Daily Archives: January 20, 2019

Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 6

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“What’s wrong?!”

“Fa…fa…fa…fish!”

Smegma shrugged his shoulders.  “Happens to the best of us.  Just wash it off in the sink and I’m sure it will be…”

The bathroom door opened.  The buxom blonde came rushing out and hid behind the studly spy. Smegma poked his head into the bathroom to find a three-foot long swordfish.  It was flopping about the cramped room, smashing into this and that.  On the whole, it appeared relatively harmless, save its long, razor sharp nose.

Smegma gasped.  “Toilet swordfish!  This must be the work of…”

Clap. Clap.  Clap.

Slowly, the agent turned and watched as a man exited the cockpit.  He wore khaki pants, a black polo shirt and had a long, bushy black beard.  He carried a large, black duffel bag. He slapped his hands together as he approached.

“Congratulations, Mr. Smegma.  You’re not as dimwitted as I thought.”

“Meanwhile, you’re dumber than ever if you thought you’d be able to take me out with a fish nose up the ass, Hakeem.”

Bonanza raised her hand.  Smegma acknowledge her.  “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” Bonanza said.  “It’s just so typical of males to assume that every woman in the room already knows what he knows.  Would you explain?”

Smegma sighed.  “If I do, will you accuse me of mansplaining?”

Bonanza looked up.  She took a few seconds to think.  “Not this time.”

The agent nodded.  “This is the international terrorist Hakeem Abdul Qassab, a top lieutenant in the Fatwah Brigade.  If their leader, Sheikh Omar al-Mutairi decides you’ve offended his disgusting, perverted version of the Islamic faith, he’ll send one of his errand boys to end your life.”

Smegma looked at the fish, still flopping around in the bathroom.  “A pity for the Sheikh that good help is hard to find.”

Qassab smiled.  “I admit that out of all the toilet animals Dr. Malfeasor offered, the toilet swordfish is truly the lamest.  However, you get what you pay for.  Perhaps if your country, the Great Satan that is the United States, would stop looting and raping our lands for five minutes, the Sheikh would be able to afford something truly badass, like a toilet stingray or a…”

“Enough small talk,” Smegma said.  “The pilot?”

The terrorist set his bag down on a seat.  “I forced him engage the autopilot just before I sent him to hell.  Care to join him?”

“That’s a date I’ve been postponing for quite some time now.”

Qassab unzipped the duffel bag.  “Oh, Mr. Smegma.  I think you’ll be making that appointment this time.”

“Then I’ll be sure to say hello to your brothers,” Smegma said.  “How many did I send there again?”

The terrorist waved his finger in Smegma’s direction.  “They are not in hell!  They are basking in the glory of heaven where 72 virgins will wait on them hand and foot and take care of their every need and desire for all eternity.”

Smegma scoffed at that notion.  “Meh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No,” Qassab said.  “What?”

“I don’t want to rain on your parade.”

“Please,” Qassab said.  “Rain away.  I’m nothing if I can’t accept a little constructive criticism.”

“Well,” Smegma said.  “It’s just that, they’re virgins for a reason you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Smegma said.  “If you’ve got fully grown, adult female women who died and ended up in heaven and they never once touched a penis, then they’re pretty lame.”

Bonanza inserted herself into the conversation.  “Unless they chose to abstain from penis out of their own free will as strong, independent women.”

Qassab pointed at Bonanza, but directed his eyes to Smegma.  “Will you shut that bitch up and tell her that men are talking?”

Smegma smirked.  “You forget in the West, women have rights.”

The terrorist laughed.  “Ha!  The great, world renowned ladies’ man, Dirk Smegma, standing up for a woman.  Now I’ve seen everything.  You have become, how you say, beta cuck bitch boy, yes?”

“Something like that,” Smegma replied.

Qassab and Smegma locked eyes.  The terrorist unzipped his bag and pulled out a sedated swordfish.  It was devoid of any movement, perfectly still.  He held it by the tail and pointed the sharp end at Smegma. “En garde!”

The spy kept his cool as he stared down the end of that incredibly pointy fish schnoz.  On pure instinct, he reached into the bathroom and punched the floppy fish in the face, knocking it out cold.  He then grabbed its tail and pointed the fish toward the terrorist.  “Touche!”

Clang, clang, clang!  Like a scene straight out of The Three Musketeers, Smegma and Qassab exchanged a dazzling array of thrusts and parries, each more powerful than the last.  As they each struggled to be the last man standing, Attorney Bonanza couldn’t help but offer some commentary.  “I can’t watch this.  There’s way too much toxic masculinity here.”

Qassab struck at Smegma and missed, giving the agent the wiggle room he needed to kick the terrorist in the stomach, causing him to stumble backward.

“Oh, what a senseless display of violence!” Bonanza cried.  “What could possibly be the root of all this?”

Qassab charged at Smegma, hoping to stick the spy in the gut with his swordfish.  As he did so, he shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

The grim spectacle made the luscious babe feel feint.  She raised the back of her hand, held it against it forehead and looked upward towards the heavens, or at least, the ceiling of the plane’s interior.  “Why is this happening?”

Smegma dodged the attack and locked his swordfish with Qassab’s.  Clang, clang, clang!  The battle was epic and there was no end in sight, for each man was, strangely enough, quite skilled in the art of swordfishplay.

“I will kill you in the name of the prophet, Smegma!”  Qassab cried.

Clang, clang, clang!

“What on earth could be causing this sad display?” Bonanza asked herself.

Clang, clang, clang!

“Today is the day you die!” Qassab shouted.  “For I, the great Hakeem Abdul Qassab, will destroy you in the name of Islam!”

Bonanza collapsed in a seat.  “Oh, we may never know.”

The lady’s persistent questioning distracted Qassab.  He looked towards the woman.  “Filthy whore! Get the shit out of your ears! I’m telling you directly and very succinctly that I am about to murderer this son of a motherless cow in the name of Allah and Islam!”

“The motivation of this attack will forever be a mystery!” Bonanza shouted back.

Smegma took advantage of the confusion by punching Qassab in the face.  “Don’t call her a whore!  That’s slut shaming!”

At that moment, Smegma made a critical error by looking at Bonanza in the hopes of acquiring her approval.  She nodded.  “Thank you.  It is.  However, Agent Smegma, the optics of your current predicament are quite abysmal.”

Bam!  Smegma’s face contorted as it accepted a shoe attached to a foot that was delivered by a roundhouse kick.  Clang, clang, clang!  Terrorist and spy traded swordfish blows again.

“The optics?!”  Smegma asked.

Bonanza stood up in front of her seat.  “Yes!  The sight of you, a white, Anglo-Saxon male of European descent, a cultural Christian attacking a person of color…”

Qassab got the upper hand on his opponent by cornering Smegma against a wall.  The terrorist gripped his hand around the spy’s face.  Smegma’s eyes focused on the sharp swordfish nose that Qassab was bringing closer and closer.  Despite it all, Smegma managed to defend himself from Attorney Bonanza’s protestations.  “He started it!”

Smegma kneed Qassab in the groin, sending the terrorist to the floor in a spent heap.

“Did he?” Bonanza asked.  “Or did America start it when…”

The agent lifted his leg and brought his foot down on Qassab’s chest.  “Look, I’m not a racist.”

“Anyone who starts a sentence with, ‘I’m not a racist’ is most assuredly about to say something racist,” Bonanza said.

Qassab had been weakened by the attack on his testicles, but he managed to back Bonanza up.  “She’s got you there.”

“All I’m trying to say is that Islam has a problem.”

In unison, Qassab and Bonanza let out the same reply.  “Oh my God!”

“The nerve!” Bonanza added.

Qassab spit up a bit of blood.  “I know, right?”

“Agent Smegma,” Bonanza said.  “Are you oblivious to the fact that acts of terrorism are often committed against people of color by white Christians who believe their violence is justified by their religion?”

Smegma sighed.  “I’m not saying there aren’t bad apples in every bunch.”

“Oh,” Bonanza said.  “Here we go.”

Qassab coughed and winced from the pain he was in.  “Spare us your platitudes, klansman!”

Smegma pointed downward at Qassab.  “I’m just saying the number of apples in HIS bunch is higher than average.”

Bonanza and Qassab gave the same reply.  “Oh my God!”

“I can’t believe you schtupped this guy,” Qassab said.

“You heard that?” Bonanza asked.

“I’m sorry,” Qassab answered.  “There’s an intercom in the cockpit that lets you hear everything going on back here.  I wasn’t trying to pry, I just shot the pilot in the head before I asked him how to turn it off.  My bad.”

Bonanza shot Smegma a cold stare.  “You really think this way, don’t you?”

“Dar….”  Smegma stopped himself from using the word “darling,” but felt the title of attorney was too formal for the situation.  “Cooter, please understand, the world isn’t black and white.”

“Oh,” Bonanza said.  “Now you’re just going to casually throw around words like ‘black’ and ‘white’ without considering the underlying racial implications?”

