Daily Archives: September 5, 2018

Toilet Gator – Chapter 9

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The door to Chester’s luxuriously roomy private bathroom had been opened. The quartet stood in awe of the sight before them, namely, the most powerful man in Hollywood, sitting on the toilet, his mouth agape, his eye balls hanging out of the sockets, his body cooked through and through until nothing was left but a charred, smoldering husk.
“I…I don’t…” Dag struggled for words. “Is he?”
“He’s dead,” Shirley said.
“Right,” Dag replied as he turned to Rudy. “I mean, you’d have to be, right?”
“Don’t look at me,” Rudy said. “I’m not a doctor.”
Dag rolled his eyes. “Wow. The lengths that people will go to avoid responsibility in this game.”
The agent raised his voice and directed it toward the bathroom. “Hello in there! Yoo hoo, Chester! Are you alive? Do you need us to call an ambulance or your personal physician or…”
The movie mogul’s blackened jaw dropped off, then disintegrated into dust upon hitting the floor.
“OK,” Dag said. “I’m convinced. He’s a goner.”
Jordan wept. The agent put his arm around his talent for comfort. “There, there, dear. Please tell me that beast didn’t touch you.”
“He didn’t,” Jordan said between sobs. “But he said things…terrible things…that I’d never work again if I didn’t…if I didn’t…”
“It’s ok, dear,” Dag said. “You don’t need to say it. I get the gist.”
Jordan finished the thought. “…if I didn’t give him a blumpkin.”
Dag appeared confused. “A blumpkin? What in the world is a…”
Shirley scooched up on her tippy toes and whispered into Dag’s ear, causing her boss to recoil in disgust. “Oh, that’s sick! That is sick!”
Hearing no disagreement, the quartet remained quiet as the agent comforted his charge. “I mean, unless both parties are consenting adults and they’re into that sort of thing, but otherwise…no, that is sick! Completely sick!”
“I need to call security,” Rudy said.
“Now wait a minute,” Dag said. “Hold on there. I need to talk to my girl here and make sure she’s got her story straight before you bring in the authorities. What happened, Jordan? How’d you do him in?”
Jordan pushed Dag away. “Me?”
Dag looked around the room. “No one else was in here at the time.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Jordan protested.
“Oh, come on,” Dag said. “You’re among friends. Shirley and I are behind you all the way, right Shirl?”
“One hundred percent,” Shirley said. “That pig had it coming.”
Dag pointed at the associate producer. “And Rudy doesn’t care. Hell, the studio will probably give you Chester’s job, right Rudy?”
Rudy’s eyes lit up as he looked around the office. “I hadn’t even thought about that. Oh man, I’m going to have to call a decorator and make this place my own and, you know a ficus would look positively breathtaking right in that back left corner.”
“You did the world a favor, kid,” Dag said. “We just need to make sure you don’t go down for it. So tell me, what happened?”
Jordan sniffed. “I just…I was just…”
Dag pulled his cigar out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “I get the picture. Pervy McGee here tried to blumpkinize you and you were left with no choice but to pull out a can of hair spray and a lit match and fricassee this chump. Sound good, Rudy?”
Rudy was too busy measuring the drapes.
“I don’t have a can of hairspray,” Jordan said.
“What?” Dag said. “You mean your hair gets that much volume on its own? Bah, no matter. Anyway, I have no idea how you did this but that’s the story we’re sticking with but…oh, you torching an unarmed man probably isn’t going to go over well with a fuzz. We need to plant a gun and…Shirl?”
“Yes, boss?” Shirley asked.
“Can you get an unregistered firearm with the serial number filed off?” Dag asked.
“I’ve got a guy,” Shirley said.
“Stop,” Jordan. “That’s not what happened at all. He told me to wait out here and give him a few minutes to ‘chub up,’ then he started screaming, making all sorts of weird sounds. I was about to run when you all came in and when you opened his bathroom door is the first time I saw him….this way.”
Rudy returned to the group. “I must have a wet bar. I don’t even drink, but maybe my visitors will. Oh, this is going to be fab-u-lous!”
Dag chomped on his cigar. “Faulty wiring.”
“What?” Rudy asked.
“I guess that’s the story we’re going with,” Dag said. “Jordan’s broken from reality and can’t admit to…”
Jordan stomped her foot. “I didn’t do it!”
“It’s fine,” Dag said. “No worries. We’ll find a crooked building inspector to say some idiot plumber accidentally ran an electrical line through the toilet and…”
Dag turned to Shirley. “Are you getting this?”
Shirley punched buttons on her phone. “I’m on it, boss.”
“Call the cops, Rudy,” Dag said.
“Right away,” Rudy replied.
“Oh, and Rudy?”
“Can you hear this poor wretch’s last words?”
Dag flattened out his right hand and held it up against the right side of his mouth. Then, in a squeaky voice, he said. “Booo! Hire Jordan to be the female lead in Chop It Off, boo, I’m a ghost, boo!”
“Meh,” Rudy said as he shrugged his shoulders. “Good enough for me.”

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 8

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Dag, Shirley, and Rudy waited in a room just outside Chester’s office, holding back a collective urge to freak out.
“Oh my God,” Dag said. “It’s been too long! It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Shirley, how long has it been?”
“Twenty minutes, boss,” Shirley replied.
“That’s too long!” Dag said. “Oh, for the love of Doris Day’s pearly whites! He’s probably giving her the business as we speak.”
Rudy pressed his ear against the door. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Aw, the poor thing!” Dag said. “She’s too afraid to scream. That obese lummox, flopping around on that Goddess like a diseased, syphilitic flounder. Oh, perish the thought! Perish, I say.”
The assistant producer kept his ear against the door. “I really don’t hear anything.”
“Bah!” Dag said. “I know the likes of this guy. All these power hungry Hollywood oligarchs are the same. Take a young, innocent, naïve beauty and fill her head full of fear. Tell her she’ll never work in this town again unless she smooches the pickle. Tell her it’s not so bad. Really. Just play tonsil hockey with the tallywhacker for a couple minutes and presto! A lifelong career in the pictures is yours! You’d be a fool not to!”
A loud, male scream emerged from the office. “Yeaarrrrrrgh!”
Dag joined Rudy in listening at the door. “What was that?”
Another male scream. “Arrrrrgh! Oh God!”
The agent balled up his fist and bit into it as if it were an apple. “It’s worse than I thought!”
Chester kept at it. “Gaaahhhhh!!!!”
Dag threw the back of his arm up against his forehead. “Oh my dear little Jordan! What have I done to you! I’ve delivered to the lion’s mouth, like a lamb to slaughter!”
The agent removed his arm and looked at his silent colleagues. “Well, don’t everyone rush to disagree with me at once.”
Chester’s screams grew louder. “Muhh…muhh….Mommy!!!”
“That’s sick,” Shirley said. “Someone should get in there and do something.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Dag said as he pushed his right hand woman towards the door. “Get in there and save the day, Shirl!”
“Me?” Shirley asked. “I don’t get paid enough to walk in on…”
“Wahga wahga wahga!”
“…whatever that is.”
“Right,” Dag said before addressing Rudy. “Get in there and stop your boss, man. You’ll be a national hero.”
“Me?” Rudy asked. “But I work here.”
“Oh, so what?” Dag asked. “You’re just following orders? Every Nazi was just following orders!”
Chester’s cries were constant. “Buh…buh…buh…bahhhhhh!”
“I’m not a Nazi,” Rudy protested.
Dag pushed a pointer finger into the associate producer’s chest. “You are a Nazi. You are just like a high ranking official in this studio’s Third Reich and you are allowing your fuhrer to blitzkrieg that young lady’s orifices!”
Rudy threw his hands up. “My job is to just make movies happen and keep my nose out of wherever it doesn’t belong, Dag. You’re the one whose job it is to shepherd young talent through the pitfalls of stardom and protect them from the whims of horny, power hungry scumbags and slimeballs.”
Dag took the cigar out of his mouth. “That’s..that’s not….” He turned to Shirley. “Is that my job?”
“It is,” Shirley replied.
“Whoa!” Chester shouted. “Whoa, whoa, warrrrrrggghh!”
“Fine,” Dag said. The agent tucked the unlit cigar into his pocket. He covered his eyes with his left hand, turned the door knob with his right, and entered the room blind. “Chester, you dirty, deviant old man! Stop whatever it is you’re doing and pull up your pants right now, buster! Your penis’ reign of terror ends right here and right now.”

