Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 1


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.


“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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