“They’re just words!” Smegma shouted.

“Ugh!” Bonanza said.  “Now it all makes sense.”

“What does?” Smegma asked.

“I’m starting to figure out why I’ll feel like you retroactively raped me in 2060,” Bonanza said.

Qassab choked and gasped.  “What’s wrong with rape?  A little rape never hurt anyone.”

Bonanza ignored that statement as she looked to Smegma.  “You disgust me.  You’re so blinded by your white privilege that you can’t see what a monster you’ve become.”

“I’m not saying that EVERY Muslim is a bad person,” Smegma said.  “In fact, there are, last time I checked, 1.8 billion followers of the Islamic faith in the world, so if they wanted to, they could conquer the globe and impose their will on us all easily.  The fact that they don’t tells us that the majority of devotees to the Islamic faith are fine, upstanding people who are just looking to live lives of peace and prosperity and have no desire to harm anyone.”

Qassab spit on the floor.  “Pbbht!  Wretched dogs!  They have no right to call themselves true Muslims if they do not adhere to the Fatwah Brigade’s version of Islam, for it is the one and only true version!  Oh, I would burn all 1.8 billion of them alive if I could!”

“See?” Smegma said.  “It’s worth mentioning that peaceful Muslims are victimized the most by radical Islamists.”

“I’ve never liked the term ‘radical Islamist,’” Qassab said.  “It sounds like I should be skateboarding down a half-pipe or something.”

“And you don’t think there are violent Christians out there?” Bonanza asked.

“I never said there weren’t,” Smegma said.  “And I never said that Christians who perpetrate violence should get a free pass for their evil deeds.  You’re confusing things quite needlessly.”

“Am I?” Bonanza asked.  “So, if a Muslim commits an act of terror, he’s a terrorist, but if a white Christian male commits an act of terror, he’s crazy, right?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Smegma said.  “Other times, no.  It’s all very muddled up, but I’ll concede that sometimes there are people of the Islamic faith who will suffer from mental illness and commit an act of violence as a result of that illness and that shouldn’t be counted against the Islamic faith as a whole just as the acts of violence perpetrated by mentally ill white Christians shouldn’t be held against all white Christians.”

“Oh,” Bonanza said.  “But acts of terror committed by sane Muslims should be held against all Muslims, but acts of terror committed by sane white Christians shouldn’t be held against all white Christians?”

Qassab laughed.  “She’s got you there, white devil.”

“I think anyone who commits an act of terror should be held responsible for that act of terror,” Smegma said.  “And broader arguments that it is the fault of everyone who shares the terrorists race or religion are ridiculous.”

“Finally,” Qassab said.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Bonanza added.

Smegma cleared his throat.  “I just think…

“Oh boy,” Qassab said.

“And now you’re going to ruin it,” Bonanza added.

“…that statistically speaking, members of the Islamic faith, as a whole, could do a little more to purge the bad actors out of their communities, ostracize and cast out those who are preaching hate and twisting their faith for their own evil ends.”

All the color drained from Bonanza’s face.  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Qassab guffawed from his spot under the agent’s foot.  “Smegma, you oblivious douche!  Do you really think that some old Muslim granny sitting in her rocking chair is going to be able to nag me out of existence?  Me, who runs around blowing up buses and trains and chops the heads off infidels and…”

Smegma threw up his hands.  “This is going nowhere.”

“Tell me about it,” Bonanza replied.

“Can I try to make on last point?” Smegma asked.

“If you must,” Bonanza said.

“This ought to be good,” Qassab said.

“When it comes right down to it, there’s more to all of us that unites us than there is that divides us.  Surely, all the people of the world can set aside their cultural, racial and religious biases and accept a universal standard of right and wrong, and good people from all races, colors and creeds should stand together, united against bad people of all races, colors, and creeds.  Evil isn’t a particular race, or religion, or color.  Evil is just evil, and wherever you are, whoever you are, it has an uncanny ability to weave its way into the hearts of men and women alike.  This isn’t a racial war or a religious war.  Right will always be right and wrong will always be wrong, race, sex, or religion be damned.”

Bonanza and Qassab were silent for a time.

“Fucking pussy!” Qassab said.

“White nationalist!” Bonanza added.

Smegma gave up on the argument.  He gripped his swordfish with both hands and raised it high in the air, ready to bring the sharp end down on his opponent’s head.  “Enough talk!  This ends now!”

Wham!  Qassab’s boot connected with Smegma’s groin.  The agent dropped his fish and fell to the floor, doubled over in pain.

“Mommy!” Smegma cried.

The terrorist jumped up to his feet and dusted himself off.  He looked to the blonde.  “Thank you, spoiled rotten, mouthy American bitch!  Your insolent failure to defer to your man bought me the time I needed to rest and gather my strength so that I could smash Smegma’s gonads!”

“Ergh,” Smegma said as he writhed around on the floor.  “Hoisted on…my own…petard!”

“Thank you, foolish woman,” Qassab said.  “And as you meet your imminent death, know that one day, when the Fatwah Brigade rules over all it surveys, big mouthed broads such as yourself will be put in their place.  You will scrub the floors, wash the dishes, do the laundry, clean the house, make the meals, give men all the sex they require, perform all requested maneuvers in the bedroom, and when you are not in use, you will be chained to a radiator or failing that, the largest immobile object available. Failure to comply with a man’s orders will result in your death, followed by immediate replacement with a younger, more obedient wife-slave.”

“Ugh,” Smegma said as he grabbed his balls.  “You know, Hakeem, when you lay it all out like that, it doesn’t sound like such a bad deal.”

Qassab laughed.  “I know, right?”

“I mean, it’d be a terrible deal for the women,” Smegma said.  “Positively dreadful.  For me, it would be great though.”

“Yeah, well,” Qassab said.  “Only a dumbass fails to do what is best for him.”

“Makes me…”  Smegma coughed.  “Makes me think I’ve been fighting for the wrong team all along.”

“You have,” Qassab said.  “Stories of how you use and loose women are abundant all over the globe, Mr. Smegma.  You could have joined us and been rewarded with a wife-slave that you could have literally used as a foot stool, but alas, you bought into all that American red, white and blue propaganda.”

“Tell me about it,” Smegma said.

“Pity,” Qassab said.

“I know,” Smegma said.  “Here I am, busting my ass, trying to protect Western women from the likes of you, and here one is, taking your side.”

Bonanza stomped her foot.  “I’m not taking his side.  I just don’t think everyone who looks like him should be blamed for what he does.”

“We always agreed on that point, Cooter,” Smegma said.  “We just had different ways of saying it.”

Qassab checked his watch.  “Well, Mr. Smegma and Miss Bonanza, I’d love to stay and continue this round robin circle jerk of political punditry, but I must bid you adieu, for I neglected to mention that five minutes ago, I began the timer for a bomb I left in the cockpit and that was, oh, roughly four minutes and thirty seconds ago.”

The terrorist located his duffel bag, reached inside, and pulled out a packed parachute.  He strapped it to his back, then made his way to the exit door.  He turned the latch and the door swung open, causing massive amounts of air to come rushing inside.

“Did I forget to mention I bogarted the one and only parachute?”  Qassab asked.  “Whoops!  My bad!  Goodbye!”

And with that, Qassab tumbled backward out of the plane.  Smegma raised his hand.  The blonde ran over, grabbed it, and helped the wounded man up.

“Truce?” Bonanza asked.

“Truce,” Smegma answered as he ran to the cockpit.  There, he saw the slumped over body of the pilot, a bullet wound in his forehead.  In the empty co-pilot’s seat, there was a pile of dynamite with an attached digital clock.  It was counting down.  “00:30…00:29…00…28…”

“Can we throw it out?” Bonanza asked.

Smegma noticed that the bomb was firmly strapped to the seat.  “No.”

The agent grabbed the attorney’s hand and ran towards the open door, fighting against the rushing wind.

“What are you doing?!” Bonanza cried.

“I’m sorry but you’ll have to trust me!” Smegma said.  “There’s no time to mansplain!”

When they reached the door, Smegma gathered Bonanza in a warm, passionate embrace.

“Do I have your consent?”  Smegma asked.

“Of course,” the lady replied.

“Now and forever?”

“Now? Yes.  Forever?  I don’t know.  I’ll let you and the rest of the world know on Lifebox later.”

“Good enough.”  Smegma kissed Bonanza, then pushed her out of the plane.  He grabbed one of the prostrate swordfish from the floor, then immediately followed the lady out the door.

“Arrrgghhhh!” the blonde shouted as she and Smegma tumbled toward the earth without parachutes.  “I didn’t consent to this!”

 

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SNL Skit – Millennial Millions

It’s been awhile since SNL had me doubled over laughing, but Aidy’s song had me in hysterics.  “Who are the boomers?  Oh, they had all the sex and they made all the music and they got all the jobs and they made all the money and they bought all the houses and now they’ll never die!”