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 7

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Chapter 7
To a casual observer, the scene may have looked as though an enchanted princess had just been kidnapped by a bridge troll. In actuality, the lovely Jordan was seated opposite the desk of one Chester Bloomfield, an ogre of a man who was over a hundred pounds overweight. His face was shrouded by three weeks of unkempt beard growth, his belly spilled over his belt and he reeked of flatulence.
As he spoke, he wheezed as though his lungs were having difficult processing air. “Blumpkin.”
Jordan clutched her existent pearls. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yeah,” Chester said. “I’m going to need a blumpkin.”
“A what?” Jordan asked.
Awards, props, and movie memorabilia littered the executive’s office, all shiny reminders to the world of his Hollywood pull and prowess. The big wig licked the back of his hand, then used it to straighten one of the three strands of hair left on his head. “You know, a blumpkin.”
“I have no idea what that is,” Jordan said.
Chester opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a can of sardines and a box of crackers. He tossed a tiny fish onto a crunchy disc, then popped it into his mouth, allowing the stinky juices to pour out all over his chin. “What are you, a nun? You have no idea what a blumpkin is?”
“I do not,” Jordan said.
“Yikes,” Chester said. “Boy, you good lookin’ broads live sheltered lives. Look, we’re going to go into the bathroom, I’m going to sit on the toilet and you’re uh…going to uh…”
If Jordan could have shot lasers out of her eyes, she would have.
“…you’re going to uh…yarble my narbles.”
“What?” Jordan asked.
“You know,” Chester said as he popped another sardine on a cracker. “Play the skin flute.”
“Huh?” Jordan asked.
Chester gobbled up the revolting snack. “Spit shine the piccolo.”
“Polish Mr. Winky.”
“Gargle the sausage.”
“Down the DNA milkshake.”
“Now you’ve lost me.”
“Slurp the snake?”
“Speak English.”
Chester made himself another sardine cracker, then ate it. “Honey, if you want the part, I’m going to need you to perform felatio on my while I’m taking a shit, OK? Simple. Don’t make a Federal case about it.”
Jordan sprang to her feet. “This conversation is over.”
“Fine,” Chester said as he made another sardine cracker. “Adios, loser.”
The actress marched for the door, then stopped and turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you either roll my smelly dingle donger around in your yapper for five to ten minutes, fifteen tops, until I release my happy juice or you’ll never work in this town again,” Chester said.
“No,” Jordan said. “No, there’s way you have that kind of power, not anymore.”
Chester threw his feet up on his desk, then clasped his hands around the back of his head. “I’m in this chair, aren’t I?”
Bile rose in the back of Jordan’s throat. “Please. I’ll go. I won’t tell anyone about this.”
“I can’t take that chance,” Chester said as he chomped on his sardine cracker, letting the crumbs spray all over. “I can’t keep coming up with phony twin brothers to take the fall forever.”
Jordan returned to her chair. Her legs were wobblily and she felt as though she might faint. “Why do you do this?”
Chester smiled. “Now there’s a question. I could answer that one for hours, but I’ll give you the short version.”
“Please do,” Jordan said.
“Look at me,” Chester said. “And look at you.”
“What of it?” Jordan asked.
“Hard work,” Chester said. “Dedication. Talent. It’s all huey. Truth is kid, the better looking you are, the better off your life will be and well, when you look like me, life isn’t so kind.”
“You’re the head of a major movie studio,” Jordan said. “You’re worth millions.”
“True,” Chester said. “And if I looked like Guy Kincaid, I could have farted my life out in my sleep but since I look like me, I had to beg, borrow, steal, blackmail, connive and harass my way to where I am and you know why I did it?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” Jordan said.
“Pussy,” Chester said. “Not just any pussy. The primo kind. The top shelf stuff. See, when you’re born looking the way I do, you grow up and you realize you have one of two options. The first option is to accept the limits that God gave you and find some other ugly broad who also knows her place. Work a regular, boring job for shitty pay. Make a couple of ugly kids and continue the cycle. The other option is to get rich, so rich that you can offer a beautiful woman anything she wants, so rich that she’ll overlook the way you look.”
“You have that,” Jordan said. “I’ve seen your wife on TV. She’s quite fetching.”
“She is,” Chester said. “But you know how it is. Tell someone their entire life they can’t have a cookie and pretty soon…”
Jordan finished the sentence. “…cookies are all you can think about.”
“You got it,” Chester said.
Jordan found her strength. She stood up. “I won’t do it and if you besmirch my name to other studios, I’ll sue.”
“Good,” Chester said. “Save me the trouble.”
“What?” Jordan asked.
“Either I tell every suit in town that you’re a big whack-a-doo who makes false accusations of sexual harassment, or you hire an attorney and put out an all points bulletin, alerting every other studio head that you’re just a lawsuit waiting to happen. Either way, I win and you lose.”
“Whatever,” Jordan said. “I’ll figure it out later.”
Chester sighed. “Oh, how the feminists have warped your mind.”
“I’m not listening to this.”
“Honey,” Chester said. “This is the way it has always been. Casting couches have existed in Hollywood since the film industry began. The first time some prick put a camera together, I have no doubt he told some chick that she’ll have to tongue bathe his dingus for a one-minute walk-on in a silent picture.”
“That’s not the way it is anymore,” Jordan said.
“Jesus,” Chester said. “Do you have any idea the kind of deal I’m offering? A few measly minutes of displeasure, followed by an entire lifetime of getting paid millions of dollars to play pretend. Your face will be projected on giant movie screens all over the world. Your adoring fans will hang on every word. Awards. Accolades. Fame. Fortune. You’ll go wherever you want. Do whatever you want. Marry whoever you want. No man will say no to you. And when you die? People will remember you. Film students will study you. Authors will write books about you. You’ll be remembered. Revered. You’ll live on as a piece of American pop culture forever. Eh, I know it seems gross now but trust me, when you’re seventy-years old and dying alone in a cheap nursing home bed after working the Fatty Burger drive-through for the next fifty years, you’ll kick yourself for not smoking the pole. You really will.”
Jordan sat in defeated silence.
“Hell,” Chester said. “When I was your age, if some Hollywood big shot had offered me this deal, I would have gobbled that knob, cupped the balls, swallowed the baby batter, offered a reach around and a second go-around. Oh well, some people don’t know a good thing when it’s staring them in the face. Go on. Get out of here. Go find out I’m right the hard way.”
Jordan felt disembodied, as though she was no longer inside her own skin. She couldn’t believe the words that came out of her mouth next. “Just tell me one thing.”
“What’s that?” Chester asked.
“Why does it have to be on the toilet?” Jordan asked.
“It’s a power thing,” Chester said.

