Bookshelf Battle

Twenty-six-year old Kevin Fogerty cowered on top of the toilet bowl inside the seventh stall from the left in the Section Q bathroom of the Pismo Beach Man-O-Dome, his feet precariously perched on the slippery seat, the pilfered football clutched up against his chest. As thousands upon thousands of fists punched on the thin door, he pulled out his cell phone and called his long-lost lady love.
“Hello?” came the soft, sensual voice of the woman the chubby man missed so much.
“Cathy!” Kevin shouted over the profanity laced tirades of the mob. “Don’t hang up!”
“Oh, Kevin,” Cathy said. “Was that really you on TV? Did you really steal that flatulent little boy’s ball?”
“Yes,” Kevin said. “I did…but I did it for us.”
Fans and players alike filled the bathroom until there was barely a few inches of space between each person. They each took turns punching and kicking the door to Kevin’s stall as they shouted out the most colorful threats they could imagine.
“I’m going to rip out your medulla oblongata and fuck you in the ear canal with it!” one man shouted.
“Jesus, Peter,” the woman standing next to the wannabe ear fucker said. “That’s disturbingly specific, isn’t it?”
“What?” Peter asked. “Give me a break, Ann. I just came up with that on the spur of the moment.”
“No,” Ann said. “It sounds like you’ve been dreaming about fucking someone in the ear with a piece of their brain for awhile now and just finally found someone you’d actually like to do it to.”
“You have a point,” Peter said. “Maybe I’ll finally book an appointment with that shrink you’ve been wanting me to see.”
“That’s all I ask,” Ann said.
Back in the stall, Kevin was bearing his soul to his ex-girlfriend. “Look baby. I know you think I’m a colossal screw-up. You’re tired of me being out of work. You’re pissed that I can never afford to take you anywhere nice. You want a man who can afford to buy a home and support a family and I can’t even afford to move out of the room I grew up in as kid. You’ve made it clear to me so many times that you want me to become a man of action, a man who dares to put it all on the line so I did. I used the last bit of money I had left in my bank account to buy a ticket to this game just so I could sell that little flatulent boy’s ball. Now, if I can just figure out how to get out of here, I’ll sell the ball, make a fortune, and buy that dream house you always wanted. Please take me back, baby. Please, I’m begging you.”
“Don’t drag me into this, Kevin,” Cathy said. “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. Where are you? What’s all that noise?”
“Literally thousands of people are trying to murder me,” Kevin said.
A random man’s voice interrupted the conversation. “Give that little farty boy’s ball back or I’ll tie your dick to the back bumper of my Honda Civic and drive you all the way from California to New York City.”
“Wow,” Kevin said. “These violent threats are creepily specific.”
“Did you realize how much danger you’d be in happen before you stole the ball?” Cathy asked.
“Of course, I did,” Kevin said.
“And you did it anyway?” Cathy said. “Just for me?”
“You know it,” Kevin said. “All I ever do is think about you, Cathy. You’re the first person I think about when I wake up, the last person I think about when I go to sleep. I need you back in my life, baby.”
“That’s really sweet, Kev,” Cathy said. “I’m flattered you went to all this trouble for me, but I should tell you, I’ve been letting your brother finger blast me for a couple months now.”
Kevin’s jaw dropped. His face turned red. “What’s that now?”
This time, a woman’s voice from outside broke its way through the competing screams and hollers. “Young man I want you to come out this instant! Apologize to the gassy kid, give him back the ball, and stand there patiently while I whip out my butterfly knife and slit you from stem to stern!”
“I never wanted you to find out this way,” Cathy said. “Your brother and I…”
“You,” Kevin said. “And Mike? Really? How could you do this to me?”
“I don’t know,” Cathy said. “All those nights I’d come to your room to visit you. You’d get so upset about your lack of job prospects and employable skills that you couldn’t get an erection and then you’d eat ice cream and nachos until you passed out face first on the floor in a pile of your own filth, so…”
“So?” Kevin asked.