They nailed each generation perfectly.  Like Keenan, I’m Gen X, so I’ve already given up and now I’m just sitting on the sidelines and watching the world burn:

 

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Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 5

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Twenty minutes passed before Smegma knocked on the restroom door. “Darling?”
“Go away!” Bonanza cried between sobs and sniffles. “And stop calling me ‘darling!’”
“Right,” Smegma replied. “I suppose we should keep it professional, Attorney Bonanza.”
“That would be best, Agent Smegma. What we did was a one-time thing and should never happen again.”
“As you wish. And for what it’s worth, I apologize to your future self for whatever negative feelings she may vis a vis our recent act of en flagrante delicto.”
Bonanza laughed. “Don’t you patronize me with your patriarchical bullshit.”
“Pardon?”
“As a strong, independent woman, I made a choice to have sex with you out of my own free will and I shouldn’t be made to feel ashamed for it.”
“I never said you should feel that way,” Smegma said.
“You, however…”
Smegma rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go.”
“…should feel very ashamed in the future when I decide of my own volition that you acted shamefully and it will be my prerogative to tell the world about what you did.”
“As in the act that you currently approved of but will later disapprove of?” Smegma asked.
“Precisely.”
“Attorney Bonanza,” Smegma said. “In forty years, I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall asleep during my retirement home’s bingo game, assuming I haven’t already been killed by one of the numerous international criminals who have set their sights on me.”
“You’ll be alive,” Bonanza said. “Madame Olga is never wrong.”
“Bah,” Smegma said. “An old gypsy woman’s opinion and a dollar will get you a cup of coffee.”
“Racist.”
“What?”
“’Gypsy’ is an offensive term,” Bonanza explained. “The politically correct term is, ‘Psychically Empowered Countryside Wanderers of Romani Descent.”
Smegma closed his eyes and slapped his forehead. “Jesus H. Fuck.”
“Now isn’t the time to pushed your outdated Christian dogma on me, Agent Smegma.”
“What? That wasn’t even what I was trying to…”
“As an attorney for the human resources department of the Central Intelligence Agency, it’s my job to make sure that all field operatives are as woke as humanly possible and frankly, Agent Smegma, on a historical scale, your wokeness level falls somewhere between a T-Rex and a brontosaurus.”
“Huh?”
“You’re a dinosaur,” Bonanza said. “You should have gone extinct, long ago. Millennials are taking over the workface and soon enough, they’ll replace you.”
Smegma laughed. “Yeah, right. I’d love to see one of those neck-bearded, man bun wearing soy boys beta cucks fuck a villain’s moll until she starts screaming out intel of vital importance to national security.”
“Agent Smegma! That’s…”
“They’d probably just invite her to join a drum circle, make her a chai latte, then apologize to her for having a dick and invite her to chop it off with a rusty…”
“Go!”
Smegma nodded. “Very well.”
The agent took a few steps away from the bathroom door, then stopped. “Attorney Bonanza?”
“Ugh! What now?”
“All I have been trying to say is that the idea of you being stuck in that bathroom all the way to Langley saddens me and it is completely unnecessary.”
“You say that now,” Bonanza said. “But future me says otherwise.”
“We’ll figure out how to make her happy later,” Smegma said. “Until then, I hope you’ll feel free to return your seat. I assure you, I shall put all my charms on low power mode and no more unprofessional acts of an unsavory nature will take place. You have my word.”
Bonanza was quiet for a moment. She spoke up once more. “That’s uncharacteristically gentlemanly of you. Give me a minute. I’ll be right out after I….ACCCCKKKK!”

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Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 4

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The impromptu lovers collapsed side-by-side, each occupying one seat. They breathed heavily, laughed, then fixed their clothing. Zippers were zipped. Buttons were buttoned. Hair was primped. Make-up was reapplied.
“I despise you, Dirk Smegma.”
“If I had a nickel for every time…”
“Shut up, you insufferable swine.”
Smegma rested his hand on the lady’s knee. “Darling, come now. Can you honestly say I made you do something you didn’t want to do?”
The blonde blushed. “No…but I was fully briefed beforehand on your…skill set. The women you led to their doom can’t say the same. In fact, they can’t say anything because…”
“…they’re dead. Way to beat a dead horse, my dear.”
Bonanza ran a brush through her locks, then grabbed her briefcase. She opened it and pulled out several documents. “Let’s discuss the new protocol.”
Smegma’s elated demeanor disappeared. “The what?”
“A stringent, copious, multi-step process guaranteed to ensure that the next time you seduce a villain’s moll, she’ll be made fully aware of what she’s getting into and will be making an informed decision.”
The lawyer dropped a heavy stack of paper in the agent’s lap.
“What in the…”
“That’s a 78-page legal memorandum,” Bonanza said.
“Because nothing revs the female engine like a 78-page legal memorandum,” Smegma replied.
“This document fully explains your status as a CIA operative, as well as your intention to obtain vital information that is crucial to foiling a mastermind’s ingenious plot to engulf the world in carnage and mayhem.”
“Darling,” Smegma said. “I fear you don’t quite grasp the meaning of the word, ‘undercover.’”
“And you won’t be getting under the covers unless you get the woman you are trying to charm to pants off of to sign these forms in triplicate.”
Smegma accepted another stack of paper. “And what are these?”
“Consent forms,” Bonanza said. “Indicating in no uncertain terms that the villain’s moll in question is being asked to turn over information that will be used to eradicate her betrothed’s criminal organization and that her life will be in danger if she does so.”
“Well,” Smegma said. “Now you’re just taking all the mystery out of it.”
“Further,” Bonanza said. “The woman will be made aware that she may refuse any and all sexual acts at any time and that if she wishes to engage in any sexual acts she will be doing so not under duress but from her own personal choice as a strong, independent woman.”
Smegma raised an eyebrow. “Because if it’s one thing a strong, independent woman needs, it’s a binding legal contract telling her she doesn’t need to let Mr. Winky bounce around inside her hoohah.”
Bonanza dumped another stack of legal work on the spy’s lap. “Your toxic masculinity is abhorrent, Agent Smegma. As a strong, independent woman, I choose to ignore it and carry on. Now then, the disclosure section…”
“The what?”
“You must make a number of disclosures,” Bonanza said. “You must inform the woman if you have any ties to any industry she currently works in, or if you intend to have any ties to any industry she may choose to enter into in the future.”
Smegma shook his head. “Darling, I’m not sure being a villain’s moll counts as an official occupation but no worries, I have no intention of becoming one.”
“To clarify,” Bonanza said. “You must use the questions listed to interview the woman, find out what jobs she has held in the past, determine what professions she has a future interest in, and if you have any sway in these professions, then you must bow out.”
“Can you dumb this down for me, dear?”
Bonanza sighed. “If the woman has ever entertained the notion of becoming a spy in the future, then you must refrain from sexual congress because otherwise she might, on some subconscious level, be submitting to you, not out of her own free will but because of a latent, underlying fear that one day you might use your contacts in the clandestine world to prevent her from getting a job unless she allows you to…”
“Load my sausage into the tuna boat?”
“Be serious,” Bonanza said.
“It’s difficult to take any of this seriously,” Smegma said. “You really think a woman who is in the mood will want to stop to read any of this?”
“That’s not the agency’s problem,” Bonanza replied.
“It will be when the world explodes because I wasn’t able to get the intel I required because I was too busy…” Smegma examined one of the documents. “Where the hell would I even find a notary in the field?”
“Again,” Bonanza said. “Your problem.”
Smegma flipped through a few pages. “She has to give her consent before three impartial witnesses?”
“Don’t forget the videotaped expression of consent,” Bonanza said. “That’s key.”
The agent gasped as he read on. “I have to hook her up to a lie detector?!”
“You never know,” Smegma said. “When she says yes on the outside, she might be saying no on the inside.”
“Something that strong, independent women do?” Smegma asked.
“All the time,” Bonanza said. “Moving on, you’ll need to consult with Madame Olga.”
“Madame who?”
Bonanza pulled a tablet computer out of her briefcase. She punched a few buttons and within seconds, she was videoconferencing with an old gypsy woman with a scarf on her head who was gazing into a glowing crystal ball.
“This is a joke,” Smegma said. “Isn’t it?”
“Ohhhh,” the old woman said in a Romanian accent. “The spirit realm is nothing to joke about. Feast your eyes onto the wonders of my crystal ball as the beings who exist on a higher plane prognosticate your fortune.”
Smegma stared at Bonanza. “Explain.”
“’Yes’ isn’t good enough anymore,” Bonanza said.
“It isn’t?” Smegma asked.
“Not at all,” Bonanza replied. “Suppose you were to get a villain’s moll to read and sign all of the forms I have provided and still agree to sexual intercourse.”
“That will never happen but I’ll concede so we can move this along,” Smegma said.
“Consent provided can’t just be for today,” Bonanza said. “It must be for all time.”
“You’ve lost me,” Smegma said.
“Just because a woman agrees to have sex with you today doesn’t mean she won’t regret the decision later on in life,” Bonanza said.
“Are you kidding?”
“Not at all,” Bonanza said. “At any point in the future, even if it is as far away as fifty years or more, if a woman you had sex with presently regrets the decision at some point into perpetuity, then you have retroactively raped her.”
Smegma looked down at his crotch. “You’ll be the death of me in this strange, new world. I’d cut you off and feed you to a hungry tiger if I didn’t love you so much.”
“Madame Olga has consulted with the CIA on many cases,” Bonanza said. “She’s helped us locate missing persons, dead bodies, lost weapons of mass destruction. Her psychic powers are unparalleled.”
The agent looked at the tablet. “Madame Olga, will Attorney Bonanza always be glad I slipped it to her?”
The old woman swirled her hands over her crystal ball. A bizarre wind blew her long, gray hair to and fro. The ball glew brighter and brighter. “Yes!” the old woman said. “Yes, the spirits speak to me in a single, unified voice…they say… they say….”
Bonanza and Smegma waited breathlessly for the answer. “What do they say?” the pair asked in unison.
The ball dimmed. The old woman’s hair fell down over her shoulders. She shrugged her shoulders. “Meh. No worries until 2060.”
Smegma breathed a sigh of relief. “Whew. Thank God. Wait! What happens after 2060?”
The old woman cackled. “Let’s just say you’ll need a good lawyer in 2061! Hee, hee, hee!”
Poof! The fortune teller disappeared amidst a cloud of smoke. Bonanza shut the tablet off.
“Well,” Smegma said. “At least we’ll both be alive in 40 years,” Smegma said.
Bonanza averted her eyes and looked away.
“What?” Smegma asked.
“I…I can’t believe it.”
“What?”
The attorney slapped the spy across the face, leaving a firm red mark on his cheek.
“Ow!” Smegma said as he rubbed the mark. “What was that for!”
Bonanza broke out into tears. “Retroactive rapist!”
Smegma was aghast. “But…I….didn’t…no…you don’t really believe…I would never!”
The lady stood up and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I suppose it’s fine for the next four decades but after that, oh…I don’t want to look at you right now.”
Bonanza stormed down the aisle.
“Where are you going?” Smegma asked.
“Anywhere you aren’t!”

Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 3

51c3b1cb-f188-48ce-aac2-af73f2ab8ca7

“Smegma. Dirk Smegma.”
“No need for an introduction,” Bonanza said. “Your reputation proceeds you.”
“Does it now?”
“It does,” Bonanza said. “And that is why I’m here.”
“To join the mile-high club, darling?” Smegma inquired. “There’s always room for another member.”
“No, Agent Smegma,” Bonanza said as she handed over her card. Smegma inspected the credential. It read: “Cooter Bonanza, Attorney-at-Law. Central Intelligence Agency, Human Resources Division. Langley, VA.”
Smegma crumpled up the card and tossed it over his shoulder, uncaring as to where the rubbish would end up. “A lawyer. How positively dreadful. I was so much happier when I thought you were here. to treat my…head.”
“Comments like that are why I’m here,” Bonanza said. “Sir, in light of the me too movement…”
The agent cleared his throat. “The what now?”
“The me too movement,” Bonanza said. “Agent Smegma, do you go on the Internet regularly?”
“No,” Smegma said. “I’m attractive.”
“Well,” Bonanza said. “I’ll have you know that women the world over are logging on and shouting to the rooftops in great detail the stories of abuse they have suffered at the hands of powerful men.”
“I see,” Smegma said. “Good for them. So, I take it, they are sending these accounts to the police?”
Bonanza clutched a strand of pearls that dangled around her neck. “You cad! Why would you ever expect abused women to discuss the personal details of the crimes against them to the police?”
Smegma sipped his rum and generic cola. “Because the police are in charge of solving crimes. You just answered your own question, darling.”
The attorney’s jaw dropped. “Sir! I demand you cease your horrid mansplaining at once!”
The agent raised his right eyebrow. “I’m sorry, darling, but I’ll stop mansplaining just as soon as you start woman-understanding.”
Bonanza’s face turned red. “Agent Smegma, women who have been abused must be protected by society at all costs and they shouldn’t have to re-live the worst experience of their lives all over again by having to tell the police about it.”
“You’ve got me there,” Smegma said. “We hail from a free country. Ergo, a woman’s business is her own and if she’d rather not speak to the authorities, I sympathize. I barely trust the government I work for so I’m not about to tell others that they should.”
“You’ve missed the point, Cro-Magnon,” Bonanza said.
“Feel free to enlighten me anytime, darling. Over and over again, if possible.”
“When women want to smash the patriarchy by utilizing social media to broadcast the details of the heinous acts perpetrated against them, we must support them,” Bonanza said.
“Darling,” Smegma said. “Let me see if I have this straight. It’s too hard for women to report crimes perpetrated against them to the police which, and I freely admit, has its share of imbeciles but by and large, most police officers are professionals trained how to interact with the victims of crime with the utmost discretion?”
“Precisely.”
“And yet,” Smegma said. “It’s much easier for women to jump onto Lifebox, grab a virtual bullhorn, and inform any fool with a keyboard about the heinous acts perpetrated against them?”
Bonanza was speechless.
“It’s too hard to tell Officer Jones but telling Lifebox users with silly names like FuckFace69 MeowKittySparkleNuts is a mere walk in the park?”
Smegma waited patiently for an answer, but hearing none, he took another sip of his drink. Bonanza balled her fists, clenched her teeth, and seethed with rage.
“Darling,” Smegma sat in an effort to cut the tension. “We may have different ways of expressing ourselves but when it comes down to it, I doubt we’re very far apart on this issue. I, for one, would gladly snip off the testicles of every man who has so much as thought about committing rape and boil them in hot oil.”
“Good,” Bonanza said. “And on that note, I’ve come to talk to you about…”
Smegma sat up in his seat. “Wait. What in the devil’s name has any of this got to do with me? If you’re implying that I’ve ever engaged in sexual congress without a woman’s consent…”
Bonanza stared coldly at the spy. “But haven’t you?”
“Of course not.”
The attorney repeated the question, leaning into it this time. “But haven’t you?”
“Never!” Smegma held up the palms of his hands and held them out on opposite ends of his head, framing his face. “Darling, have you gotten a good look at me? This puddum is all the consent I’ve ever needed.”
Bonanza scoffed. “My word. They told me you were an unabashed egomaniac, but I never dreamed…”
Smegma cut his inquisitor off. “…that you’d ever meet a man so dashing? So bold? So macho?”
“So deranged,” Bonanza said.
“Attorney Bonanza,” Smegma said. “I’m sorry, but your superiors have sent you on a fool’s errand. Every sexual act I’ve ever engaged in has been purely, one-hundred percent consensual without question.”
“Without question?” Bonananza repeated.
“Absolutely without question,” Smegma answered. “My dear, I did not ask to be one of the most absurdly handsome men to ever walk the face of the planet, but unlike the small percentage of men who look like, I didn’t squander my gift. I didn’t become a gigolo to lonely old women or work my way into the sleazy underbelly of the gay porno industry or even, god help me, become a politician. No, instead what God gave me to save my country more times than I care to remember.”
“Is that right?” Bonanza asked.
“It is,” Smegma said. “You shouldn’t be here to chastise me. If anything, you should be here to give me a medal.”
The blonde opened her brief case and pulled out a thick file folder. “Agent Smegma, have you ever heard of the term, ‘informed consent?’”
Smegma stared blankly at his inquisitor. “The who now in the what now?”
“Informed consent,” Bonanza said. “It’s when an individual is made fully aware of every last possible consequence of the action they’re being asked to engage in so as to ensure that the decision made is genuine.”
“I don’t follow,” Smegma said.
Bonanza pulled her martini glass out of the cupholder in her seat. “If I offered this to you, would you drink it?”
“Sure.”
“And if I told you up front there was poison in the glass, would you still consume it?”
“No.”
“If I were to allow you to assume that the drink was fine, only to tell you after you swallow it that it had been poisoned, would you feel betrayed?”
“Yes, but…”
Smegma fell back into his seat. “Oh…shitballs.”
“Shitballs, indeed, Agent Smegma.”
The agent pondered the quandary for a bit before he offered a defense. “Wait. Darling, I’m in the business of obtaining information, the type of data that can be used to stop evildoers from committing the most vile acts possible against God and country.”
“I’m aware,” Bonanza said.
“I take it you’ve been read in on my greatest accomplishments?”
“I have.”
“Then,” Smegma said. “You know that I’ve kept the East Coast from being nuked twice, the West Coast from being nuked thrice, the Midwest from being burned to a crisp via a massive magnifying glass that was constructed on the surface of the moon…”
Bonanza waved her hand, trying to get the agent to stop. “Agent Smegma…”
“I foiled a Cambodian plot to kidnap sixteen sitting U.S. Senators and replace them with robotic facsimiles. I stopped a helicopter full of explosives from crashing into Mount Rushmore. I have diffused 1,049 bombs, extricated 329 damsels in distress from imminent peril, disarmed three separate weather controlling machines and one earthquake causing machine…”
“Agent Smegma…”
“Abroad,” Smegma said. “I snatched the British Prime Minister from the jaws of a hungry lion, prevented a war between France and Spain, stopped a chemical weapons attack that would have wiped out all of Brazil, and don’t even get me started on the Canadians. Oh, they pretend their so polite, but do you have any idea what they tried to do?”
Bonanza nodded in the affirmative. “I do, but…”
“That thing with the hijacked tanker full of jet fuel and the homing pigeons and the secret army of eunuch assassins and the boxes of autographed Anne Murray photos?”
“Everyone is aware of that,” Bonanza said. “But what I want to know is do you have any idea how many women you have taken advantage of throughout the course of your career?”
Without skipping a beat, Smegma offered an instant reply. “1,387.”
The attorney’s eyes widened. She flipped through her notes. “You…what? How…but…really? I don’t think anyone at the CIA realized it was that high.”
“I don’t report every little tryst, darling,” Smegma said. “If I did, I’d do nothing but paperwork. But rest assured I never seduced a villain’s moll unless it was an absolute last resort, that there was no other way to get the information I required to save lives.”
“And before your so-called seductions, you never informed them that you were an intelligence operative seeking to bring down the evil organizations operated by their vile boyfriends?”
