Bookshelf Battle

“Take five, Igor.”

The hunchback removed his tiny hands from Dirk’s head. “Will do, sir.”

Dirk found him face to face with a dazzling brunette. She was wrapped tighter than a tick engorged with blood under a form fitting red dress and bow howdy, was Dirk ever warm for her form.

The lady put on her dainty hand. “Good evening, Mister…”

Dirk took the lady’s hand and smooched it. “Smegma. Dirk Smegma.”

“Smegma,” the lady said. “Excuse me, but isn’t that the name of the cheese like substance that sometimes builds up in an uncircumcised man’s…”

“Indeed,” Dirk said. “But I come from a long line of Smegmas, and I’m not about to change it now.”

“How very interesting,” the lady said. “I do appreciate a man who is loyal to his family.”

“My last name hasn’t slowed me down any,” Dirk said. “Why, with looks like mine, sometimes I think God just gave me the last name of ‘Smegma’ just to keep me from impregnating every last female on earth.”

The lady’s eyes widened. “My goodness, Mr. Smegma. You certainly are full of yourself.”

Dirk sipped on his rum and generic cola. “Yes, my dear, and perhaps you can be full of me later.”

Dirk and the woman laughed and laughed.

“Oh, but where are my manners?” Dirk asked. “What is your name, my dear?”

“Snatchatova,” the lady replied. “Natalya Snatchatova.”

“Of the St. Petersburg Snatchatovas?” Dirk inquired.

“The same,” Natalya answered.

“My word,” Dirk said. “In that case, the next round is on you, because rumor has it your family is loaded.”

“That is not a rumor, Mr. Smegma,” Natalya said. “My father is a very rich man, having built a fortune off of baby seal clubbing, dolphin clubbing, manatee clubbing…”

“I’ve heard he’s making inroads into puppy clubbing,” Dirk said.
“Yes,” Natalya said. “Naturally, when it comes to the clubbing of adorable creatures, one must diversify.”

“Naturally,” Dirk said.

“You drink rum and generic cola?” Natalya asked.

Dirk sipped through his crazy straw. “I like the way the bubbles tickle my nose.”

“I see,” Natalya said. “Perhaps something else will be tickling your nose tonight.”

Dirk laughed as he stared into Natalya’s big, brown eyes.

“Just to clarify, we’re talking about your vagina, right?” Dirk asked.

“Yes, Mr. Smegma,” Natalya said.

“Cool,” Dirk said. “Coolitty cool, cool, cool. Coolsville. Just wanted to be sure.”

“You know, Mr. Smegma,” Natalya said. “The life of a wealthy woman is not easy.”

“It isn’t?” Dirk asked.

“No,” Natalya said. “For, you see, I am used to getting whatever I want and tonight…”

Natalya ran her fingers up Dirk’s arm as she leaned her and whispered into her new friend’s ear. “…I want you.”

Dirk straightened his bow tie. “I think that can be arranged.”

Inside Dirk’s ear, there was a small communications device. “Dirk,” came the voice of an American woman. “Dirk, are you there? Come in, over.”

Dirk ignored the voice and offered Natalya his arm. “Shall we retreat to somewhere private for the purposes of dancing the horizontal mambo?”

Natalya took Dirk’s arm. “My dear Mr. Smegma. I thought you would never asked.”

The American woman’s voice was in Dirk’s ear again. “Dirk, don’t even think about knocking boots with that Russian skank. She sounds unclean. Come on, man, focus on the mission.”

Clad in his best white tuxedo, Dirk Smegma strolled through the Imperial Honcho’s foyer, nibbling on a cheese ball he’d stabbed with a plastic toothpick and sipping on a glass of complimentary champagne. As he surveyed the room filled with the world’s most dastardly super villains dressed in their best finery, he took the sights on some of the pieces about to be auctioned.

“Will you bid on this fine panda, sir?” a henchman asked as he pointed to a cage filled with large, adorable black and white panda bear.

“Please,” Dirk said. “I have three already.”

“What about this fresh jar of endangered whale testicles?” a second henchman asked as he held up a jar, the contents of which appeared to be quite disgusting.

“No thank you,” Dirk replied. “I can’t say I’ve ever acquired a taste for those.”