“So,” Cathy said. “Even though Mike has a highly paid job, he always makes time to come over your parents’ house and help them with their housework and, well, while you were sleeping we’d talk and…damn it, Kevin, Mike has a 401K, a condo, and wi-fi! Free wi-fi, Kevin! Can you give me free wi-fi?”
“I’ll give you all the wi-fi you’ll ever want and shower you with condos and retirement plans the second I fence this ball,” Kevin said.
“You will never sell that ball, Kevin,” Cathy said. “It’s too hot. They’re talking about it on every channel. President Stugotz just called you a fat pant load on Lifebox.”
The fists kept pounding on the stall. The death threats continued. “Let us in or we’ll chop you into little pieces and feed you to a shark!”
In a new move, the mob started throwing unsavory items into the stall. Rotten tomatoes, full soft drink cups, flaming rolls of toilet paper and more.
“Cathy,” Kevin said. “I don’t have much time. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me next. Please, if I’m about to die, just take me back. Just let me die with a girlfriend. Please. I’m begging you.”
Cathy groaned. “I’m sorry Kevin, but I already promised your brother that I’d let him get to second base.”
“Titty grabbing?” Kevin asked.
“Titty fucking,” Cathy replied. “The bases have really changed. Goodbye, Kevin. Good luck.”
As soon as the call ended, Kevin realized how ill-advised his plan had been. He closed his eyes, screwed up as much courage as he had inside of him and shouted, “Wait!”
The mayhem ceased. “People,” Kevin said. “I know you’re all angry out there. Will you hear me out?”
The various members of the mob mumbled to each other for awhile until finally, one man shouted, “Sure, we’ll give you five minutes, then come out of there so we can shove a pike up your butt and put your carcass outside the stadium as a warning to any other assholes who would dare steal a ball from a kid who suffers from a disease that makes him fart out his spine.”
“Good people,” Kevin said. “My story is the same story as many a millennial’s story these days. Even though I graduated from college only to find that the best job available to me was that of a movie theater concession stand worker, my well-intentioned but woefully misguided baby boomer parents encouraged me to quit my job and pursue graduate school.”
“Wow,” a woman said. “That’s a dumbass move.”
“That it was,” Kevin said. “But you see, my parents came of age in a time when a high school graduate could get a job that would allow him to buy a home, so they assumed I had screwed myself by not getting a job that paid enough to sustain myself and that only by doubling down on the higher education hamster wheel would I be able to earn a decent living. So, I went to graduate school, but all that led to me was being turned away at every door I knocked on. You know the old saw…”
An angry fan spoke up. “You were told that you needed experience before you could get a job that paid a living wage, but you weren’t able to get an entry level job that would give you experience because your graduate education caused employers to write you off as too qualified?”
“Exactly,” Kevin said. “I was either too smart or too stupid, depending on who you asked.”
“Damn,” one member of the mob said. “We all thought we were doing the world a favor, making sure that anyone who wanted a college degree would be able to get one.”
“Yeah,” another member of the mob said. “But now those degrees are so abundant that they aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”
“Colleges know that loans are readily available for the next batch of young, starry eyed dreamers to take out,” Kevin said. “So, they jack up their prices and banks? They’ll approve anyone. The pawnsi scheme worked until the bottom of the economy fell out in 2008 and, well, I’ll be living off my parents forever now, and will never be able to make a woman happy.”
The mob’s angry mumblings turned to sniffles as a number of irate fans started to cry.
“I couldn’t afford to buy a proper ring to propose to my girlfriend,” Kevin said. “I definitely will never afford a nice house for her to live in and I’ll never afford to start a family. I’ll never know the happiness that comes with having a wife, or having children who hug me and call me daddy.”
“Oh, you poor kid,” one man said.
“What was your major, son?” another man asked.
“Mating Rituals of Ancient Ecuadorean Tribal Peoples and the Role They Play on the Modern Cultural Zeitgeist Today.”
“Holy fucking batshit!” a fan said. “That’s a major? You actually signed up to study that shit?”
“I did,” Kevin said. “But in my defense, was it my fault that I signed up for it, or the fault of the professors who filled my young, impressionable brain full of the idea that such a course of study would be viable in the job market?”