Smegma doubled over in laughter. “I’m sorry,” he said as he wiped away a tear. “It’s just that, surely you know as well as the next woman that the quickest way to dry up a vagina is to mire a woman in nerd bullshit.”
The look on Bonanza’s face indicated that she did not find Smegma’s antics humorous in any way, whatsoever.
Smegma straightened up his face and made an attempt to be serious. “Darling, you’re a healthy, young woman, you must know that…”
“We’re not here to talk about me, Agent Smegma,” Bonanza said. “We’re here to talk about how you lie to women to get into their pants, how you put them into danger to get what you want and how the agency won’t tolerate it another day longer.”
“Lie is such a strong word, my dear,” Smegma said.
“What would you call it?”
The agent considered the question. “Fantasy fulfillment.”
Bonanza sipped her martini. “Oh, brother.”
“The women I’m dealing with in the field, Attorney Bonanza, are what you might call, for lack of a better term, professional hot chicks,” Smegma said. “They exist all over the world. They’re a dime a dozen. I’m talking about women who put all of their time, money and effort into their looks. Some use their beauty to reach the zenith of their profession. I’m sure you didn’t make it in the legal sector based on long nights with your nose stuck in law books alone.”
“You’d be wrong,” Bonanza said.
“So, you say,” Smegma said. “Though something tells me that your superior looks didn’t hurt your career prospects. And while some attractive women climb those ladders and put cracks in the proverbial glass ceiling, others simply seek to land a man. A rich man. A wealthy, obscenely powerful man.”
Bonanza stammered. “That’s…that’s not…that never happens and…”
Smegma glared at the blonde until she relented. “OK, I suppose that happens.”
“Trophies,” Smegma said. “But do you think a trophy can ever be truly happy?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could it be?” Smegma asked. “It sits there on a shelf, occasionally admired by the man who won it. It looks nice and pretty but it is never allowed to excel or achieve, to live and love, to have a mind of its own.”
The blonde frowned. “How awful.”
Smegma stood up and made his way to the bar. He refreshed his drink, pouring equal parts run and generic cola into his glass, followed by a scoop of ice. “When I come along, these women are so thrilled to have a man as absurdly good looking as they are who is willing to listen to all of their hopes, dreams, and fears that they can’t help but spill the treacherous secrets of their boyfriends along the way. May I?”
Bonanza looked at the hunk’s outstretched arm and realized he was offering to fix her another drink. “Please,” she replied.
Smegma took the glass and went to work. He poured in some gin, added vermouth, swirled the concoction about and added an olive on a toothpick. He then returned to his seat and handed the lady her booze.
“Much obliged,” Bonanza said.
“Don’t mention it,” Smegma said.
“Despite your archaic embrace of outdated patriarchal norms, it’s nice to see you don’t view the practice of fixing a drink as quote unquote ‘woman’s work,’ Agent Smegma,” Bonanza said.
“Not at all,” the agent replied. “What kind of a man would I be if I saw you sitting there, exhausted by a career that no doubt comes with all sorts of trials and tribulations and I didn’t offer my assistance?”
“That’s charming,” Bonanza said. “But if we could get back to…”
Smegma interrupted the lady. “What troubles you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“There’s no need to apologize, my dear,” Smegma said. “You live a difficult life. I can see it in your eyes. The burdens you must carry as a lawyer for a governmental organization that’s constantly getting itself into one international jam after another. Please, lay some of that weight on me.”
Bonanza and Smegma locked eyes. They leaned forward, pursed their lips, and drew closer and closer until the lady pushed the man back.
“Ugh!” Bonanza cried. “You animal! I can’t believe you thought that would work on me!”
“It did.”
Bonanza comported herself. “It did not.”
“It almost did,” Smegma said as he held his thumb and pointer finger together. “Just a little bit.”
“Enough!” Bonanza said. “Agent Smegma, you cannot, under any circumstances, bilk women into falling in love with you without telling them that you’re a spy.”
Smegma swirled his glass around in his hand. “Honestly darling, on some level, they already know.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“These women,” Smegma said. “These professional trophies…they go from one rich fool to the next and do you think any of these men work out? Take care of their bodies? That they can do even one sit-up? That they’ve done any work to cultivate their intellects or personalities? These men are usually gross boors and by the time these lovely ladies see me, they’re ready to pounce like a cat on a mouse.”
“Because you dupe them into thinking you’re going to whisk them away to a better life,” Bonanza said.
Smegma chuckled. “And now you’re the one who is selling these women short. Darling, these ladies know more about the inequities of life, the utter unfairness of it all, that they are never truly surprised when it turns out I’ve double-crossed them. Oh sure, they feign surprise but deep down, they always knew I was too good to be true, that life is so cold and cruel that a knight in shining armor would never come to them so easily. They all had a little voice telling them that I was up to something and they all chose to ignore it because I offered them the brief escape from the lives of villainous servitude that they so desperately despised.”
“Not to mention that you effectively relieved them of their lives altogether,” Bonanza said. “Seeing as how villains never fail to seek vengeance against those who betray them.”
The agent nodded, matter-of-factly. “It’s all part of the game. They know they’re tempting fate the second they press their lips against mine.”
Bonanza and Smegma leaned in once more. They pursed their lips and this time, the blonde didn’t fight it. She pressed her lips against his and the pair became wild with passion. Arms went everywhere. Tongues danced. Spit was swapped. She ended up in his lap.
For a moment, the make-out session stopped. “Damn you, Dirk Smegma!”
The spy grinned. “If I had a nickel for every time…”

Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 2

51c3b1cb-f188-48ce-aac2-af73f2ab8ca7

With a glass of rum and generic cola in hand, Smegma snoozed high in the sky aboard a private G6 jet, as the view of the ocean below went unnoticed. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, he instinctively stirred when he heard the clicking of a pair of high heels walking down the aisle. The agent opened his eyes and turned around just in time to see a gorgeous blonde in a black pantsuit return to her seat in the back of the plane with a martini in hand.
Smegma wasted no time dialing Kendra.
“Hello?”
“Kendra, darling,” Smegma said in a hushed whisper. “It would seem I have picked up a stowaway.”
“Ahh, she’s not simply hopping a free ride, I’m afraid,” Kendra said. “The company thought…well, that you could use some…company.”
“Drat,” Smegma said. “And I so hoped she was here to pay a social call. Headshrinker?””
“No, Dirk,” Kendra said. “There isn’t enough psychoanalysis in the world to reduce your ego to a proper size.”
Smegma pulled a piece of ice out of his glass and cracked it between his teeth. “Bean counter? Here to kvetch about how many cars I’ve wrecked in the field?”
“You only totaled three this time,” Kendra said. “For you, that’s cause for celebration.”
“Don’t leave me in suspense,” Smegma said.
“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough,” Kendra said. “I’d hate to ruin the surprise. In the meantime, I have to check on Skippy Jr.’s transportation back to the states.”
Dirk rolled his eyes. “Oh, for the love of…”
“What?”
“Giving it a name,” Smegma said.
“It’s a living being,” Kendra said.
“It’s a handbag with feet,” Smegma said. “Sooner or later it will meet its maker and you’ll be sorry you got so attached.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I never got too attached to you, Agent Smegma.”
Smegma let out a mischievous grin. “Touche, darling. Touche.”
Click, clack. Click, clack. The blonde sauntered on over to Smegma’s side of the plane and took a seat facing the agent. This gave Smegma a closer look at the lady’s long hair, red lips, and ample cleavage.
“Dirk,” Kendra said. “Try not to…”
Smegma interrupted his handler. “Kendra, darling, I hate to be rude but two very important matters have just come to my attention and I simply must deal with them presently. Ta ta.”
“Might I have a moment of your time?” the woman asked.
“Darling,” Smegma replied. “You may have all the moments of my time. I wasn’t doing anything useful with them anyway.”
The woman retained an icy visage as she held out her hand. “Cooter Bonanza.”
“I bet you are,” Smegma said.
“Pardon?”
Smegma kissed the hand. “Enchante.”