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 6

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Chapter 6
Dag, Shirley and Jordan sat on one end of a conference table. Rudy sat on the other. The trio cried out a name in unison. “Chester Bloomfield?”
“The one and only,” Rudy said.
“He’s back?” Dag asked.
“That’s impossible,” Jordan said.
Dag looked at Shirley. “Was this in your memo?”
“It was not,” Shirley said.
“Happened yesterday,” Rudy said. “The press hasn’t gotten word of it yet.”
“When they do, it’s going to be an absolute shitstorm for Paradigm,” Shirley said.
“What she said,” Dag said as he pointed at his assistant. “Has Paradigm’s board of directors gone bananas? Are they howling at the moon? Have they lost all the bats in their collective belfry?”
“Photos,” Rudy said. “Of various board members…in compromising positions.”
Dag raised a hand. “Say no more.”
“A marmoset was introduced into a bodily cavity, then extracted and passed around…”
“Didn’t I just say, ‘Say no more?’”
Shirley brought up a page full of negative Lifebox posts about Bloomfield. “Nineteen actresses have accused him of demanding sexual favors in exchange for movie roles.”
“I know,” Rudy said. “And it’s disgusting.”
Dag pounded a fist down on the table. “You’re damn right it is! Why the hell are you working here at a company that would allow a pervert, a pederast, a lecherous lowlife to be their CEO?”
“Oh, like I have a choice,” Rudy said. “Chester has the goods on the board. The board voted to reinstate him. They’re going to do a press conference last week. Chester’s going to swear he had nothing to do with those assaults and it was all his twin brother.”
Dag raised an eyebrow. “Are you shitting on my leg and telling me it’s chocolate sauce?”
“Nope,” Rudy replied. “That was the story that tested best with the focus group, way above claiming it was the result of a Vicodin addiction and that he was sleepwalking and accidentally bumping into the actresses in question.”
“Does he even have a twin brother?” Dag said.
“No,” Rudy replied. “But documents have been forged to prove his existence and there will be an accompanying story that the twin brother has fled to Argentina to evade authorities.”
Dag cradled his head in his hands. “What is this business coming to?”
The agent stood up. “This! My beloved business of show! A factory where dreams are processed into reality, where the best and brightest stars can polish their craft, all turned into a sick, depraved bordello, a meat market where young women are preyed upon.”
“This isn’t exactly a new development, Dag,” Rudy said. “It’s just the first time that technology was available to allow victims to address the public directly.”
Dag sat down and pulled out a handkerchief. He dabbed some sweat off his brow. “True. At least back in the day, the broads were cool enough to shut their cake holes about it and…”
The agent gazed upon the disappointed eyes of his talent, then pointed a finger at Rudy. “Sir, if you think for one second that my star will lower herself to be used as an object of sexual gratification…”
Dag stopped mid-sentence and looked at Jordan. “You won’t, will you?”
“Absolutely not,” Jordan said.
“Right,” Dag said as he pointed his finger at Rudy once again. “If you think my star will lower herself to be used as an object of sexual gratification, you’ve got another thing coming.”
Rudy sat back in his chair. “Guys. Enough. This is out of my hands. I haven’t talked to Chester since his unceremonious return. I have no idea if he’s learned the error of his ways or if he’s as debauched as ever. If you want to walk away right now, be my guest. If you want to meet with him, go for it. I have no idea what will happen and I can offer no guarantees that something unsavory won’t happen.”
Dag drummed his fingers along the edge of the conference table. He looked to his assistant. “Thoughts?”
Shirley was, for the first time in her life, without a snappy response. “I’ve got nothing.”
The agent looked to his client. “Up to you.”
Jordan stared off into space as she pondered the conundrum.
“Couldn’t hurt to meet him,” Dag said. “If he drops his pants, hightail it out of there.”
Jordan went nearly catatonic.
“But if you want to walk right now, I’ve got your back,” Dag said.
Dag turned to his assistant. “I have to get her back, right?”
“You do,” Shirley said.
“I’ve got your back,” Dag said.
Finally, the actress spoke up. “I’ll do it.”

Toilet Gator – Chapter 5

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Chapter 5
Following Jordan’s performance, Dag, Shirley, and Rudy gave a standing ovation.
“Bravo!” Dag shouted. “Bravissimo! Encore!”
“Take five, people,” a stage hand cried.
On stage, the performers milled about. Guy caught Jordan just as she was about to leave. “Jordan, darling, I positively must talk with you about another film I’m working on…”
Off stage, the agent and assistant producer engaged in negotiations.
“Did I tell you she’s got it or did I tell you she’s got it?” Dag asked.
“She’s definitely got it,” Rudy said. “There’s no doubt about that.”
“Stop the auditions,” Dag said. “Draw up the contract.”
“She’s also not Hispanic,” Rudy said. “Your girl is whiter than a jar of mayonnaise at a tractor pull.”
Dag shot Rudy an incredulous. “What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”
Rudy clutched his chest as though he were grasping a pair of imaginary pearls. “Dag, you can’t talk about the tea in China anymore…”
The agent looked at his assistant. “I can’t?”
“You can’t,” Shirley replied.
“No one tells me anything,” Dag said.
“I’ve been sending you monthly memos about words and phrases you can’t use anymore,” Shirley said.
“Like I have time to read your e-mails, Shirley,” Dag said. “I’ve been so busy, running around like a one-armed paper hangar at a…”
“You can’t talk about one-armed people anymore either,” Dag said.
Dag sighed. “Thank God my time on this planet is getting shorter and shorter…”
“’God’ and ‘short’ are words you’ll also want to avoid,” Shirley said.
A vain bulged in Dag’s forehead. “You were saying, Rudy?”
“Your girl is so white she looks like one Disney princess fucked a Disney prince and created a baby prince and then another Disney princess fucked another Disney prince and created a baby princess and then those babies grew up and fucked and created a daughter…”
Dag chomped on his cigar. “I know you millennials think hyperbole is clever but it really isn’t. The point, please.”
“A white woman can’t play a woman from Ecuador,” Rudy said.
“Sure, she can,” Dag said. “You slap a black wig on her, apply some liberal doses of spray-on tan…”
“I’m just going to stop writing the memos if you’re not going to read them,” Shirley said.
“Memos schemos,” Dag said.
“We can’t put a white actress on screen in brown face,” Rudy said. “Sorry. We just can’t. Lifebox posters will rail us royally.”
“Is that what we do now?” Dag asked. “Allow sexually frustrated nerds with nothing better to do than bitch and moan on their computers decide by consensus how our movies are made?”
Rudy and Shirley traded glances. “Boss,” Shirley said. “Did you get that e-mail about that retirement village in Boca Raton I sent you?”
“Enough with the e-mails!” Dag barked.
“Besides,” Rudy said. “Marisol Villalobos is gunning for this part. Her people having been practically battering down Paradigm’s door.”
“Marisol Villalobos is wonderful,” Dag said. “But she’s won every award imaginable. She’s going to want a ton of dough for this picture. A ton. Mark my words. Jordan is young and hungry. You’ll be able to get her for half of what you’ll pay on trailers to house Marisol’s entourage.”
“Huh,” Rudy said. “Well, you’ve got me there.”
“I do and you know it,” Dag said. “Draw up the paperwork.”
Rudy stayed firm. “No, Dag. She’s the wrong color.”
“Reverse discrimination!” Dag said. “I’ll see you in court, sir.”
Rudy scoffed. “Don’t give me that.”
“Rudy baby,” Dag said as he put an around the assistant producer. “Look. ‘Bobbitt’ is about as whitebread a name as they come. The vast majority of dopes that show up to movies every Friday night and slap their fins together like train seals at whatever schlock we throw them will not have any idea that Lorena Bobbitt is Hispanic and the geeks and dweebs and nerds who sit around typitty-typing away on their computers all day are all probably too young to know a damn thing about anything that happened in the early 1990s.”
“They can search the web easily,” Rudy said.
“So, you apologize,” Dag said. “And you take the heat like a man for a minute and then you move on, knowing that you brought a surefire moneymaker of a flick home on time and underbudget. Yes, the press will call for your ass on a platter for a few days but then they’ll move on to some other bullshit. Some actress will get caught coming out of a limo without her panties on or some reality TV star will fart in a church or Stugotz will post a dick pic on Lifebox or what have you.”
Rudy nodded. “Say no more. Sold.”
“You won’t regret it,” Dag said.
“You could talk a teetotaler into a brandy, Dag,” Rudy said.
“Son,” Dag said as he chomped his cigar. “I could talk a nomad into a sandbox.”
“Yeah, well,” Rudy said. “I’m not the only one you’re going to have to talk to.”