“Sounds like we should beat up your parents for telling you to go to grad school for that shit,” a random man said.
“You’d think so,” Kevin said. “But like most parents, they figured I was in for a penny, in for a pound, and that at least a graduate degree would allow me to become a professor of Mating Rituals of the etcetera and then I’d be able to perpetuate the scam by convincing younger students to study this ridiculous discipline to fund my salary…but who knew there were so many people my age who had already been duped into this field? How could my parents have anticipated that competition to become a professor of ancient mating rituals would be so fierce?”
The couple that had been arguing earlier chimed in.
“You got quite a sob story,” Peter said.
“But that doesn’t mean you can steal balls from spine farting kids,” Ann said.
“I know,” Kevin said. “I don’t know what came over. I guess I figured the world had been fucking me for so long that if I just fucked it back just this once, I’d get my girlfriend to come back but it turns out my brother has been finger banging her for months on account of his free wi-fi.”
“Damn,” Peter said. “That sucks, kid.”
“Shit,” Ann said. “I’d let him finger bang me for free wi-fi.”
“Please,” Peter said. “Like anyone wants to stick a digit in that old spider cave.”
“Get to that shrink, Peter,” Ann said. “Do it for the kids.”
Kevin’s stomach rumbled. He tossed the ball over the side of the stall. “Here.”
The fans clamored to grab it. Finally, one fan did.
“Look,” Kevin said. “All this excitement has literally scared the shit out of me. Please give that ball back to Andy and if you give me a minute to take a dump, I’ll come out and you can all fuck my ear with a piece of my brain and tie my dick to a car and cut me open with a knife and whatever else…”
“We’re not going to kill you, kid,” Peter said.
“Yeah,” Ann said. “There’s no way we could possibly fuck you harder than life already has. Right, gang?”
The crowd responded with a resounding, “Yeah.”
“I appreciate it,” Kevin said as he dropped his pants. “Let me just have a seat here…and ugh…squeeze this nugget out and…huh? What the? Arrrrrggggghhh!”

Chapter 10
Under the bright lights of the Pismo Beach Man-O-Dome, tens of thousands of fans gathered to watch the two top teams in the Football League of America duke it out on the gridiron. The lights were bright, the cheers were loud, the crowd was out of control and high up in a cozy, temperature controlled glass press booth, two middle aged ex-football players turned sportscasters provided their own brand of sports commentary.
Chuck “The Flame” McGraw had maintained his ruggedly chiseled features over the years, though rumor had it this was the result of botox and the occasional off the books steroid injection here and there. Whatever he had done to preserve his hair, it was working, because his locks looked fabulous.
His cohost had seen better days. “Boltin’” Brad Wexler had embraced the aging process. His head was bald and smooth. His once muscular build had given way to a pot belly. Wrinkles lined his face. He didn’t care. He’d was widely considered the best player of his generation and no one was able to take that away from him.
Both men wore flashy suits and sported flashier smiles. Both had perfected a cheesy, over the top sportscaster style.
“Welcome back to the Man-O-Dome, sports fans,” Chuck said. “You’re watching the BBC, no not the one from across the pond, but the Big Ball Channel. That’s right. If you love watching big men throw around their big balls, then you’ve come to the right place. Haven’t our ball loving fans at home come to the right place, Bryce?”
“They sure have, Chuck,” Brad said. “And let me tell you, if you love big balls then you’re in for a treat tonight. The undefeated Walla Walla Weasels are about to take on the underdog Pismo Beach Manatees in what is shaping to be the Cinderella story of the season. The Manatees haven’t successfully moved enough balls across a football field to win the FLA Championship since 1969.”
“Oh, the Summer of 1969,” Chuck said. “Now there was a great song and also an even better time I spent groping your sister inside a dilapidated tool shed on your uncle’s crawfish farm.”
Brad pointed playfully at Chuck. “Uh oh. I’m going to have to watch this bad boy. He’s hot tonight!”
Chuck licked his finger, pressed it against his arm, then made a hissing sound. “They don’t call me the Flame for nothing.”
“I thought they called you the Flamer,” Brad said.
“What’s that?” Chuck asked.