“Sir,” a henchman said as he popped a briefcase up onto a table and opened it up, only to reveal a computer filled with numerous blinking lights. “How would you like to be the proud owner of your very own dirty bomb?”

“Hmm,” Dirk said as he stroked his chin. “How dirty is it?”

“It can take out all of Scranton,” the henchman said.

“Meh,” Dirk said as he shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve seen dirtier.”

Dirk walked past an enormous Harrier jet. “Add to your personal air arsenal, sir?” a henchman asked. “It’s only been flown by a little old lady who dropped bombs on a church on Sundays.”

“No thanks,” Dirk said. “When it comes to aircraft, I go brand new or I don’t go at all.”

“Sucker,” the henchman said. “You know they lose half their value as soon as you fly them off the lot.”

“I know,” Dirk said. “But I just love that new aircraft smell.”

Dirk bellied up to the bar, where a hunchback with two great big, bugged out eyes was washing a glass. “Good evening.”

“Holy shit!” Dirk said as he looked away from the hunchback’s eyes. “I mean, hello, how are you?”

“I’m fine sir,” the hunchback said. “Thank you for inquiring as to the well-being of a lowly dog like me. Might I get you a drink?”

“Sure thing, Igor,” Dirk said.
The hunchback smiled a toothless grin. “How did you know my name?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dirk said. “Let’s just call it a…hunch?”

Both men laughed maniacally. “Muah ha ha!”

“What will you have?” Igor asked.

Dirk ran his hand through his perfectly coiffed, chestnut brown hair. “Rum and Generic Cola. Stirred, not shaken, because, you know, if you shake a soda it will blow up.”

“I’m aware, sir,” the hunchback said as he prepared the drink. “I passed eighth grade science class.”

As Dirk waited for his concoction, Herr Dudenflinger sauntered up to the bar. The German took one look at the incredibly handsome American and put out his hand.

“Guten Tag,” the German said. “I am Herr Dudenflinger of the evil organization known as Das Worldenshtuppen. Our motto? Shtup the world before it shtups you. And you are?”

Dirk grasped the German’s hand with a powerful grip. “Smegma. Dirk Smegma.”

“A distinct pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smegma,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “I don’t mean to brag, but parties such as these bring out the worst in me and my evil organization has been up to so many naughty activities as of late.”

“Is that so?” Dirk asked.

“It is,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Did you see on the news about all of the children’s cereal boxes that were contaminated with flesh eating bacteria?”

“No,” Dirk said. “That was you?”

The German threw up his hands. “Guilty as charged. And we are also working on a special ray gun that will warp a man’s mind until he becomes so greedy that he will be willing to push his own grandmother down a flight of stairs for a penny.”

“That is evil,” Dirk said.

“Did I mention that we are also working on a machine that can cause tidal waves?” Herr Dudenflinger asked.

“You didn’t,” Dirk said.

“Yes,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Soon, we will be able to drown entire cities with the push of a button.”

“That’s absurdly evil,” Dirk said.

“Yes,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “But I am so proud just the same.”

Igor popped a drink on the counter. “Your Rum and Generic Cola, sir.”

“Thank you, Igor,” Dirk said as he picked up the drink and sipped from a crazy straw that swirled all over the place.

“But enough about me,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Tell me, Mr. Smegma, what line of work are you in?”

“I’m a network television executive,” Dirk Smega said.

The German choked on his drink and sprayed a fine mist into the air. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m a network television executive,” Dirk said. “Yeah, I’ve been forcing all sorts of artists to abandon their creative visions in favor of brand and predictable, formulaic tripe for years now.”

Herr Dudenflinger spashed the remainder of his drink in Dirk’s face. “You sir, make me sick!”

“Aw, come on!” Dirk said. “Network TV isn’t that bad!”

“Good day, sir!” the German said as he walked away.

“Come on, Fritz!” Dirk said. “I want to hear more about that tidal wave contraption!”

“I said, good day!” the German said.

Soon, and without warning, a pair of tiny hands were massaging Dirk’s temples.

“Igor?” Dirk asked. “What are you doing?”

“I am attempting to dry your magnificent hair, sir,” Igor said. “I apologize. Insignificant speck of filth that I am, I neglected to stock up on cocktail napkins this evening, so my wretched hands will have to do.”

