Category Archives: Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 29

Irving St. John’s penthouse apartment in downtown Miami was ultra swanky. Fine art, fine architecture, fine everything. Even the buxom babes he was cavorting with were fine, although at this particular moment, he wasn’t able to tell, for he was engaged in his favorite past time.

“Jerth schtik ert ifn,” Irving mumbled through the leather gimp mask that covered his face. He was lying face down in bed, with his naked butt sticking straight up in the air.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Heather, a high priced escort, as she stared at a twelve inch dildo that was riddled with bumps. Heather had the looks of a storybook princess, combined with the slutty demeanor of a late night cable TV show character.

Irving unzipped the mouth hole of his mask. “Just stick it in already, baby!”

“No lube?” Heather asked.

“No!” Irving said. “I’ve done this hundreds of times. It’s not a problem…just….YOWZA! That’s the ticket…”

Heather had complied with Irving’s request without warning. Also without warning, several members of a SWAT team, the same one that had apprehended Freddie Milton, broke down Irving’s door and surrounded the agent with guns drawn.

“Irving St. John?” the SWAT team captain asked.

“Who’s asking?” Irving asked with his head buried in a pillow.

“Police,” the captain said. “Put on some pants and take that thing out. You’re going for a ride.”

“What’s this about?” Irving asked.

“Shut up and zip up your mask, freak,” the captain said.

“Umm,” Heather said. “I haven’t been paid yet.”

“Sucks for you, ma’am,” the captain said. “Always get cash up front.”

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 28

Professor Elliot rapped his knuckles on Chad Becker’s dorm room.

A few moments passed. A young man’s voice answered. “Who is it?”

Professor Elliot was surprised that anyone had answered. He’d planned to pick the lock and was just making sure no one was in the room first. “Chad?”

“Chad’s not here, man.”

Whoever was talking on the other side of the door, the professor doubted it was a person who was old enough to get the inadvertent Cheech and Chong reference. Even so, the educator persisted.

“I know that,” Professor Lambert said.

“Chad’s dead, man,” the voice said.

“I’m aware,” Professor Lambert said.

“Then why are you wasting my time asking questions you already know the answers to?” the voice asked.

Professor Lambert grew increasingly frustrated. “I’m not…you just…startled me is all. I didn’t think anyone would be in Chad’s room.”

“Because Chad’s dead man,” the voice said.

“Yes,” the professor said. “We’ve established that.”

“Well,” the voice said. “Why’d you come looking for Chad if you knew he was dead?”

“I didn’t come looking for Chad,” the professor said. “I came for…look…are you taking over Chad’s um…business affairs?”

“Maybe,” the voice said. “Who’s asking?”

Professor Lambert looked around to see if anyone was watching him. Seeing no one, he carried on. “Who’s asking me?”

“No man,” the voice said. “I’m asking you who you are.”

“I know,” Professor Lambert. “And I am, in turn, asking who you are.”

“I’m not telling, man,” the voice said. “You sound like a narc.”

“I’m not a narc,” Professor Lambert said.

“You sound old, man,” the voice said. “So old you must have sold out to the man a long time ago.”

“I did,” Professor Lambert said. “Sooner or later we all do but that’s neither here nor there. Do you have the stuff?”

“What stuff?” the voice asked.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” the professor said. “Open this door. I want to see your stuff!”

“Sir,” the voice said. “I don’t swing that way…”

The professor gave up on the conversation. He put his hand on the knob, planning on turning it in vain but to his surprise, the knob turned and the door opened. The professor found himself staring face to face with Paul, the frat’s Beermeister.

“Paul Keneally!” the professor said as he shut the door behind him. “I should have known it was you.”

Paul panicked and began to sweat profusely. “Professor Lambert! What a pleasant surprise.”

“Knock it off,” Professor Lambert said. “Where’s the stash?”

“Stash?” Paul asked.

“I’m not here to bust you, son,” Professor Lambert said. “I just need some Supersonic Chronic?”

“Supersonic Chronic?” Paul asked. “What’s that? I only put wholesome, organic foods in my body.”

“Don’t bullshit me, boy,” the professor said. “I know you’re holding.”

“Holding?” Paul asked. “What is this, ‘holding’ you speak of? I’m just a simple country boy from Kansas, sir.”

“Look kid,” the professor said. “If the school was trying to do you in, do you really think they’d send me?”