“Nothing,” Bryce said. “Now, sports fans, we here at the Big Ball Channel have always been proud to make history. We’re the first channel to bring every kind of ball handling experience imaginable right to your television set. Tonight, we’ve got football, but we’ve also got baseball, basketball, soccer, tennis, golf…”
“Whatever your preferred ball related sport is,” Chuck said. “We’ve got it, because we love balls, and you love balls.”
Bryce looked directly into the camera. “We love it whenever athletes compete over who gets to move a ball to a location that will allow a point to be scored first and we love bringing that action to you.”
“We’ve been doing just that ever since the inception of cable television,” Chuck said.
“But tonight,” Bryce said. “We’re going to introduce a new sports viewing experience. Yes, for the first time ever, tonight’s game will be simulcast with dual viewing experiences, depending on whether or not you, the viewer at home, selected the liberal sports package, or the conservative sports package.”
Both men grew silent. They lost their fake smiles. Their vocal tones went from faux elation to grim depression. They waited in silence for a few moments before they pressed on.
“Right,” Chuck said. “Because apparently, that’s where we are as a nation now. Divided as hell, and totally screwed. Am I right, Brad?”
“You sure are, Chuck,” Brad said. “It seems like it was just yesterday that, no matter what our petty differences were, people of all political persuasions could at least gather around the old water cooler and have a fun chat about how their favorite athletic mercenaries hired by the billionaire owner of the team located in their geographic location performed their ball handling duties.”
“But no more,” Chuck said. “Like everything else in this country, which, if you haven’t been paying attention to the news lately, is most assuredly about to end it’s rich, vibrant 243 year history with a bloody civil war that will no doubt give rise to a post-apocalyptic hell scape where people will be forced to fight in ritual combat for scraps of food while wearing leather pants.”
“Everything has become politicized,” Brad said. “You can’t watch a late-night comedy show without having to sit through the host neglecting his joke telling duties so he can bore you with a twenty-minute public policy lecture, complete with graphs and flow charts.”
“Nor can you go out on the town and enjoy a nice meal without having some d-bag throw a drink in your face when he overhears you saying you voted against his or her preferred candidate,” Chuck said.
“It’s hell out there,” Brad said.
“Complete, total anarchy,” Chuck said. “We should just release the dogs of war and get it over with. Humanity’s done for.”
“Oh, the end times will come soon enough,” Brad said. “Because now, politics have even been injected into football. I wonder whose fault that is?”
“Gee,” Chuck said. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s you and all your coastal elite, brie cheese sniffing chode guzzlers who can’t stop babbling on and on about how great it is whenever a rich, spoiled celebrity athlete who gets paid millions of dollars to handle balls wants to take a knee during the national anthem, not only as a sign of disrespect to our forefathers who built this great nation, but to the many, brave service men and women who have fought, died, or been injured while supporting it?”
“Really?” Brad asked. “And here, all this time, I thought it was because of that unhinged, unchained junkyard dog of a president of yours, foaming at the mouth all over Lifebox, posting vitriolic hatred towards socially conscious young men who are just trying to point out the inequalities and injustices suffered on a daily basis by minorities who are just trying to make their way in the world despite a racially biased criminal justice system?”
Chuck rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go again. Shit all over the cops even though you know good and well if you ever had to pin a badge to your chest, strap a gun to your hip and protect and serve for one day, you’d be shitting yourself like the pathetic little crybaby that you are.”
“That’s a pretty oblivious statement, Chuck,” Brad said. “Almost as oblivious as you, a wealthy, white privileged cis-male are to the struggles of the many historically disenfranchised, marginalized people who have been given the shaft for years.”
Chuck took a deep breath. Brad joined him.
“Brad,” Chuck said. “Really. Forget about the country for a second. How did you and I get so divided? We were friends once, you and I.”
Brad wiped a tear from his eye. “I promised I wouldn’t do this.”
“You’re my eldest son’s godfather for crying out loud,” Chuck said.
“You were the best man at my wedding,” Brad said.
“Remember that night in Puerto Vallarta?” Chuck asked.