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 4

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Jordan’s heart swelled at the star treatment she received from Paradigm Studios. Legions of lackeys catered to her every whim, the craft services table was overflowing with goodies, and the most talented backup singers formed a diverse, multi-cultural chorus. An entire orchestra had been set up to provide musical accompaniment. Moreover, Guy Kincaid was handsome and dashing as usual.
From his position in front of a microphone stand on a soundstage, Guy ogled his co-star. “Jordan, darling, you’re an absolute vision. Shall we take it one more time from the top?”
Jordan leaned into her microphone. “Ready when you are.”
Guy and Shirley sat in front off the stage in unfolded director’s chairs. The cherubic faced, bespectacled Rudy Benson, assistant producer of Chop It Off, joined the duo.
“You were right, Dag,” Rudy said. “Your girl is an angel.”
“Have I ever steered you wrong?” Dag asked.
“Dozens of times,” Rudy answered.
Dag shook his head. “Everyone in this business has a memory like an elephant.”
A stagehand clacked the top of a clapperboard down. “Chop It Off: The Lorena Bobbitt Story, Sound Test Auditions, Take 2 and action!”
Dag spotted a script in Rudy’s hand and yanked it. “Do you mind? It’s been recently brought to my attention that I need to read these things.”

Chop It Off: The Lorena Bobbitt Story – Production Script
(It’s the 1990s. An enraged Lorena Bobbitt enters her bedroom to find her husband, John, fast asleep. She raises her hands. She’s holding a man’s shirt with a lipstick stained collar in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other. She breaks out in song.)
He cheated…again!
(Chorus girls fill the stage, all dressed like neighborhood housewives.)
Yes, he cheated again! Why, oh why can’t you see?
That he had carnal relations with someone other than me?
My eyes are open now! It’s clear what I have to do!
Get in the car and leave him now! For divorce you’ll have to sue!
(Lorena raises the butcher’s knife.)
I’ll make it so he can never cheat on me again! I’ll separate him from his tiny friend!
Um, no we were just thinking that you could just take all his money in court. Make him open up his wallet, but to be violent is to be a bad sport.
But if he goes to court, he’ll find another woman and we all know he’ll cheat on that poor girl too. No, to end this vicious cycle, there’s only one thing left to do.
(Lorena belts out a showstopper.)
Oh…I’m…going…to…chop it off!
No, this plan will surely fail!
Yes, I’m going to chop it off!
Think of the headlines! Think of jail!
I’ll be a hero to every woman who ever got the jilt! Now you can chop off your husband’s penis and not feel a scintilla of guilt!
You should probably feel some guilt.
Oh, I’m going to chop it off! It’s what I was born to do! I’ll chop it off for me…
(Lorena looks out as if she is acknowledging all of the women in the audience.)
…and I’ll chop it off for you!
(John Wayne Bobbitt wakes up. He gets out of bed, stretches and yawns. He breaks out into song.)
Something is missing…
(A chorus of neighborhood husbands flood the room.)
Don’t you hate that feeling? Is it under the bed? Is it stuck to the ceiling?
What did I loose? It is my keys? Is it my shoes?
Something isn’t right! What a terrible fright!
I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m feeling most indignant. Something is amiss. Something feels so different.
Did you lose your wallet? We think we saw it on the coffee table!
No, it’s not that, but I just feel so unstable.
Did you lose your day planner? We think we saw you drop it on the stairs.
No, but this has caught me unawares.
How frightful to know that something is gone, but to not know what is missing.
(John Wayne Bobbitt heads to the bathroom, lifts up the toilet seat and drops his pants. He shuts the door behind him.)
Oh well. Maybe I’ll figure it out while I’m pissing….ARRRRRGGGGH!
(John Wayne Bobbitt opens the bathroom door and returns to the bedroom.)
Where is it?
Where’s what? You look live you’ve been hit by a rock!
My penis! My Johnson! My cock!
It’s not there?!
No sirs, at this very moment I’m wearing empty underwear.
It’s probably the last place you left it.
Could it be in the kitchen? Could it be in the sink? I’m sorry that I’m bitchin’ but this is enough to make a man drink!
Where, oh where is your best pal? That is what we must know!
(John Wayne Bobbitt looks around.)
Hey! Did anyone see Lorena go?
(A knock at the door. John Wayne Bobbitt opens it. A police officer holds up a plastic bag. It contains a penis.)
Sir, is this yours?
Why, yes! Where did it go? It’s never left me before!
We need to get you to a doctor. See if it can be sewn back on.
My God! Will it ever work again? Will an erection it ever yield?
I have no idea. We found it at the edge of an abandoned field.
But officer! Please, tell me! Will it ever produce a load?
What do I look like? A dick scientist? It was just lying there on the side of the road!