Paul looked the professor over, taking in the frazzled side and back head hair, the stained lab coat, the wrinkly shirt that looked like it hadn’t been changed in days. “I guess not.”

The Beermeister opened up Chad’s closet to reveal a virtual black market marijuana dispensary. Hundreds of perfectly organized glass jars, each filled with a different strain of green herb, all labeled meticulously. “Cincinnati Brain Fart.” “Dragon Bite.” “Mental Disarray.” “Kookaburra Candy.” “Mellow Madness.” “The Kushtastic Voyage.”

“I think he’s all out of Supersonic Chronic,” Paul said.

“Aw, Hell’s Bells!” the professor lamented. “Fine. Just hit me up with a half pound of Minnesota Mud Bud.”

Paul grabbed the jar and began dumping its contents into a plastic baggy. He then handed the illicit substance to the professor. “Three hundred.”

“Dollars?” the professor asked.

“No,” Paul replied. “Back rubs. Of course, dollars.”

“That’s highway robbery,” the professor said. “Look Paul, Chad and I used to have a sort of…arrangement.”

“I do not want to hear about whatever creepy sex stuff you and Chad were into,” Paul said.

“Sex stuff?” Professor Lambert said. “No. I would flunk Chad out of my class again and again and in exchange, he’d sell me top notch ganja at a discount price.”

“Yeah, well,” Paul said. “Chad’s not here, anymore, man. And as his best friend, I have inherited his supply.”

“Two hundred,” the professor said. “And I’ll flunk you too if you want.”

“I don’t want,” Paul said. “And why the hell would anyone want to flunk?”

“Oh, you know Chad,” the professor said. “He just wanted his happy go lucky college days to never end. The only problem is you have to be a complete and total dumb ass drooling mongoloid to flunk out of a two-year community college, so he’d give me cheap weed, I’d fail him on his exams and bada bing, bada boom, his parents would pay for another semester.”

“That’s messed up,” Paul said.

“And now that deal can be yours,” Professor Lambert said.

“No thanks,” Paul said. “It’s been my lifelong dream to graduate from a two-year community college within two years. I’m the pride and joy of my family for even trying to achieve such a miraculous feat. I’m not going to throw it all away with six months to go.”

The Professor pulled out his wallet and counted out some bills into Paul’s waiting hand. “Fine! One hundred…two hundred…three hundred. I hope you choke on it, you lousy grifter.”

Paul handed over the baggy full of bud. “Pleasure doing business with you, Professor. I never knew you were a pot head.”

“Oh, son,” Professor Lambert said. “If you’d risen so high only to fall as low as I have, you’d need a little recreational therapy to get you through the day. Trust me.”
The professor tucked the baggy into the inner pocket of his lab coat. “So how the hell did Paul die on the toilet anyway?”

“I dunno,” Paul said.

“He strain too hard and blow himself up?” the professor asked.

“Maybe,” Paul said. “All I know is I was waiting outside when I heard these loud animal sounds…”

“Animal sounds, you say?”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “Like a big roar. And then I walked into the bathroom and a bunch of girls Paul was hitting on were pinned under a section of the stall wall. The bathroom was flooded, the toilet was broken, and Paul, or what was left of him, was all over the walls.”

“Did you help the girls?” the professor asked.

“Shit no,” Paul said. “I got the hell out of there. You think I’m going to stand around waiting to get killed too?”

The professor shook his head. “Well, I’ve never been one to judge others.”

“Weirdest part was the bite marks,” Paul said.

“Bite marks?” the professor asked.

“All over the door,” Paul said. “The news says some crazy guy is running around murdering people on the toilet but…I don’t now any man with teeth that big.”

The professor’s face turned milk white. “Did you tell the cops about this?”

“Hell no,” Paul said. “I never say shit to cops unless I have to.”

The professor stood in the middle of the dorm room, lost in thought.

“Something wrong?” Paul asked.

The professor patted the young man on the shoulder, then exited the room. “No. Thanks for the stuff.”

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 27


Big Ray’s House of Fancy Fun Bags was by far the best strip club in all of Sitwell. The joint didn’t earn this credential because it had the most beautiful dancers, or even the most classy adult entertainers. No, it was basically because it was the only nudey bar in town. Thus, Big Ray wasn’t very particular about who he hired. Toothless, overweight, stretch marks, C-section scars, old – it didn’t matter. If you were a woman and were willing to show what God gave you in exchange for sweaty singles pried out of the hands of desperate lechers, Big Ray was happy to hire you.