“How could I forget?” Brad asked. “The breathtaking sunset. The white wine. The bottle of lotion that we used to take turns rubbing down each other’s hard, rippling muscles until they glistened like…”
The two manly men stared into one another’s eyes, moving their expressionless faces closer and closer, their lips parted, their heads cocked to opposite sides. Ever so abruptly, the men backed off and returned to their positions.
“I hate your guts, Chuck,” Brad said.
“Not as much as I hate yours, Brad,” Chuck replied.
“Seriously,” Chuck said. “All these years I thought I knew you, but then you went and cast your vote for Vinny Stugotz, the most hateful, racist, bigoted, sexist, homophobe…”
“Those are some great pieces of rhetoric to use to chop your political opponent off at the knees, Brad,” Chuck said. “But if your beloved Democratic party is ever going to win sustainable victories, they’re going to have to stop all the insults and start using their words.”
“Holy shit, I hate Stugotz,” Brad said. “The man’s a walking dumpster fire fueled by a thousand-pound bag of moldy pit bull shit.”
“That’s classy, Brad,” Chuck said. “Real, classy. You know, I didn’t vote for Obama and disagreed strongly with his political positions, but I dare you to find one comment I made that was half as rude about President Obama as you just made about President Stugotz. You’ll never find it because I never made it. Unlike you, I understand how our political system works. Every four years, the parties duke it out. The winning party gets to lead. The losing party gets to form the opposition. In four more years, everyone goes at it again. If you won’t have respect for the man, at least have respect for the office.”
“Why should I have respect for the office?” Brad asked. “Stugotz doesn’t even have respect for it. You want me to respect a man who cheated on his wife with the star of Mighty Massive Mammaries Part 56 and then paid her off to shut her trap?”
“Oh,” Chuck said. “Like you cared when President Wannadingle cheated on Corrupt Emily who, by the way, was the key player in helping her husband sweep his perverted behavior under the rug.”
“You take that saint’s name out of your turd sucking mouth, McGraw,” Brad said.
“Well,” Chuck said. “If you’re going to use that kind of language…”
“Your president uses that kind of language and worse every day,” Chuck said. “He’s an embarrassment this nation will never live down and by the way, let’s just get one thing straight. Former 1990s era president Fred Wannadingle wasn’t running for president. Former Secretary of Homeland Security Emily Wannadingle was and I’ll have you know, she won the popular vote.”
“Who cares?” Chuck said. “Learn how to play the game, numb nuts. You have to learn the electoral vote to win and maybe you people would have if you hadn’t treated everyone in middle America like a bunch of dopey hicks and hayseeds.”
Brad gritted his teeth. “God, I’d love to smash your face into hamburger meat.”
“I’d love to see you try it,” Chuck replied. “You know you’ll be spitting teeth out like chiclets if you do.”
The duo growled at each other like a pair of rabid dogs before getting lost in each others’ eyes once more.
Brad sighed. “The only thing that stops me from kicking your ass is that wonderful night.”
“Yes,” Chuck replied. “If it weren’t for that beautiful evening when we held our moist, supple, glistening naked bodies against each other and indulged a love that dared not speak its name, I would have stomped your face into road pizza by now.
The sportscasters returned their gazes to the camera.
“Anyway,” Chuck said. “For most of the game, what you’ll see on the liberal or the conservative package will be more or less the same.”
“All the stuff we all agree on will be available for everyone to see,” Brad said.
“The coin toss, the kickoff, the passes, the interceptions, the touchdowns,” Chuck said. “We’ll all enjoy that together.”
“For now,” Chuck said.
“But then,” Brad said. “When those American hating bastards wants to disgrace Old Glory, those who bought the conservative package will be treated to a live performance by sensational band Billy Bob Dugan and the Cornpone Crew, who will be bringing you their brand-new hit single, “America: Love It Or Eat a Bucket of Dicks.”
“OK,” Brad said. “And for all of you non-racists out there in TV land…”
“You know,” Chuck said. “You can’t just keep calling me a racist, Brad. You’ve known me for thirty years. You know I’m not a racist. Supporting low taxes, limited government, and strong borders doesn’t mean I’m a racist.”