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 3

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Chapter 3
March 5, 2019 – Hollywood, California
She was born one Miss Betsy Lou Tucker of West Cowlick, Nebraska, but was far too beautiful to remain hidden on a farm. After high school, she hitchhiked to Tinsel Town, waited tables whilst working in time for auditions and maintaining her intense beauty regimen and grueling exercise schedule. Indeed, she had been graced with impeccable genes, but one could not discount her hard work and sacrifice. It all came together to create a flawless specimen of femininity, a vision of loveliness than men wanted to be with and women wanted to be.
As she rode in the back of a stretch limousine, she checked her face in a compact mirror. Her hair was blonder than the cornfields back home, her lips redder than the lust that all straight men felt for her, and greener than the envy of all aspiring actresses who wanted to be her.
Life, one might say, was good for this young woman but then again, as she stared in the small mirror, she realized she was beginning to lose track of who she was. It had been years since she’d spoken to her family. She couldn’t name a single friend or romantic partner she’d ever had who loved her for her, whoever that was. She didn’t even go by her original name anymore.
“I can see it now. Your name in big lights on movie theater marquis across the country. ‘Jordan Tessier’ in ‘Chop It Off: The Lorena Bobbitt Story.’”
Jordan closed her compact and placed it into her leather clutch. She glared at her stereotypically sleazy manager, Lorenzo D’agostino, or “Dag” as he went by. Dag was tall and in relatively good shape for a man in his early fifties. His designer suit was hand tailored to perfection, his watch was a solid gold rolex, and his hairline was perfect, perhaps a little too perfect as if it had been enhanced with the benefit of follicular restoration surgery.
“Really, Dag?” Jordan asked. “A movie based on a Broadway musical about a woman who cut her husband’s penis off in the early 1990s? Come on.”
Dag chomped on the end of a mammoth sized Cuban cigar. “Jordan baby…have I ever steered you wrong?”
The actress raised a quizzical eyebrow. “The Vapist.”
The manager rolled his eyes. “Jumpin’ Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick. Hold that over my head forever, why don’t you? Shirley, will you help me out here?”
Dag was referring to Shirley Reed, his trusty personal assistant, who, at the moment, had her face glued to her Schmuck Phone. “Huh?”
“Will you get off that thing and tell Jordan The Vapist wasn’t so bad?” Dag asked.
Shirley was barely over five feet tall and wore a pair of black framed glasses that matched her business attire. She was prone to speaking in short declarative bursts. “Can’t boss. Flick was universally panned.”
The manager sighed as he raised his right hand as though he was about to take an oath. “Fine. As God as my witness, I swear I thought that movie was about a guy with a penchant for e-cigarettes.”
Jordan’s piercing blue eyes grew wide. “It was about a vampire rapist!”
“Look,” Dag said. “Mea culpa, OK? How was I supposed to know that a major motion picture studio would actually release a film about a fella who schtups the undead against their will?”
“The vampire was the rapist,” Shirley said without looking up from her phone.
“What?” Dag inquired.
“It wasn’t about a man who rapes vampires,” Shirley said. “It was about a vampire who rapes humans and occasionally other vampires.”
Dag appeared baffled. “You’re shitting me.”
“Nope,” Shirley said.
Jordan was livid. “You didn’t even see the movie?!”
The manager struggled for an answer. “I…um…Shirl! Why the hell didn’t I see this thing? I always attend all of Jordan’s premieres.”
“Went straight to streaming,” Shirley said.
“Straight to streaming?” Dag asked. “Why in the name of Gina Lollobrigida’s left bra strap did you let me OK our girl to get anywhere this stinker?”
Shirley punched a few buttons on her phone. “I told you to pass.”
“You did?” Dag asked.
“I did,” Shirley said. “Shoddy writing. Gratuitous nudity…”
Jordan sneered at her agent and interjected. “You made me get naked for a movie that wasn’t even ranked shelf-worthy on bookshelfbattle.com!”
“I have no idea what that is,” Dag said as he turned to Shirley. “What is that?”
“Some movie review blog run by some asshole in his underwear writing out of his basement,” Shirley said. “But the consensus of all movie reviewers was that The Vapist sucked and blew at the same time. Between the non-stop flashbacks, the flash forwards, the constant switching between live action and anime, the boom mic that was left in a scene for over ten minutes and heavy Funky Cola product placement…”
“I was bitten by a vampire who said, and I quote, ‘Your blood will never taste better than Funky Cola,” Jordan said.
Dag chewed nervously on his cigar. “Why am I not aware of any of this?”
“You’ve got to check your e-mails, boss,” Shirley said.
“Check my e-mails?” Dag asked incredulously as he glared at Shirley. “I have an assistant to do that for me!”
Dag and Shirley locked eyes in an epic staring contest until the agent realized the lack of logic in his statement and backed down.
“Look,” Dag said. “The movie business isn’t an easy racket. You win some, you lose some. OK. So, you made a flick about a broad who gets porked by a bloodsucking fiend against her will. Who hasn’t? The point is it’s time to forget about that stinkburger because I’m telling you, ‘Chop It Off’ is going to make you a household name, baby. I’m talking awards. I’m talking superstardom. I’m talking write your own ticket. You’ll own this town, kid, and I’m not just blowing steam out of my ass this time.”
Jordan turned her agent’s administrative assistant. “Shirley?”
The tiny woman held up a finger as if to silently say, “One second.” She tapped away on her phone, then looked up. “What’s up?”
“What did you write about ‘Chop It Off’ in the e-mail you sent to Dag that he most assuredly did not read?” Jordan asked.
Shirley did not hesitate. She was firm in her answer. “It’s a winner.”
“Get out,” Jordan said.
“It’s gold,” Shirley said.
“See?” Dag said.
Jordan shook her head in the negative. “No…but how…why?”
“Have you checked Lifebox lately?” Shirley asked.
“Not since the screenshot of my butt from a movie about a vampire rapist launched a thousand memes,” Jordan said.
Dag chomped on his cigar. “Oh, for the love of…will you let it go already?”
“I got naked for a movie everyone hated, Dag!” Jordan shouted.
“No one made you take your clothes off,” Dag replied. “You didn’t have to.”
“I had to,” Jordan said.
Dag turned to his right-hand woman. “She had to?”
“She had to,” Shirley said. “It was in her contract. She was required to be naked for the entire 17-minute long scene in which she was repeatedly raped by a vampire who stopped periodically to drink Funky Cola and remark on its great taste.”
Dag’s face turned ghostly white. “Shirl…you’ve got to tell me these things.”
“E-mail,” Shirley said.
“Bah!” Dag barked. “You kids and your gizmos and doodads!”
Shirley looked at Jordan. “But back to the point. Dag’s right this time. Chop It Off is your ticket to the big time.”
Jordan sat back in her seat. “Explain.”
“The #MeToo movement is all that anyone is talking about on Lifebox,” Shirley said. “Once social media technology grew to the point that women were able to bypass the old guard media and bravely shout their experiences with sexual harassment, the world began taking notice. Strong, powerful women are kicking ass and taking names, ready to punish their abusers with righteous justice.”
Dag nodded. “What she said.”
“If ever there was a time when the public were clamoring for a film about a woman who chops off her husband’s penis, this is it,” Shirley said. “Lorena Bobbitt wasn’t a criminal. She was just ahead of her time.”
Jordan gazed out the window, getting lost watching people. “But a musical?”
“That show was a hit,” Dag said. “My wife dragged me to see it twice and the joint was packed…absolutely packed. How does that little ditty go?”
Shirley cleared her throat. She wasn’t a trained singer, but she did her best. “Chop it off, it’s what I was born to do!”
“Oh, right,” Dag said as he joined in. He and his assistant brought the tune home. “I’ll chop it off for me…and I’ll chop it off for you!”
Shirley sniffed as she wiped a tear from her eye. “Lorena was a martyr. She was an inspiration for every woman who ever dreamed of dismembering her husband’s member.”
Dag waved his cigar about. “Jordan baby. Here’s the deal. We’re doing sound tests. The producers want to hear you warble. They’ve got a stage all set up with lights, cameras, backup singers, the works.”
“I’ve never professionally sung a note my entire life,” Jordan said.
A puzzled Dag turned to his Girl Friday. “Does that matter?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Shirley said.
Dag turned to Jordan. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated.
“Auto-tune,” Shirley said.
“Exactly,” Dag said. “They’re working magic with computers these days, kiddo. Don’t ask me how they do it. I have no idea. All I know is I could fart into a steel drum and these eggheads can run it through a gizmo that’ll make it sound like Mitzi Gaynor.”
“Guy Kincaid is playing the male lead and he can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” Shirley said. “You’ll be fine.”
Jordan sat up. “The Guy Kincaid?”
“The same,” Dag said.
“From the Zombie Cop movies?” Jordan asked. “They’re trash.”
“Don’t knock those movies,” Dag said. “Each film went over like gangbusters at the box office.”
“Major moolah,” Shirley added.
“Tell her our intel, Shirl,” Dag said.
“I have it on good authority from Guy’s ex-wife’s sister’s dentist’s lawyer’s third-cousin’s yoga instructor’s podiatrist’s uncle’s pool-boy that Guy has been booked for the lead in a movie that’s guaranteed to rake in the little gold statues come award season.”
“That’s impressive,” Jordan said. “What picture?”
“Gazi,” Dag said.
Jordan furrowed her brow. “Gazi?”
“Gay Nazi,” Shirley said.
“Picture it,” Dag said. “The year? 1940. The character? A gay, high ranking member of the SS. So incensed is he when he learns that the Nazis will not tolerate his gay lifestyle that he travels through time to the 1950s on the false assumption that gay-straight relations will improve within a mere decade. Obviously, they do not, so he hunkers down, marries a random broad as a beard to disguise his gayness. They have a baby. The baby grows up to become a gay man. He finds his father’s time machine and yadda, yadda, yadda, I don’t know, there’s some science bullshit. Spoiler alert. The kid is his own father and he stops himself from ever becoming a Nazi. Don’t ask me how. I never read more than five pages of any script.”
“That sounds like red hot garbage,” Jordan said.
Dag and Shirley looked at each other, then broke out into hysterics.
“Oh, get a load of this kid,” Dag said as he slapped his knee.
“They’re all red hot garbage,” Shirley said.
“Jordan,” Dag said. “Honey. Sweetie. Baby doll. All movies are garbage. They’re all garbage because that’s all the people who watch them have time for is garbage. It’s just that there are varying degrees of garbage and…”
“Some garbage is more preferred by the award givers than others,” Shirley said.
“Bottomline,” Dag said. “Whoever stars as the gay, time traveling Nazi’s beard will be bringing home a shit ton of awards and…”
Dag leaned over and took the starlet’s dainty hand. “I want you so badly to be that gay, time traveling Nazi beard, Jordan. You nail this audition and snag this Lorena Bobbitt role and I swear to you, I will use all the daily access I get on the set off Chop It Off to whisper in Guy Kincaid’s ear that he needs, nay, he MUST have you as his gay, time traveling Nazi beard. What do you say?”
Jordan took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. “OK. I’m in.”