Dirk closed his eyes. “Is it weird that it feels good?”

“Only if you make it weird, sir,” Igor replied.

Dirk enjoyed the temple massage for awhile, but was soon interrupted by the voice of a Russian female. “If you think that feels good, just wait till you see what I can do.”

The People’s Republic of No-One-Can-Pronounce-this-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan, 2018

The people of PRNOPTSC were poor and starving, roaming the streets, begging for table scraps. Meanwhile, the dictator of the PRNOPTSC, Imperial Honcho Gadooba and his guests were living high off the hog, enjoying zesty appetizers and fine wines as they waited for the evening’s festivities to commence.

Imperial Poobah Gadooba walked through the foyer of his grand estate, his eyes covered behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses, his head adorned with a three foot tall pointy hat, his uniformed chest covered with a thousand medals that he had literally done nothing to win.

A German man with an eye-patch and a Van Dyke beard strolled up to the party’s host. “Such a lovely soiree, Imperial Honcho, and as I saw earlier, such lovely merchandise. Tell me, do all the peasant women being auctioned off come with their own teeth?”

The Imperial Honcho smiled. “Why of course, Herr Dudenflinger. Their dentures belong to them and they are free to do with them as they please.”

Herr Dudenflinger waved a finger at the dictator. “Oh, you!”

“I know,” the Grand Honcho said. “I’m such a cut up. In fact, I cut up fifty dissidents this morning!”

The German laughed so hard he spit out his champagne. “Oh, Imperial Honcho! You slay me!”

“Not yet,” the Grand Honcho said. “But stay on my good side. Tell me, Herr Dudenflinger, how are things with your evil organization?”

“Das Worldenshtuppen?” Herr Dudenflinger asked. “Oh, fine, fine. As we speak, our evil plans are underway to schtup the world over real good. Yah, I forsee that the world will irreversibly shtupped over by 2030.”

“Well then,” the Imperial Honcho said. “Remind me to cancel my New Year’s Eve plans that year.”

Both men laughed maniacally. “Muah ha ha!”

“Say, Imperial Honcho,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “What would you suggest as a good opening bid for the nuclear submarine you are offering? I don’t want to start too high but I don’t want to seem like a cheapskate in front of all of our ridiculously evil colleagues either.”

“Well,” the Imperial Honcho said. “I would say that…”

A tall, muscular, balding man with a thin mustache interrupted the conversation. He was flanked by a contingent of security goons. “Pardon me, Herr Dudenflinger, but if I might borrow our prestigious host for a moment.”

“Of course, President Popov,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Anything for someone as wickedly evil as you.”

The Imperial Honcho smiled graciously as the President’s minions led him into a side room. Once the door was closed, the host dropped his smile.

“Mr. President,” the Imperial Honcho said. “Why are you here? I told your ambassador that Project TS would require at least another month.”

“Please,” the Russian President said as he pulled out a cigar and lit it up. “Ooba. You look so stressed. Come on now, we are friends, are we not?”

“Of course,” the Imperial Honcho said. “But I have beaten all of my scientists with horse whips and personally raped all of their wives and mothers and yet, despite all of these motivations, they still tell me that Project TS requires one more month before it will be fully operational.”

President Popov smiled. “Don’t worry, Ooba. I believe you.”

“Oh thank goodness,” the Imperial Honcho said.

“Ooba, haven’t I been good to you?” President Popov asked.

“Very much so, yes,” the Imperial Honcho replied.

“I sent my troops into your country, this shitty hellhole the name of which no one can pronounce, to help you and your comrades shove your machetes up the taints of all of your detractors, those wicked men who promised to shoot rocket propelled grenades up your ass?”

“Yes,” the Imperial Honcho said. “And now the Shove-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians are victorious!”

“Have I not sent you generous aid packages?” President Popov asked.

“Indeed you have,” the Imperial Honcho said. “In fact, I heard many of the starving peasants lamented that they wish they could have had some of that food before we traded it all for more machetes.”

“And you’ve been receiving my checks?” President Popov asked.

“Yes, Mr. President,” the Imperial Honcho said. “I just purchased a solid gold toilet with one of them. All of the peasants who installed it commented that it cost more than any of them could ever make in a thousand of their lifetimes.”