“Sorry,” Brad said. “If you vote for a racist then you’re a racist. Anyway, for all you folks at home who don’t have freshly starched klan sheets in your closet, you’ll be able to view these brave young men take a stand against police brutality by refusing to participate in the glorification of a flag that represents a nation that has screwed them and their ancestors every step of the way.”
“Maybe if they hate this country so much, they should leave, dipshit,” Chuck said.
“Maybe if their ancestors hadn’t been clapped in chains and dragged here from their homeland only to be persecuted long after Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation, they wouldn’t be fucking up your precious patriotic jerk off time,” Brad said.
Chuck feigned a smile. “Oh Brad, your wife’s a whore and everybody knows it.”
“What’s that now?” Brad asked.
“Moving on,” Chuck said. “When it’s time for locker room interviews, conservative viewers will only see those players who respect our flag and its status as a beacon of freedom around the world.”
“And,” Brad said. “Liberals will only see interviews of players who don’t want to see people of color get shot in the face by armed goon squads whenever they simply dare to poke their faces out their front door.”
“You are a horrible excuse for a human being, Brad,” Chuck said.
“I hope you get hit by a bus and die on impact,” Brad replied.
“I hope so too,” Chuck said. “That will surely beat the over-taxed, under-employed, over-regulated, everyone on welfare because they’re too busy self-identifying as hamsters who want to marry pieces of cottage cheese smeared toast hellscape that you and your godless, atheist, Commie pals have cooked up. Damn it, you shitheads really will be the death of us all.”
“Chuck,” Brad said. “If you take a minute to stop planning your next cross burning and tell our viewers at home about the half-time show…”
“Right,” Chuck said. “We have some great half-time entertainment for folks of all political leanings to enjoy. Conservatives, Billy Bob and the Cornpone Crew will be back to perform, “My Pick-Up Truck Will Buttfuck Your Electric Car Any Day of the Week.”
“And for you smart, educated liberals, truly, the world’s betters that everyone should shut up and worship right now, you’ll be taking in a performance by rap artist Lady Cyanide, who will be performing her chart topping song, Die Piggy Die, which, no matter what inbred conservative rubes like Chuck will try to tell you, has nothing to do with wanting police officer to die, but rather, is just a protest against police brutality.”
“A demand for police officers to die is literally in the title, Brad,” Chuck said.
“Look, fart fume, if you didn’t pay attention in English class the day your teacher at whatever flyover country town’s high school you went to was explaining allegories, then I’m not going to explain them to you now,” Brad said.
Chuck and Brad stared at the cameras, doing their best to avoid looking at one another.
“Oh, when the end times come, I will enjoy feeding you your own entrails,” Chuck said.
“And I will enjoy the irony of cutting off your dick and feeding it to you, thus shutting your homophobic mouth once and for all,” Brad said.
“I’ve never once said a single homophobic word,” Chuck replied.
“You are the biggest homophobe around,” Brad said.
“I don’t care what two dudes do with each other,” Chuck said. “I’m just not like you. I’m not going to throw a ticker tape parade and put on a fireworks spectacle every time one dude sucks another dude off. Newsflash. It’s the current year. No one cares if you’re a dude who likes dicks anymore. Dudes who like dicks are old hat now.”
“Every time a dude comes out of the closet it’s a cause celebre,” Brad said. “You’ll figure that out when we take over.”
“I’d like to see you try it,” Chuck said.
“We own the cities,” Brad said. “We have the numbers.”
“We have the guns,” Chuck replied.
“Fuck,” Brad said.
“How do you like the second amendment now?” Chuck asked.
“Fuck your amendment,” Brad said. “Only cops should have guns.”
Chuck slapped his forehead. “You know…I can’t…I’m not even going to…”
On the right hand of the screen, a box appeared. It showed a happy little boy in a wheelchair just before the camera panned to a football player with ball in hand.