Tagged ,

Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 1

51c3b1cb-f188-48ce-aac2-af73f2ab8ca7

August 2019

Goddamn it, Dirk Smegma was one good looking son of a bitch.  His lush locks were perfectly coiffed, not a single hair out of place, not the tiniest bald spot to be found.  His six-pack abs were breathtaking, as was the rest of his muscular frame.  His teeth looked as though they had been chiseled out of a hunk of the finest ivory by Michaelangelo himself and his face? Forget about it.  Some men claim to be God’s gift to women, but this fellow actually was.

Alas, when Dirk’s current conquest, Muffy Fappaway, picked up her X-Tab to read the daily news, she felt a sneaking suspicion that she should have marked this gift, “return to sender.”  The ex-supermodel turned villain’s moll calmed herself by looking out at the sweeping sight of the clear blue Caribbean ocean, then reached over to slap her lover in the face, nearly knocking him out of his lounge chair.

Dirk’s accent was positively Patrician, giving the stud a bearing of American aristocracy, the type of confident demeanor that only old money and an Ivy League education could buy.  “Ow!  Darling, what was that for?”

“You bastard!”  Muffy said as she hurled the X-Tab at Smegma.  “How could you?”

Smegma raised his sunglasses to read a news article.  “Seventeen of Dr. Malfeasor’s Top Henchmen Die on Can:  International Fiend’s Criminal Network is Decimated.”

The hunk read on.  “Authorities claim that a series of bizarrely coincidental plumbing malfunctions across multiple countries and continents claimed the lives of…”

“Oh,” Smegma said.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”  Muffy asked.  “Oh?”

Smegma grinned.  In doing so, he showed off his pearly whites, which made the buxom redhead swoon.

“You won’t do me in again with your charms, Dirk Smegma,” Muffy said.

The virile man sipped from a glass filled with rum and generic cola.  “Well, darling, not to rub it in, but when you run around dirty bars, telling strange men you just met about the bathroom habits of all the vile ne’er-do-wells in your boyfriend’s employ, what do you think might happen?”

Muffy clenched a fist and shook it at Smegma.  As she did, the bosoms in her tight, leopard print bikini top jiggled to and fro.  “I thought you were just an unscrupulous pervert with a penchant for scat play!”

Smegma laughed.  “Oh, darling.  And you honestly thought a man who would be into such a revolting fetish would be worth your time?”

“If a man’s rich and handsome, his kinks are eccentric,” Muffy said.  “If he’s poor and ugly, they’re disgusting.  Surely, everyone has been aware of that since Fifty Shades of Gray became a bestseller. Who do you work for?”

Smegma sipped more rum and generic cola.  “I’ll never tell,” he said, just before he let out a belch.  “Pardon me.”

“Damn it, you paragon of masculinity!” Muffy cried.  “Even your burps are sexy!”

The hottie threw herself on top of the manly man.  “You’re CIA, aren’t you?  Oh, who cares?  Now that I’ve crossed Dr. Malfeasor, my life is over!”

Muffy unleashed a torrent of kisses on Dirk’s neck.  Please!  Just ravish me one more time before I die!”

Dirk laughed and pushed the scrumptious tart away.  “Darling, please.  Such a defeatist attitude.  Get dressed and I’ll bring you in.  You’ve spent a great deal of time with the good doctor.  I’m sure my employer will consider you a great asset and give you all the protection you require.”

The vixen pressed her lips against Smegma’s, pushing her tongue into the stud’s mouth.  She then pulled her head back.  “How many times have you used your charms to baffle a woman into ignoring her own sense of self-preservation?”

“A lot,” Dirk said.  “I don’t have an exact figure but, a metric shit ton.”

“And you promised to protect them?” Muffy inquired.

“Of course,” Smegma replied.

“And what happened to them?” Muffy asked.

“They all died,” Dirk said.

“Damn it!” Muffy cried as she slapped Dirk once more across the face.  “How could you do this to me?”

“Darling,” Dirk said.  “Come now.  I’ll have you know I always try my best to protect the strumpets I snooker but you know how villains are.  Once they get pissed off at a woman who betrayed them, there’s no stopping them.”

Muffy looked into Dirk’s eyes.  “Yet, you’ll sit there with a straight face and tell me there’s a chance you can protect me from Dr. Malfeasor?”

Dirk frowned.  “I’m not, not going to tell you there’s a chance I can protect you from Dr. Malfeasor.”

“Ugh,” Muffy said as she stood up.  “You’re infuriating.”

Dirk patted the babe’s finely formed tucas.  “Freshen up, darling.  I’ve chartered a jet and it leaves in an hour.”

As Muffy stared at the spy, her rage transformed into a deep, intense love.  “How could I stay mad at that face?”

“Beats me,” Dirk said.

The intensely attractive duo swapped spit, then the beautiful woman walked off toward Dirk’s rented bungalow.  As Dirk enjoyed the feel of the sun’s warm rays on his bare chest, he sang his own ballad to himself.  “Smegma!  Dirk Smegma is his name!  Smegma!  Crushing pussy is his…”

“Telephone call, Mr. Smegma.”

The secret agent looked up to find one of the private resort’s cabana boys standing over him, wearing a crisp, neatly pressed uniform that consisted of a polo shirt and absurdly short shorts.  “Boy” was a poor choice of words, as this individual was a Frenchman in his early thirties who had been suffering the indignities of being Smegma’s personal servant for the past week.

“A call for me, Pierre?” Smegma asked.  “Strange.  Anyone I wish to speak to already has my number, and there are very few people in this world I wish to speak to.”

The servant held out a cell phone on a silver platter.  “My apologies, sir.  I only carry out my orders.  I do not investigate them.”

Dirk took the phone and appeared aghast when the cabana boy held out his hand.

“You want a high five?” Dirk asked.

“No,” Pierre replied.  “But a tip is customary, sir.”

“Oh,” the spy said as he held the phone up to his ear.  “Always pull out even if the girl swears she’s on birth control, otherwise she’ll own your ass for eighteen years.”

Pierre rolled his eyes.

“What?” Dirk said.  “That’s the best tip my father ever gave me.”

The agent and the servant engaged in a tense staring contest.  Finally, the waiter blinked first.

“I don’t have any pockets, frog,” Dirk said as he pointed out his skin-tight speedo.  “Put an egg in your shoe and beat it, will you?”

The exasperated cabana boy stomped away in a huff.  “Lousy American asshole!  I poo poo all over your face, you swine!”

Dirk held the phone up to his ear.  “Go for Smegma.”

The gravelly voice on the other end of the line brought a chill to Smegma’s spine.  “Greetings and salutations, Agent Smegma.”

Smegma sat up in his lounge chair.  “Malfeasor!”

“Guilty as charged,” the internationally abhorred supervillain said.  “I do hope you are enjoying your holiday on the island.  I hear the Bahamas are positively breathtaking this time of year.”

“Enough small talk, doctor,” Smegma said.  “To what do I owe this…displeasure?”

“Imagine my surprise to discover that America, the supposed land of the free and home of the brave, is now sanctioning the Central Intelligence Agency’s efforts to put the world’s most dastardly doers of misdeeds into the belly of a slavishly servile toilet gator.”

“I know of no such program,” Smegma said.

“Of course, you don’t,” the doctor said.

“Perhaps your paranoia is getting the best of you if you think an initiative like that is even possible,” Smegma said.

“That fat ass pop star and the South Floridian hayseeds who were devoured by a toilet gator in 2017 learned it was very possible,” Dr. Malfesor said.  “Leave it to Uncle Sam to devise a way to militarize such a bizarre phenomenon.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?” Smegma asked.

“You sweet talked me main squeeze into telling you when my men can usually be found cutting a brown log, shared this information with your handler, Ms. McKenna, and then your big green pet did the dirty work.”

“That’s preposterous,” Smegma said.  “I just read the news, doctor.  Your henchmen died in a series of bizarrely coincidental plumbing malfunctions that took place across several countries and continents…”

“I understand,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “You could never admit the existence of such a program publicly.  Meanwhile, the press, as usual, are a bunch of schmendricks who can’t see the forest through the trees, so they’ll just regurgitate what your government tells them.”

“Is there a point to this call?” Smegma asked.  “Because if I wanted to listen to the insane ramblings of an impotent jerkoff, I’d give my French house boy an extra fiver.”

Dr. Malfeasor chortled.  “A good one, Agent Smegma!  I wonder though, do your superiors in your government realize that by allowing a toilet gator to become the judge, jury, and executioner of the world’s most nefarious nasties, without so much as giving them a trial before the Hague or allowing any sort of due process, you’ve wreaked more havoc upon the globe than my Malfeasance Network ever could.”