“Wonderful,” President Popov said as he sucked on his cigar, causing the end to glow brightly. “And I don’t think I’ve asked for much in return, namely, for access to your seaport.”

“My sea men are your sea men,” the Imperial Honcho said.

“And for your scientists to build project TS using the data my people hacked from the Americans,” President Popov said. “To have that done here, far, far away from the prying eyes of UN inspectors.”

“Pbbht,” the Imperial Honcho said. “The only thing I will ever allow a UN inspector to inspect in my country is my big hairy dick.”

President Popov laughed. “Ha…ha ha…ha.”

Assuming he had been let off the hook, the Imperial Honcho joined in. “Ha ha ha.”

Soon, both men were laughing heartily. “Muah ha ha!”

President Popov interrupted the laugh session by grabbing the Imperial Honcho’s throat, slamming him against the wall, and hovering his lit cigar an inch away from the Imperial Honcho’s eyeball.

“I don’t care if it’s not done,” President Popov said. “But you will give me some assurance that you have not been pissing the money I gave you for this project away immediately, da?”

The Imperial Honcho shook his head up and down. “Da, Mr. President. Da.”

(Somber music plays as the camera fades in on a sparse studio, where a beautiful, large breasted woman sits behind the news desk. She wears a fur hat with a red star in the center and a red bikini featuring a hammer on one breast and a sickle on the other.)

ANCHORWOMAN:

Hello, comrades. Is I, your most trusted and revered anchorwoman, Katerina Dashenko, reporting for Nyetwork News One-ski, the most glorious and also only state approved television reporting service for the most wonderful Russian Federation, which, as we all know, is the greatest country on the face of the Earth and it will always make that vile cesspool known as America look like a pile of dog fecal matter crushed underneath the powerful boot heel of our most amazingly virile president, Anatoly Popov.

(Katerina shifts camera angles.)

KATERINA DASHENKO:

In today’s news, our most fantastic President Popov has been voted the sexiest man in all of Russia for the 3000th day in a row. President Popov also coasted to victory over all of his challengers for the presidency, and would most likely done so if they had all not been coincidentally thrown off of rooftops onto sharp spikes and fed to dogs in a totally legitimate and non-suspicious manner. Congratulations to you, Mr. President, for most deserved victory.

And now it is time for the weather with our meteorologist, Boris Sokolov. Boris, how is the weather in Siberia today?

(Cut to a chubby man in a brown coat and fur hat standing in the middle of a blizzard.)

BORIS SOKOLOV:

Is so fucking cold, Katerina.

KATERINA DASHENKO:

This is your official approximation of the weather in Siberia, Boris? That it is so fucking cold?

BORIS SOKOLOV:

Indeed, Katerina. Is so cold my dick froze off this morning. I am dick-less now.

KATERINA DASHENKO:

Tell me something I don’t know, comrade. So sorry to hear it is so fucking cold in Siberia. I pity all of the poor fools who have been sent to work their in the completely volunteer, non-forced labor camps because that’s what they wanted to do and not because they criticized our most glorious President Popov.

(KATERINA turns to another camera.)

KATERINA DASHENKO:

In sports news, President Popov is such a manly son of a bitch that he scored one thousand goals in today’s hockey match and further, in entertainment news, the one and only movie available at the box office is “The Road to Awesomeness: How Anatoly Popov Became the Best President of Russia Ever and Why All Vaginas in His General Vicinity Get Super Wet Whenever He Flexes His Muscles” has been made required viewing for all citizens.

In science news, are you aware that ten out of ten of our most highly intelligent Russian scientists have declared that waiting in line for toilet paper can strengthen your buttocks and slow the aging process? Send one of the fifty family members in your one room apartment to go stand in the toilet paper line and we’ll tell you more about this informative study after these state approved commercial messages.

ANNOUNCER: You’re watching Nyetwork News One-ski. The hottest babushkas! The biggest tatushkas! Oh da, and we always report the best news about most interesting and intelligent President Anatoly Popov.

Yup.  Toilet Gator draft done and I’m not going to put my other projects on hold.  I think it’s good to keep striking the iron while it’s hot though so one chapter of the sequel every week.

Get ready for, “Son of Toilet Gator.”