“You know Brad,” Chuck said. “We’re about to witness one of the precious few moments left in this sport that the left and the right can enjoy together. Little Andy Culpepper from right here in Pismo Beach long dreamed of growing up to become just like his hero, Pismo Beach Manatee quarterback Lawrence Collins, but alas, last year, at age eight, he was struck with a rare disease known as spinal flatulence recoil syndrome which, to put it in layman’s terms, means that whenever Little Andy cuts the cheese, there’s a high risk he might just one day blast his spinal cord right out of his tucas. His doctors believe that the precocious little tyke is ok for now due to an experimental pair of cast iron underpants that keeps his innards on the inside, but how this affliction will affect the young lad in his teen years is anyone’s guess.”
“Yes,” Brad said. “If only President Stugotz hadn’t screwed with Obamacare, this young man might be able to fart with dignity, but alas…”
“Damn it, Brad,” Chuck said. “Must you ruin every moment with your leftist bullshit?”
“For as long as you Nazis are willing to ruin life itself with your non-stop assault on mankind’s unassailable right to healthcare, then yes, I will…”
“Maybe if a few of those flag hating millionaires you love so much would take five minutes out of their busy off-field schedules of getting arrested for bringing guns to night clubs and fucking strippers, they might hold a few fundraisers for sick kids like Little Andy and then the already overburdened taxpayers won’t have to…”
“Chuck,” Brad said. “If you could shut the filthy, stinking sewer you call a mouth for one minute so we can watch Little Andy catch a pass thrown by Collins, it would be appreciated.”
“Right,” Chuck said. “And Collins has the ball. Oh, he just pointed at Little Andy and gave him a wink. By the way, I’m told that the ball was signed by Collins himself and win, lose, or draw, Collins has already publicly announced that this will be his last season so he can explore his newfound career of acting in action films poorly, so I’ve got to assume that ball’s got to be worth something.”
“Maybe Little Andy can sell it so he can afford a new pair of blast resistant underpants so you and your rich Republican friends can save a little extra on your taxes and buy yourselves a third or maybe even a fourth house in Aruba, you self-centered pack of miserable skinflints.”
“That’s all well and great, Brad,” Chuck said. “But I’ve never seen you donate a single cent of your fat paycheck to charity and yet, you always have plenty of money to give your wife a new titty upgrade every year.”
“You leave Elaine’s titties out of this!” Brad shouted.
“Back to the action,” Chuck said. “Collins is going back, back, way back and oh! He’s thrown the ball! Damn, Collins has still got it! His arm is like a cannon! Why he’s retiring in his prime this sportscaster will never know! And the ball is moving through the air and its about to land in the stands and Little Andy can hardly contain his excitement. Why the smile on that boy’s face probably means a lot to his parents, that’s for sure. Here it comes! The ball’s on a downward arc and it’s about to be…what?!”
“What was that?!” Brad shouted.
“Did you see that?” Chuck asked.
“I did,” Brad said.
“Viewers at home, we’re going to put the replay up on the screen,” Chuck said. “As you can see, the ball was about to land in Little Andy’s hands when a chubby, goofy looking doofus just reached out and intercepted the ball.”
“Wow,” Brad said. “The crowd does not look happy. Whoever that tub of lard is, he’s in big trouble.”
“Given the looks on the angry faces on and off the field, I’d say this idiot just signed his own death warrant,” Chuck said.
“The players are pounding their fists together,” Brad said. “An indication that this moron is in for a bonafide ass pounding, and not the fun kind, like the one we had in Puerto…”
“Let’s focus on the gruesome spectacle that’s unfolding before our eyes, Brad,” Chuck said. “The fans are grabbing any blunt objects they can get their hands on – umbrellas, rolled up newspapers, hell some of them are ripping arms off of the absurdly overpriced yet ludicrously small seats.”
“One can only assume those arms will be used to bash this dimbulb’s brains in,” Brad said.
“Now, if I were this guy, I’d hand the ball right on over to the kid and run,” Chuck said. “If the get kids the ball, that will at least settle the crowd down but…no! He just tucked the ball under his arm and he’s making a break for it!”
“He’s running up the rows!” Brad shouted. “He’s pushing row ten, row twenty, row thirty!”
“Some old broad just tried to intercept his face with her pocketbook!” Chuck said.