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 2

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Chapter 2
March 1, 2019 – Guantanamo Bay, Cuba
Say what you will about George W. Bush, but the man inherited a world of shit when it came to the war on terror. American politicians had buried their collective heads up their asses for years, ignoring the threat or, when necessary, occasionally swatting at an international ne’er-do-well here or there, when they could be bothered to expend the resources necessary to fight them.
9/11 changed the game and in the aftermath of that fateful day, the Bush Administration began packing terrorists into a prison situated on a military base on land leased from the Cuban government like sardines. For years, reports of torture and abuse circulated throughout the mass media, so much so that President Barack Obama often publicly pledged to his liberal base that he would close the facility down, though in private, was often heard to say to his advisors, “Look, here’s the deal. There’s no way we can move those murderous asshats to the continental United States. Just like I told Michelle when she tried me to make me trade my cigarettes for celery sticks, ‘It’s not going to happen.’” Yes, it’s totally true that POTUS 44 said that, so there’s no reason to look it up.
Nineteen long, long, absurdly long years after the war on terror began, six highly trained soldiers led a prisoner down a dark, dank, musty hallway. The man in custody was tall with a muscular, athletic build. A black hood had been placed over his head and the chains binding his legs and feet jingled and jangled as he walked.
“Goddamn it, Maddox,” Capt. Marcus Kent said as he kept a tight grip on his M-16. “I cannot believe that my tax dollars are paying for your dental work when little inner-city kids are starving to death every day.”
The contingent reached a thick, steel door. Capt. Kent punched in a code and the door buzzed. The team entered as the heavy door slammed shut behind them.
“If I had my way, I’d stick a rocket up your ass and shoot you to Mars,” the captain said. “But I suppose as long as there are crooked ambulance chasers running around, ready to sue Uncle Sam on your behalf, we’ll have to keep you fed and clothed and in good health.”
Captain Kent, his men, and their prisoner entered a hallway lined by cells, each one housing the worst of the worst behind thick sheets of plexiglass. There was Sheikh Amad al Bari, the comically cross-eyed cleric who was responsible for bombing over one hundred Jewish delicatessens, depriving the world not only of many good, decent members of God’s chosen people but also, of so, so much kreplach and kugel and don’t even get this omnipotent narrator started on the knish. Do you know how hard it is to find a good knish? Aw, what do you know?
“I am not representative of the Islamic people at large!” the cross-eyed sheikh cried as the makeshift parade passed by. “I just want you to know that in case you were mislead by my actions to mistakenly believe the foolish notion that all devotees of the Koran are violent terrorists who want nothing more to blow up the world so that it may be bent to their will.”
Kent drew a baton from his belt and rapped the plexiglass shield covering al Bari’s cell. “Pipe down in there, maggot!”
“Be woke, dick cheese!” al Bari said. “Know that there are many kind, caring, peaceful Muslims who I also want to blow to smithereens for their sins against Allah, oh whom I am but a humble servant!”
The contingent moved on. They passed by the cell of the Sheik Hammad al Hajar, dubbed “The Cauliflower Ear Cleric” for his deformed ears. This vile perverter of Islam, who had been locked away for blowing up over fifty-nine Hasidic owned and operated jewelry stores, which is a shame, because the only thing the tribe does better than make good knish is cut a good diamond. Yes, the omnipotent narrator is also aware that these fine folks have made many fine contributions to the arts, sciences, politics, and other key areas, so spare him your feigned social media outrage.
“Al Bari, you fart face!” al Hajar shouted. “You dare call yourself a servant of Allah? How dare you when you know my interpretation of the Koran is way, way better than your shitty interpretation of the Koran! I am Allah’s servant, not you!”
The cross-eyed sheik’s replied carried through the holes in his plexiglass cell shield. “Bite my ding dong, you insignificant burglar of turds! My interpretation of Islam is the only good interpretation of Islam and all of you lesser Mulims should just blow yourselves right the fuck up before I do it for you!”
“At least we agree that there are many, many good, honest, and just Muslims who are productive members of society who should not be mistreated by anyone…except of course, by us, when we run them over with trucks and machine gun their remains for daring to live peaceful lives!” al Hajar said.
Al Bari was quiet for a moment, as if he were quiet for a moment. “Do you think this point of agreement is a foundation upon which we can build trust in one another?”
Now Al Hajar was quiet for a moment, then he spoke up. “Not at all! Your interpretation of the Koran is bullshit and I will piss on your grave for it!”
“How do you figure my interpretation is bullshit, you lowly flea on a dog’s testicle?” al Bari asked.
“Because, penis face,” al Hajar said. “On page 509 of the Koran, you believe sentence 111 ends with a period when everyone knows it ends with a semi-colon, thus joining with the next sentence!”
“Two sentences becoming one?” al Bari asked. “Fuck that noise! The prophet would never want any man, woman or child on this planet to believe such filth and if you ever say it again, I’ll cut out your tongue and wipe my ass with it!”
“Traitorous dog!” al Hajar shouted. “Learn the power of semi-colons and learn it well for if you deny their existence in our most glorious and beloved book, the holiest of all texts, then I will pull your scrotum over your face and hold it there until you suffocate.”
As this impromptu grammar fight ensued between two men who were, by all means, not representative of the entire Islamic faith in any way, Capt. Kent’s group moved down the hall, past the cell of the international criminal Esteban Sanchez, who was wanted on serious charges in forty-eight separate countries, including his home nation of Spain. Unfortunately for those countries, America had pinched this notorious villain first.
The scraggily haired baddie extended his pointer finger, then ran it across his throat in a threatening gesture against the soldiers.
“Don’t even start with me, Sanchez!” Captain Kent said.
“I will cut your throat!” Sanchez said. “I will cut out your heart! I will cut off your cajones! I will cut every part of your body, just as I cut off over one million mattress tags! Muah ha…muah ha….muah ha ha! I will cut off every tag off of every mattress in the entire world and the mattress inspectors will be powerless to stop me! Powerless, I say!”
“You make me sick,” Captain Kent said.
Once the team reached the last cell on the left, they stopped. One soldier opened the cell up. Kent and the rest of his team raised their weapons and pointed them at the prisoner.
“Listen up, Maddox,” Capt. Kent said. “We’re now going to release you into your cell. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that multiple M-16s are pointed directly at your head, so if you so much as think about sneezing at me or one of my men, you’ll be dropped before the boogers exit your nose. Got it?”
The prisoner’s voice was eerily calm, unexpectedly soothing and decisively British. While he was surrounded by uncouth psychopaths who could barely string a sentence together, his diction was perfect and precise, reflecting his many years of scholarly student.
“Of course,” came the muffled voice of Maddox out from underneath the bag. “I wouldn’t dream of injuring you or any of your colleagues. In fact, I must say that cavity filling you so vocally begrudged me earlier has become quite painful, so I doubt very much I’d be able to use my teeth to rip off your ears or bite out your esophagus or…”
“Save it,” Captain Kent said as he entered the room. The warrior pulled the hood off of the prisoner’s head to reveal a strikingly handsome man with model quality features. His long blonde hair flowed down his back and his blue eyes stared over the top of the plastic bite mask that covered his mouth.
Captain Kent had seen it all during his many tours of duty, but getting in close proximity to Pierce Maddox was the part of his job he despised the most. The captain turned to a subordinate and nodded. The subordinate pulled a sidearm and rested the end of the barrel up against the back of Maddox’s head.
“You don’t want to bite me today, freak,” Capt. Kent said. “It’d be very hazardous for your health.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Maddox said through the bite mask. “Fear not, my good man, for I assure you I’m not feeling quite peckish at all and personally, I’ve never had a fondness for dark meat.”
Kent snickered. He placed his hands on the sides of the mask and ever so slowly, pulled it off. “That the best you got?”
Maddox’s face was free now, and just inches away from the captain’s. Kent was well aware of his charge’s proclivities and stepped back. His subordinate kept the sidearm trained on the back of Maddox’s head, just as the soldiers kept their aim at the prisoner’s front.
“Well,” Maddox said. “I’m feeling a little loopy due to that fun little novacaine shot I was given but do give it time and I’m sure all add a few more gems to my repertoire.”
Another soldier went to work on unfastening the shackles around Maddox’s hands and feet. As soon as the prisoner was free, the soldiers did not hesitate to exit the cell and shut the door. Once the cell door was securely locked, the soldiers lowered their weapons.
“You sure do love to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” Captain Kent asked.
Maddox playfully moved his head back in forth, gesturing as if to say, “More or less.” “It’s not so much that I enjoy hearing myself speak. It’s that I do so enjoy hearing intelligent thoughts being expressed and well…”
The prisoner looked across the cell to see the international war criminal turned terrorist Sergei Kuznetsof. The bald, bearded, crazy-eyed loon was on his knees, screaming at the ceiling of his cell. “The voices! The voices make me do terrible things!”
Maddox finished his thought. “I’m seem to be the only inmate in this institution with an intelligent thought in his head left.”