“I don’t follow,” Smegma said.

“Of course, you don’t,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “Good looking people rarely comprehend anything.  They don’t have to, as they’ve been able to get by on their good looks for their entire lives.  Its ugly men like me who are the real doers in this world.”

“I don’t have time to listen to one of your rants about how you couldn’t find a date to the prom, Malfeasor,” Smegma said.

The doctor’s voice turned shrill.  “That bitch took all my lunch money for a year and she still wouldn’t…no…I didn’t call you for that.”

“Well, Jesus H. Fuck, Leslie, why in the name of Zeus’s ball sack did you call me for?” Smegma asked.

“Never use my first name!” the doctor said.

“Oh, you’re being ridiculous,” Smegma said.

“My mother cursed me to a life of villainy by giving me that name,” Dr. Malfeasor said.

“There’s nothing wrong with having one of those names that’s interchangeable between men and women, Les,” Smegma said.  “If you were more secure in your own skin, it wouldn’t bother you so much.”

“I’ll make a note to talk to my therapist about that,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “As for this phone call, I wish to let you know that the toilet animal arms race has begun, and you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Smegma stood up.  The sun glistened off his ridiculously hot, vagina moistening abs.  “What are you talking about?”

The doctor’s laughter bellowed through the phone.  “Bah ha ha!  All my fellow villains laughed at me when I diverted all of my energies and resources into cracking the secrets of toilet animal genetics!”

“Oh Leslie,” Smegma said.  “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I did!”  Dr. Malfeasor said.  “I studied the self-published toilet animal research of the great Professor Elliot Lambert, perfected it, and gave it away to all of America’s enemies for free!  Open source anal annihilation, baby!”

Smegma said.  “I had so hoped we’d stop your henchmen before they could do that.”

Dr. Malfeasor blew his opponent a raspberry.  “Pbbhht!  You failed!  I gave it all away months ago.  Why, as we speak, the Chinese are building their own answer to your toilet gator.  A toilet octopus of immense size, one capable of pushing its tentacles up through a toilet in order to inject its victim with poisonous ink.”

“I’ll be sure to watch where I shit,” Smegma said.

“That would be wise,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “Meanwhile, the Iranians are constructing their very own toilet boa constrictor.”

“Death by embrace?” Smegma asked.

“Precisely,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “Oh and do be careful to avoid public toilets, lest you risk a poke in the tushy from one of the Fatwah Brigade’s toilet narwhals.”

Smegma gulped.  “I heard some mumblings about those.”

“You don’t even want to know what the Russians are cooking up,” Malfeasor said.

“I’m sure I’ll find out,” Smegma said.

“What hubris your nation suffers from that it thought it could utilize a vicious killing machine to eliminate its enemies while they are eliminating their waste and that other nations would not deem it necessary to defend themselves with toilet animals of their own?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Smegma asked.  “You’ve never been known for having a helpful nature, doctor.”

The doctor chuckled.  “Indeed, I’m not known for that whatsoever.  Sooner or later, Smegma, one of these toilet animals will get you and when it does, I want you to know it was all thanks to me.  When you cry out in pain, begging for your life, I want you, in your final moments, to be fully aware that it was I, Dr. Leslie Malfeasor, Ph.D, who did you in.”

“You’ve always been an obnoxious braggart,” Smegma said.

“Yes,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “And accordingly, it brings me great joy to tell you that while the world’s so called leaders went big, I decided to go small.”

“Well doctor,” Smegma said.  “They say it’s not the size of your boat but its motion in the ocean.  At least Muffy told me she had to tell you that regularly in order to placate your monstrous ego.”

The doctor was infuriated.  “She said it was a good size!”

“Women always say that,” Smegma said.  “Kind souls that they are.”

Dr. Malfeasor comported himself.  “Perhaps size does matter in the bedroom, Agent Smegma, but I think your new girlfriend will soon find that when it comes to the bathroom, small does the trick.”

“My new girlfriend?” Smegma asked.

“You don’t think I’d keep her after you soiled her, do you?” Dr. Malfeasor asked.  “I’m washing my hands of that duplicitous whore completely.”

Smegma’s eyes grew wide.  “My God!  What have you done?!”

Nothing but maniacal laughter came from the other end of the line.  “Muah ha ha!”

Smegma sprinted for the bungalow.  He threw open the door.  “Muffy!”

The spy ran through the immaculately polished kitchen.  “Muffy!  Whatever you do, don’t sit on the…”

Smegma kicked open the locked bathroom door.  Inside, he found the spent carcass of the voluptuous specimen of femininity, her bikini bottom around her ankles, her eyes staring blankly off into a void, blood trickling out of her right nostril.

The agent held the phone up to his ear just in time to hear his opponent’s taunt.  “I win, Mr. Smegma.  Game…set…match.

“Why would you do this?” Smegma asked.  “This is low, even for you.”

Dr. Malfeasor giggled.  “Oh, you know the age-old expression.  Snitches get stitches.  I gave her everything she could have ever wanted but one flash of your smile and she gave up my entire operation.  Do you have any idea how long it took to build a worldwide network dedicated to the facilitation of malfeasance on a global scale?”

Smegma felt his spirit shatter as he watched the blood drip out of Muffy’s nose and onto the floor.  “I have no idea.”

“A really long ass time,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “But no bother, what’s done is done.  I built myself up from nothing and I can do so again.”

“She’s gone,” Smegma said.  “But her body’s still here.  I don’t understand.”

“It’s brilliant, really,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “While most killer toilet animals leave behind a trail of blood, guts, and carnage in their path, I’ve taken a more subtle approach.”

Smegma watched in horror as a tiny pair of black legs kicked its way out of Muffy’s nose.  Within seconds, an insect roughly six inches in length emerged.  It clung to its victim’s face until it sprouted wings, took flight and hovered toward the secret agent.

“What in God’s name?”

“Agent Smegma,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  I give you…the toilet beetle.  A marvel of genetic science of my own design, it easily fits into pipes without even having to morph itself into a gelatinous ooze as other, larger toilet creatures do.”

The toilet beetle hissed.

“Like you, it’s disgusting,” Smegma said.

“While your toilet gator loves to grind his victims between its powerful jaws, leaving a bathroom looking like a bucket of spaghetti blew up inside a blender, my creation simply crawls up into a victim’s anus, makes its way through the intestines and finally, lodges itself in the brain where it chows down until the subject dies instantly.  Isn’t it lovely?”

Smegma reached into his speedo and pulled out a compact weapon – a snub nose, .38 special revolver.  He pointed it at the beetle.

“The best part is the authorities will never be able to figure out what happened,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “It will appear as though the subject simply suffered a brain hemorrhage while straining too hard on the crapper.”

The beetle flew closer to Smegma.

“Did I mention my little colleague has the ability to spit a rather deadly, acidic venom?” Dr. Malfeasor asked.

The insect hocked a loogie.  The spittle landed on the stainless steel counter top, burning a hole into it.

“It was nice knowing you, Agent Smegma,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “Once you are dispatched, my diminutive assassin will return to my lair, where I shall mass produce an army of these tiny fiends and take control of the..”

BLAM!  Smegma exploded the bug with a single shot.

“Dude!”  Dr. Malfeasor cried.  “What the fuck?”

“What?” Smegma asked.  “I shot it.”

“Why the hell did you do that for?” Dr. Malfeasor asked.

“Because it was about to spit deadly acidic venom into my face,” Smegma said.  “I can’t have my moneymaker wrecked, Leslie.  It’s my bread and butter.”

“But that was my only one!” Dr. Malfeasor said.

“Seriously?” Smegma asked.

“Yes!” Dr. Malfeasor said. “Oh, I knew it was stupid to send my one and only prototype but I was so mad at that bitch and…no.  You know what?  Screw it.”

“This sounds like it’s your problem,” Smegma said.

“It is,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “And I won’t bore you with it.  It’s no matter.  I’ve committed every last detail regarding toilet beetle construction to memory, so I will just retire to my lab to…ugh…excuse me.”

A symphony of “pbbbht” sounds burrowed their way into Smegma’s ear.

“Why, Dr. Malfeasor,” Smegma said.  “Did you call me while you’re sitting on the commode?”

“What?” Dr. Malfeasor asked.  “Ugh.  No.”

“Are you sure?” Smegma asked.

“Of course,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “I would never…ugh…commit such an unsavory social faux pas.”

Smegma peaked at his solid gold watch.  “It’s funny, Dr. Malfeasor.  “It’s morning here, which means it’s night time in your secret lair.”

“Ugh,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “So, what?”

“Fun fact,” Smegma said.  “Muffy informed me that you usually retire to your water closet right about now to take your evening shit.”

“Ugh,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “What of it?  Curse that wretched cow and her treacherous mouth!”

The pipe that connected Dr. Malfeasor’s toilet to the sewer rumbled.  The sound reverberated into the phone.

