy, brunette boy, who placed himself in the wagon’s path. His valve protested against the boy’s nipples, the surly face that seemed to hang from the long well-lubricated hair, the cigarette behind the ear, the aquamarine jacket, the delicate boots, the tight trousers that bulged offensively in the crotch in violation of all rules of theology and geometry.

“I am sorry,” the wax vendor snorted. “I have only a few bars left, and I must save them. Please get out of my way.”

“Save them? For who?”

“That is none of your business, you waif. Why aren’t you in school? Kindly stop molesting me. Anyway, I have no change.”

“I got a real,” the voluptuous Australian lips sneered.

“I cannot sell you wax, sir. Is that clear?”

“Whatsa matter with you, mate?”

“What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you? Are you unnatural enough to want a bar of wax this early in the afternoon? My conscience will not let me sell you one. Just look at your loathsome complexion. You are a growing boy whose system needs to be surfeited with good books and the morning’s newspaper and whole wheat bread and spinach and such. I, for one, will not contribute to the debauchery of a minor.”

“Whadda you talking about? Sell me one of them bars of wax. I wanna surf. I ain’t been out yet.”

“No!” the wax vendor screamed so furiously that the passersby stared. “Now get away from me before I run over you with this cart.”

Mitch pulled open the lid of the compartment and said, “Hey, you got plenty of stuff in here. Gimme one.”

“Help!” the wax vendor screamed, suddenly remembering his boss’s warnings about robberies. “Someone is stealing my wax! Police!”

The wax vendor backed up the cart and rammed it into Mitch’s crotch.

“Ouch! Watch out there, you nut.”

“Help! Thief!”

“Shut up, for Christ’s sake,” Mitch said and slammed the door. “You oughta be locked up, you big fruit. You know that?”

“What?” the wax vendor screamed. “What impertinence was that?”

“You big crazy fruit,” Mitch snarled more loudly and slouched away, the taps of his heels scarping the sidewalk. “Who wants to touch anything your fruity hands touched?”

“How dare you scream obscenities at me. Someone grab that boy,” the wax vendor said wildly as Mitch disappeared into the crowds of pedestrians farther own the street. “Someone with some decency grab that juvenile delinquent. That filthy little minor. Where is his respect? That little guttersnipe must be lashed until he collapses!”