Even though it was noon on a weekday, there were plenty of perverts lined up by the main stage to check out the next act.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the voice of the club’s resident tune spinner, DJ Home Slice. “She’s hot. She’s on fire. No, literally, she’s been reporting a burning sensation when she pees. She’s fifty-five years young and still shaking her money maker. Give it up for Roxy!”

Stank Daddy’s hit rap song blew up the house speakers as Roxy took to the main stage. She was old, much too old for stripping, but she showed up to work on time and Big Ray didn’t have the heart to tell her to take a hike. She trotted down the runway with a cigarette dangling out of her mouth, a palette of clownish makeup slathered on her wrinkly face, and a nicotine patch stuck to her arm.

“Stank Daddy in the house, gonna smack a bitch…”

Roxy grabbed the aluminum pole in the center stage and twirled around and around. She then attempted to climb it, only to huff and puff and fall on her ass. She immediately jumped right up.

“And she’s ok!” the DJ announced. The assorted perverts clapped and tossed dollar bills onto the stage.

One of the perverts looked way too familiar. “Momma!”

Embarrassed, Roxy folded her flabby arms over her giant saggy knockers and leaned in to talk to her son. “Buford! How many times have I got to tell you to never bother Momma while she’s at work!”

“Daddy kicked me out of the house, Momma!” Buford said.

“He did?” Roxy asked. “Why’d he go and do a thing like that for?”

“He said I play too many video games,” Buford said. “Said I gotta grow up and be a man and start making some money.”

Roxy frowned. “Oh son.”

A random pervert was none too pleased at the display. “Hey! I threw a dollar on stage and I expect to see some geriatric titties!”
Roxy let the pervert have it. “Pipe down, ya’ puke! Can’t you see I’m trying to do some parenting here?!”

The stripper ran her hand through her son’s hair. “Baby, maybe you’re Daddy’s just doing what’s best for you.”

Buford started to cry. “Oh sure. Take his side.”

“I’m not taking his side,” Roxy said. “Lord knows your Daddy can be as stubborn as a mule and dumber than a pig but he knows how to make money and, well…”

“Well, what?” Buford asked.

“Look at yourself, son,” Roxy said. “You’re twenty- eight. You got no skills. You got no girl. You’d never be able to support yourself if something happened to your Daddy.”

Buford sniffed. “Momma, I don’t need a lecture. I need a place to stay.”

Roxy appeared startled. “You want to stay with me?”

Buford shook his head up and down. “Uh huh.”

“Oh baby…”

The random pervert squawked again. “Hey, Toots! Either shake that dumper or get off the stage!”

Roxy turned and faced the pervert. “Shut your suck-hole or get ready for a high heel shoe up your ass, pecker head!”

The pervert walked away from the stage in a huff. Roxy returned her attention to the young man. “Honey, we gotta wrap this up. Your costin’ Momma money.”

“I know, Momma,” Buford said. “Please, just let me stay with you.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Roxy said. “I want to and it’s gonna break my heart to say no…”

“Then don’t say no,” Buford said.

“But I gotta say no,” Roxy said.

“Why?” Buford whined.

“Because your Daddy is right about this,” the old stripper said. “You’ll never become a man if you don’t learn how to take care of yourself.”

“But I was meant for something bigger!” Buford said.

Roxy sighed. “Buford Dufresne, you were not.”

“What?” Buford asked.

“Oh I know, it’s a shock, baby,” Roxy said. “Every little boy and girl grows up, thinking they’re special, thinking they’re gonna be all rich and famous when they grow up. You think your Momma thought she’d be dancin’ on stage for a bunch of Looky Lou’s when she was just a little girl?”

“No,” Buford said.

“Well, you’re wrong,” Roxy said. “Because that was my dream when I was young and I achieved it. But not everyone is as lucky as I am, Buford. You need to take all your dreams about becoming famous and stuff them down deep inside your soul and never speak about them again. You need to get out there and work a regular job and be a regular person just like every body else.”

“I can’t believe this,” Buford said.

“There comes a time when every young person lets go of their dreams and settles for less,” Roxy said. “You held onto yours a lot longer than most, and you were able to because your Daddy coddled you but it’s time, Buford. You got to learn how to fend for yourself.”