Toilet Shocker – Prologue

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January, 2018 – A few months after the events of Toilet Gator.
Bangkok was a city a man who wanted to escape his past could get lost in. It was a lawless land filled with sights and stimulation, distractions and debauchery, virtually any and all vices afflicting the human condition could be purchased for a price. Baht was the name of the game and at the moment, the name of the game was high stakes pick a number.
In the dimly back room of The Scorpion Nest, the worst dive bar in a city full of dive bars, a formerly attractive middle-aged man by the name of Ed Enwright sat at a table with a pile of brightly colored currency before him and a loaded revolver that he had willingly pressed up against his own table. His beard hadn’t been trimmed in months and a bandana kept his long hair from falling into his eyes.
Sitting across from Ed was Boon-Mee, a degenerate louse with a face full of scars. Like Ed, he too also reeked of cheap booze and bad decisions. He too pressed a loaded revolver up to his head. He too had a pile of money in front of him.
Anurak, an elderly barkeep with a glass eye, presided over the game. Behind him, a gaggle of drunks waved currency about, placing their bets and watching the game intently. As soon as Anurak raised a hand, all sounds in the room ceased.
Ed and Boon-Mee stared each other down as sweat dripped from their brows.
“I’m thinking of a number,” Anurak said. “Between 1 and 10.”
Ed gritted his teeth. Boon-Mee breathed heavily.
“Yes,” Anurak said. “A number between 1 and 10. I have it in my mind now. Boon-Mee, what is it?”
Boon-Mee hyperventilated. Spittle sprayed out of his mouth as he gave his reply. “Seven!”
“Are you sure?” Anurak asked.
Boon-Mee looked at Ed, then at the crowd, then to the barkeep. “Yes! Seven! I’m positive.”
Anurak shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not seven.”
Boon-Mee’s face turned ghostly white. He closed his eyes and winced. “Goodbye, cruel world,” were the man’s last words just before he pulled the trigger and sprayed the room full of blood and brains.
Hushed murmurs erupted from the crowd as Boon-Mee’s carcass slumped over the table.
“Ed!” Anurak said. “I’m thinking of a number between 1 and 10…and as we just established, it is not 7.”
Ed’s hand shook nervously as he pondered the barkeep’s question. “Five?”
The rummies in attendance all waited on Anurak’s answer, their eyes glued to the barkeep for fear they might miss it. “Mmm hmm. Yes. Five it is.”
“Hooray!” The crowd cheered and settled their bets as Ed broke out in a cold sweat. He breathed a sigh of relief, then reached across the table to pull the late Boon-Mee’s loot pile towards his.
After a few minutes of consolidating all that sticky, crinkly baht into a relatively solid currency brick, the winner moseyed on over to the bar, where Anurak was busy pouring obscure, exotic looking drinks into skull shaped glasses.
Ed looked to his left, then to his right. The coast was clear. He pulled roughly fifty-percent of his newly acquired winnings to the glass eyed man. Anurak seized the cash and tucked it into his pocket quickly.
“You look like shit, Ed,” Anurak said as he slid a skull across the bar. “On the house.”
“Mmm,” Ed said as he grabbed the glass and tipped it into his mouth. “That’s good. What is that? An old, secret potion? An elixir the recipe of which your family has guarded since ancient times?”
Anurak smirked. “It’s a banana daiquiri, asshole. I just put it in a skull glass so fat, lazy, stupid American tourists like you will think it’s special and pay me more beaucoup bucks.”
“Hmm,” Ed said as he smacked his lips together. “Whatever. It’s good. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“So, have you,” the barkeep replied. “Get out of my joint, Ed. I can’t do business with you anymore.”
“What?” Ed asked. “Why?”
This time, Anurak looked around to make sure no one was looking. “Look, there’s a shelf-life to the old, ‘high stakes pick a number’ con. Most of these gambling gawkers understand that the whole thing is rigged and they just want to see some nincompoop blow his brains out, but the key is that most fellas who are in on it blow town after a few nights so I can find a new accomplice to bilk the marks.”
“Have I been at it so long?” Ed asked.
“Six weeks,” Anurak said. “How long were you in Bangkok before you met me?”
“Honestly,” Ed said. “I don’t remember. It’s all a blur.”
A naked woman walked past the bar, pulling an endangered panda bear on a leash behind her.
“Although, twelve weeks ago, something like that would have surprised me,” Ed said.
“Where else have your travels taken you?” Anurak said.
“Oh,” Ed said. “So many places. Mexico, Brazil, Argentina, India, Pakistan, Tibet, Hong Kong, Morocco…”
“Wow,” Anurak said. “I bet you’ve boom-boomed every color of pussy known to man.”
Ed grinned. “You’d think so but no.”
“Ahh,” Anurak said. “You carry a torch for a woman in your past life?”
Ed took a swig of daiquiri. “You might said that.”
“Yeah,” Anurak said. “Well, my friend, Confucious say, ‘He who forgoes the new pussy of today out of love of pussy of the past is truly the greatest pussy of all in the present.’”
The drunk nodded. “That’s very profound.”
The barkeep ran a towel along the surface of the bar, then leaned over to stare at his friend in the eye. “You did your best, Ed. Go home. Clean yourself up. You’re doing no one any good here.”
Ed’s heart skipped a beat. “Huh? What are you talking about?”
“You’re a good man,” Anurak said. “You deserve better than this.”
Ed downed the rest of his drink, then rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Am I missing something? It sounds like you know some things about me that I don’t recall ever telling you.”
Anurak pointed to a TV monitor hanging over the bar. On it, footage of a tall skyscraper in Chicago played. The barkeep grabbed the remote and turned up the volume loud enough that an announcer’s voice could be heard.
“You’re watching the Documentary Direct,” the announcer said. “The only channel that brings you all of your favorite films featuring voice over announcers speaking ominously over archive footage. If you’re watching this tonight, your chances of getting laid are slim to none.”
“He’s got you there,” Anurak said.
Ed nodded in the affirmative.
“Tonight at 9, we’ll be featuring, ‘Milk, Milk, Lemonade,’ a retrospective on the world’s most infamous combination dairy farms, lemonade stands and fudge packing plants and not what you assumed we’d be talking about, you disgusting excuse for a human being, but first, where were you when the Equinox Tower fell?”
“OK,” Ed said. “I got it.”
“This shit has been on all week,” Anurak said. “Every channel.”
“Yeah,” Ed said. “It’s the ten-year anniversary. Can we watch something else?”
The announcer carried on. “One thousand, two-hundred and forty-eight lives were lost when a mad bomber’s reign of terror…”
Ed spoke loudly, drowning over the announcer. “Put on a game show. A sitcom. Anything else, please.”