“Swing and a miss!” Brad said.
“But will he miss the hot dog cart the vendor is rolling right towards him?” Chuck asked.
“Whoa!” Brad said. “This guy just avoided being squished like a pancake. You know, for a portly fellow, he does have some moves, I’ll give him that.”
“He’s got some fancy footwork, indeed,” Chuck said. “And boy, this crowd looks worse than the villagers who stormed Dr. Frankenstein’s castle. The ball thief is going back, back, back and he’s gone! He’s gone to the bathroom! Will he find refuge in a stall, Brad?”
Brad and Chuck stood up. Each man pounded his respective right fist into his respective left hand.
“I don’t know, you right wing fascist lunatic,” Brad said. “But what say we call a truce and come together in the spirit of peace and harmony and help that crowd beat the ever loving shit out of this butt goblin until he pisses blood and shits out his spleen?”
“Sounds good to me, you whiney little libtard snowflake.”

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?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you hear this poor wretch’s last words?”
“Huh?”
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.”

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.”

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.”
“Gah?”
“Polish Mr. Winky.”
“Zah?”
“Gargle the sausage.”
“Dah?”
“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.

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.”

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.”

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
ACT 1
(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.)
LORENA BOBBITT:
He cheated…again!
(Chorus girls fill the stage, all dressed like neighborhood housewives.)
CHORUS:
Yes, he cheated again! Why, oh why can’t you see?
LORENA BOBBITT:
That he had carnal relations with someone other than me?
CHORUS:
Oui!
LORENA BOBBITT:
My eyes are open now! It’s clear what I have to do!
CHORUS:
Get in the car and leave him now! For divorce you’ll have to sue!
(Lorena raises the butcher’s knife.)
LORENA BOBBITT:
I’ll make it so he can never cheat on me again! I’ll separate him from his tiny friend!
CHORUS:
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.
LORENA BOBBITT:
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.)
LORENA BOBBITT:
Oh…I’m…going…to…chop it off!
CHORUS:
No, this plan will surely fail!
LORENA BOBBITT:
Yes, I’m going to chop it off!
CHORUS:
Think of the headlines! Think of jail!
LORENA BOBBITT:
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!
CHORUS:
You should probably feel some guilt.
LORENA BOBBITT:
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.)
LORENA BOBBITT:
…and I’ll chop it off for you!
ACT 2
(John Wayne Bobbitt wakes up. He gets out of bed, stretches and yawns. He breaks out into song.)
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
Something is missing…
(A chorus of neighborhood husbands flood the room.)
CHORUS:
Don’t you hate that feeling? Is it under the bed? Is it stuck to the ceiling?
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
What did I loose? It is my keys? Is it my shoes?
CHORUS:
Something isn’t right! What a terrible fright!
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m feeling most indignant. Something is amiss. Something feels so different.
CHORUS:
Did you lose your wallet? We think we saw it on the coffee table!
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
No, it’s not that, but I just feel so unstable.
CHORUS:
Did you lose your day planner? We think we saw you drop it on the stairs.
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
No, but this has caught me unawares.
CHORUS:
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.)
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
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.)
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
Where is it?
CHORUS:
Where’s what? You look live you’ve been hit by a rock!
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
My penis! My Johnson! My cock!
CHORUS:
It’s not there?!
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
No sirs, at this very moment I’m wearing empty underwear.
CHORUS:
It’s probably the last place you left it.
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
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!
CHORUS:
Where, oh where is your best pal? That is what we must know!
(John Wayne Bobbitt looks around.)
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
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.)
POLICE OFFICER:
Sir, is this yours?
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
Why, yes! Where did it go? It’s never left me before!
POLICE OFFICER:
We need to get you to a doctor. See if it can be sewn back on.
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
My God! Will it ever work again? Will an erection it ever yield?
POLICE OFFICER:
I have no idea. We found it at the edge of an abandoned field.
JOHN WAYNE BOBBITT:
But officer! Please, tell me! Will it ever produce a load?
POLICE OFFICER:
What do I look like? A dick scientist? It was just lying there on the side of the road!

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.”