“Doctor,” Smegma said.  “I suggest you pinch off and wipe.”

“Why?” Dr. Malfeasor asked. “Ugh, I would but it was Taco Tuesday here at the secret lair and…ugh…boy, I do love all that extra salsa on my taco but I sure do pay for it later and…ugh…oh no.  Wait.  Smegma.  What have you done?  No, please…”

Smegma smiled.  “Game…”

Another rumble.

“Ugh,” Dr. Malfeasor said.  “Where’s the TP?  I need to…that incompetent maid!  Where is my toilet paper?”

Yet another rumble.

“Screw it,” Dr. Malfeasor said. “I’ll just get up with half a turtle poking out of my shell. What do I care?”

“…set…” Smegma said.

Boom! Smegma listened to the sounds that came next – the smashing of porcelain, the chugging of water out of a pipe, the crunching of bones between razor sharp teeth, the blood curdling screams and last but not least, the telltale roar.

“RAARG!”

“ARRGGH!” Dr. Malfeasor shouted. “Oh, no! No, not my vital organs! I need those! Eat a dick, Smegma!”

“…match,” Smegma said.

“You think this changes anything?!” Dr. Malfeasor screamed through the sounds of his bones being chomped. “ARRGH! Strike down my evil enterprise and a thousand more will spring up in its place! BARGGHHH..ACK! What are going to do? Feed us all to your alligator?”

“If I must,” Smegma said. “Goodbye, Doctor.”

Smegma hanged up the phone and laid it down near the bathroom sink. He stared sullenly at Muffy, then pressed his hands against the beauty’s eyelids, closing them.

The agent retired to the bedroom, where he changed into a dapper white suit. He left the bungalow, walked to the main house of the resort and handed a ticket to the valet. As he waited outside the doors of the main lobby for his ride to arrive, the cellphone inside his pocket, the one he actually owned, rang.

“Go for Smegma.”

A woman in her late twenties answered. “Dirk, we’ve received confirmation that Dr. Malfeasor is no more.”

“File that under ‘Late News,’ Kendra, darling,” Smegma said. “I was on the horn with the late doctor as he gave his last words…and bowel movements.”

“He called you personally?” Kendra asked.

“To boast of the untimely demise of the lovely Ms. Fappaway,” Smegma said.

“Oh Dirk,” Kendra said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Just another day in the life of a secret agent,” Smegma said. “Besides, we have bigger problems.”

“Such as?” Kendra replied.

“This is an in-person kind of conversation, I’m afraid,” Smegma said.

“I see,” Kendra said. “Then our problems must be very big indeed.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dirk said. “I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll be at Langley, ASAP.”

“Dirk,” Kendra said. “If you ever need to talk…”

“Goodbye, Kenda,” Dirk said as he hanged up the phone abruptly.

A blue sports car rolled up. The Frenchman emerged from the driver’s seat and handed Smegma the key.

“Your vehicle, Mr. Smegma,” the waiter turned valet said as he held out his hand.

“My stars, Pierre,” Smegma said. “You’re a jack of all trades around here, aren’t you?”

“I do what needs to be done sir,” Pierre replied.

Smegma took the key and stared at Pierre’s waiting hand. The agent held up his hand. “Up high?”

Pierre rolled his eyes. Smegma moved his hand downward. “Down low?”

“Mr. Smegma,” Pierre said.

Smegma pulled his hand back and ran it through his hair. “Too slow.”

“Mr. Smegma, please,” Pierre said. “If you don’t wish to provide a gratuity, that’s your prerogative, but there’s no need to mock me.”

Smegma reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a single dollar bill. He tucked it into the Frenchman’s hand. “Pierre, there’s…an unfortunate…I hate to use the word ‘mess’ so I’ll call it, ‘a situation,’ in my bungalow.”

“I shall take care of it, sir,” Pierre said.

The agent patted Pierre on the back and hopped into the front seat of his fancy ride. “See that you do.”

Pierre scoffed when he looked at the single. “I’ll try not to spend it all in one place.”

“See that you don’t,” Smegma said as he closed the car door and drove away.

The Frenchman unfolded the single and to his great shock, found a large number of crisp, green Benjamin Franklin portraits. He counted them out. “Five…ten…fifteen…twenty…twenty-five…thirty….sacre bleu!”

 

 

 

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Son of Toilet Gator – Prologue

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Late 2017, Directly After the Events of Toilet Gator

              The clientele of the Titty Wing Shack had been cleared out, save for the exotic dancers, a secret service team, President Vinny Stugotz and Professor Elliot Lambert who, at present, was chowing down on a hot wing that a secret service agent had just shoved through the mouth slit in the bag that was covering the world-renowned toilet animal scientist’s head.

“Mr. President,” Professor Lambert said between chews.  “Is the head bag really necessary? You’ve already bought my loyalty.”

“Of course, it’s necessary,” the president said.  “The CIA doesn’t want you having any idea what part of the country their top-secret underground lab is located under and if there’s one thing I’m known for, it’s my discretion.  In fact, I’ve posted about my ability to keep a secret at least a thousand times on Lifebox.”

The house DJ spoke over some funky club music.  “Alright, alright, alright.  Mister President, we’re so honored to have you and your friend with the bag on his head here at the Titty Wing Shack.  Our motto?  If you’ve got the cash, then we’ve got the best chicken wings and titties.”

“Fine,” Professor Lambert said.  “It’s just that it’s kind of lame to be in a titty bar without the ability to look at all the titties.”

“Yeah,” the president said as he pointed to a busty blonde who was gyrating on stage. “Not gonna lie.  You’re missing some spectacular cans.  Believe me.  Nobody is a better judge of the female form than yours truly.”

“Wing me, please,” Professor Lambert said.

The secret service agent assigned to feed the professor sighed as he shoved another wing into the captive’s mouth.

“So, when am I going to get me toilet gator?” the president asked.

“Soon, Mr. President,” Professor Lambert said.  “I’m working on the genetics aspect of this project with great interest, making sure that the specimen will retain the mighty strength and power of his father while still being controllable.  Plus, I’ll need to find a suitable female alligator to inseminate and…”

“Jesus Christ, Egghead McGee,” President Stugotz said as he sipped a diet soda.  “Just fill up a turkey baster with Skippy the Toilet Gator’s joy juice, use it to knock up a fine ass lady gater and bada bing, bada boom, we’re done.  Come on. Let’s get this show on the road!”

“It will be done within a year, Mr. President,” Professor Lambert said.  “That, I assure you.  Can I get a drink, please?”

The same secret service agent who had been feeding Lambert scoffed as he picked up a beer bottle, shoved a straw into it, and held it up to Lambert’s mouth.  The scientist sucked away like a baby.

“Thank you,” Professor Lambert said.

“What a psycho that Buford Dufresne was,” President Stugotz said.  “Keeping a fridge full of his pet alligator’s baby batter.  I mean, I kept a hefty supply of my own man goo on standby, but that’s only because it would be a damn shame if there were ever to be a world without a Stugotz in it.”

“Hey, alright,” came the DJ’s voice.  “That was Chastity on the main stage.  She’s available now for lap dances and the champagne room.”

The president punched a few buttons into his cell phone, then held the device up to his ear.  “Hello, crooked lawyer.  Wait, what?  You’re charging me how much per minute for this call? OK, let me get it over with quick, then.  I’m in a strip club.  Yeah.  Uh huh. So what would be the legal ramifications if I want to take one of these broads to the champagne room?  Right.  Uh huh.  Are you serious?  You’re telling me if I DON’T pay her to shut her piehole with my campaign funds it would be illegal?  You’re kidding me.  And here all these years I thought I was doing the taxpayer a favor by shutting these bimbos up on my own dime.  Wait?  How many forms would I have to file?  And I’d have to list ‘Affair Hush Money’ on my campaign finance report?  And then it would be legal?  And you’re telling me this with a straight face? What a strange new world this is.  Yeah, something tells me this rule only applies to me.  No.  No, never mind, it’s too much work.  I’m just going to sit here and sip my soda.  Goodbye.”

Stugotz hanged up his cellphone.  “Damn ambulance chasers.”

A beautiful redhead wearing a cowboy hat and nothing else strutted onto the stage.

“Coming up next,” the DJ said.  “It’s everybody’s favorite cowgirl, Lorelai.  Everyone give Lorelai a warm Texas welcome.”

President Stugotz looked to one of the secret service agents.  “Plug his ears.”

“What?” Professor Lambert asked.  “I can’t listen either? Come on.”

The secret service agent assigned to Lambert licked his pointer fingers, then stuck them deep into the scholar’s ear canals.

“You’ve lost your hearing privileges, nerd,” President Stugotz said as he chomped on a chicken wing.  “Mmm.  This is a fantastic chicken wing, by the way.  Simply fantastic.  Best chicken wing I’ve ever had and I know chicken wings.  Nobody’s a better judge of poultry quality than I am.  Believe me.”

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