A stock photo of a much younger, more handsome, physically fit Ed appeared on the screen. He was clean shaven and his eyes appeared more hopeful than they had ever been.
“And what ever happened to Ed Enwright, the head of the FBI’s top counter-terrorism unit and the lead investigator on this case? Sources say he was fired shortly after the tower was lost, though the circumstances of his termination were never made public. After that, his friends and colleagues say they never heard from him again. It’s almost as if he vanished into thin air.”
Ed reached over the bar, yanked the remote out of Anurak’s hand and flipped the channels until he landed on a game show. Three lucky contests stood behind podiums as the host shouted, “Who’s ready to play, ‘Dodge That Suppository?’”
“I’m sorry, my friend,” Anurak said. “It’s just not often I get a celebrity in my bar. You looked good back then. You really let yourself go.”
“Thanks,” Ed said.
“No, seriously,” Anurak said. “The dark spots under your eyes and the flecks of gray in your hair and beard and you’ve packed on at least, what, twenty or thirty pounds?”
“Set me up with another drink and I’ll start working on forty,” Ed said.
Anurak forked over another skull full of daquiri.
“I don’t care what anyone says,” Anurak said. “You’re a hero.”
“Yeah,” Ed said. “Tell that to my kid.”
Anurak ran his towel over the bar once more. “Confucius say, ‘The shorter the life, the lesser the strife, the longer one lives, the easier one forgives.’”
“I’ll drop that in a note and mail it to her,” Ed said. “Maybe she’ll take my calls.”
“Maybe you skip the call and visit in person,” Anurak said.
Ed swigged from the skull. “Maybe.”
The barkeep reached out and grabbed Ed’s hand. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”
“Why?” Ed asked. “Did I fart or something?”
“On occasion,” Anurak said. “But no. I can’t stand to see someone with so much left to offer the world sit here, night after night, letting his skills go to waste.”
“The world and I aren’t exactly simpatico,” Ed said.
“Confucius say…”
“Oh, here we go,” Ed said as he guzzled his booze. “More Confucius.”
“Shut your hole, Yankee imperialist swine,” Anurak said. “Confucius was a wise man and had more brains in his left nut than you’ll ever have in your entire life.”
Ed shrugged his shoulders. “Probably true.”
Anurak continued. “Confucius say, ‘He who has failed in one chapter, must find a new purpose in the next, or else he will just go on repeating the same old shit forever and ever.’”
“Confucius really said, ‘shit?’” Ed asked.
“Oh, he had a very foul tongue, that Confucius,” Anurak said.
The barkeep slid over a third skull. “The last drink I’ll ever serve you. You’re welcome to stay until closing, but then for your own good, I never want to see you here again. If you won’t find a new reason to live, then please, kill yourself in another bar.”
“I hear the Tong Sia Lounge has good chicken wings,” Ed said.
“Hmm,” Anurak said. “I don’t know about that. I hear they taste better going in, but feel worse when they come out. If you’ll excuse me, it’s been nice knowing you, friend.”
Anurak waltzed down the bar to serve more customers. Ed flipped through the channels on TV.
“A new purpose,” Ed said. “A new purpose. Where the hell can I find a new purpose?”
Ed channel surfed for a while until he settled on the Movie Now channel. He was hoping to catch a flick but instead there was another documentary playing.
“Jeeze,” Ed said. “What a buzzkill.”
“Welcome back to the Movie Now channel,” the announcer said. “We love to bring you the latest flicks featuring grown ass adults pretending to be caped, costumed, spandex wearing superheroes, the occasional reboot of a film that came out two years ago, and of course, romantic comedies where the so-called ugly friend is just a hot chick with a pair of glasses slapped on her attractive face. But we also want in on award season, so tonight, we’re bringing you the documentary version of Jaws of Death: The Inside Story of the News Duo That Tracked the Toilet Gator.
Archive footage of ex-Sitwell Police Chief Cole Walker played. In the middle of a street flooded by a hurricane, the forty-year-old man stood in a sinking canoe, pressing a whirring chainsaw blade up against the big green monster’s sharp, pointy teeth.
“It was the story that shocked a nation,” the announcer said in a voice over. “Three people, one of them none other than Countess Cucamonga, died on the toilet in a single night.”
Ed had been drinking at the very moment that last statement was made. Out of shock, he sprayed his daiquiri out of his lips and all over the bar. “Countess Cucamonga is dead?!”
An angry Anurak returned and furiously wiped up Ed’s spit. “Damn it, Ed! I know this place is a shithole but I try to keep up a few standards.”
“Dude,” Ed said as he pointed at the TV, which was showing archived footage of an alligator bursting out of a toilet, only to devour the Mayor of Sitwell, Florida. “When the hell did that happen?”
“What?” Anurak asked. “The toilet gator? You never heard about that?”
“No,” Ed said.
“Were you living under a rock last fall?” Anurak asked.
Ed searched the deep recesses of his mind. “Last fall…last fall…damn, that ayahuasca is some potent shit.”
“Seriously, Ed,” Anurak said. “Get in a program.”
“What happened?” Ed asked.
“You really don’t know?” Anurak asked.
“No,” Ed said. “Why would I ask if I didn’t know?”
“There was a fat ass alligator,” Anurak said. “Popping out of toilets in Florida and eating people. He had an accomplice. An over the hill cop with a prosthetic leg hunted it down and killed it.”
Anurak and Ed stared at each other in silence.
“Kinda makes you feel like a loser that you aren’t doing more with your life given the fact that you have two good legs, doesn’t it?” the barkeep asked.
“Yeah,” Ed said as he stood up. “A little bit.”
The announcer continued. “In the wake of the toilet gator carnage, Americans have one question on their minds, ‘Is it safe to shit?’”
A Southern woman with three babies in tow spoke into a microphone. “I don’t care what the lying government or the fake news media says, I will never shit in a toilet again for as long as I live.”
Ed pushed the skull drink away. “I think I just found my new purpose.”
“You’re going to help that lady take a shit?” Anurak said.
“Something like that,” Ed said. “Thanks for your hospitality.”
“Don’t mention it,” Anurak said. “Oh, and Ed…”
“Don’t forget,” Anurak said. “’Confucius say, ‘He who cries for many months will lubricate his soul, but he who cries for many years will drown himself.’”
“Did Confucious really say all those things?” Ed asked.
“Not at all,” Anurak said. “I just think of advice that would help my customers and then tell them Confucius said it because it sounds better coming from an ancient philosopher than it does from an old bum like me. Most fat, stupid, lazy Americans are easily fooled though honestly, I expected more from an educated man like you.”
“I’m sorry,” Ed said.
“You should be,” Anurak said. “Racist prick.”

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