“But Momma!” Buford said.

“No,” Roxy said. “Besides, you know Momma does extracurricular work at home, entertaining interesting gentlemen and such.”

“I know,” Buford said.

“You get on, now,” Roxy said. “Scoot. And don’t come back until you can fend for yourself, you hear?”

Buford looked sullen, defeated. “I hear.”

“You’ll thank Momma and Daddy for this one day,” Roxy said.

Buford stormed away from the stage. “No I won’t.”

The Stank Daddy beats continued.

“Smack a bitch with a tire iron, smack a bitch with a wrench, smack a bitch with a club until her ass starts speakin’ French…”

“OK, you degenerates,” Roxy said as she twirled around the pole. “Time for Old Roxy to put on a show for you and…ergh!”

The old stripper grabbed her back. She seethed with pain. She looked at the DJ and ran her finger across her throat, in a gesture he took to mean that he needed to cut the music.

“Fuck me,” Roxy said as she stumbled off the stage all hunched over. “Take five, everyone. Old Roxy needs to take her Glucosamine Chondroitin pill.”

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 26


The top of Professor Elliot Lambert’s head was bald and oh so shiny, but the sides of his head had yet to get the message. The hair on the back and sides of his head was brown, speckled with gray. He’d grown it down to his shoulders, perhaps out of some misguided belief that this would prove that he actually had hair.

Standing in front of his class at Sitwell Community College, the scholar was engaged in a lecture on the mating habits of the Antarctic penguin. He found it riveting, even though no one else did.

“And so, the male penguin will perform a seductive dance, which culminates in the female to bend over and expel the feathers surrounding her hormonal glands,” Professor Lambert said. “It’s truly an amazing sight to behold. I swear, kids, if you ever get up to Antartica, you must check it out.

The professor couldn’t help but notice that something was off. Normally, his class room was packed to capacity. Although no one on campus had a particular fondness for Animal Biology 101, Professor Lambert was a notoriously easy grader, an educator who would gladly stamp an A on a paper as long as a student regurgitated something halfway legible. Further, the course satisfied a science requirement.

However, on this morning, only three students managed to show up: Connor the Hipster, Kate the Goth Chick and Mackenzie, a girl whose eyes were permanently riveted to her phone.

“Is there something I don’t know about?” the professor asked.

The three students remained silent.

“Big party last night?” Professor Lambert asked. “Everyone back at their dorms, sleeping it off?”

“You don’t know?” Declan asked.

“I don’t know what?” Professor Lambert said. “That’s a ludicrous question, young man. How could I possibly know what I don’t know? The point of asking a question is to determine what one does not know and then to persist in obtaining and answer to what one does not know, thus to facilitate an answer that can added to the mental reservoir of what one knows.”

“Chad Becker died on the toilet last night,” Ann said in her Goth monotone.

“It’s been all over the news,” Mackenzie said as she stared at her phone.

“True,” Connor said. “Although personally, I prefer not to obtain my information from corporate outlets like Network News One as most mainstream channels simply whore themselves out to big business. Instead, I prefer low key, self-sponsored blogs produced by independent owners and operators. In fact, the Bookshelf Battle Blog just reported that Countess Cucamonga may have been an alien from outer space. Now that’s an angle you’ll never hear from the bought and paid for corporate media.”

“The Bookshelf Battle Blog?” Mackenzie asked.

“Oh, you wouldn’t have heard of it,” Conor said. “It only has 3.5 readers.”

The Professor threw up his hands. “Slow down children. Are you telling me that Chad Becker is dead?”

“Deader than disco,” Mackenzie said.

“His soul is the property of Azaglotz, Keeper of the Demon Realm, now,” Kate said.

The professor lowered his head into his hand. “This is terrible. So terrible.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Declan said. “Were you two close?”

The professor lifted his head up and blurted out. “I bought my weed from him!”

Connor and Kate appeared shocked. Mackenzie was too glued to her phone to care.

“Um,” Professor Lambert said. “That is to say, yes, he was one of my favorite students. He took this class seven times.”

The professor picked up a remote control and punched a button. A blank, white screen rolled down in front of the dry erase board. Next, the Network News One channel was projected onto the screen. Kurt Manley was reporting, as usual.

“Witnesses on the scene report that Russian President Anatoly Verashenko pulled out his penis, plopped it down on the podium in front of the entire United Nations General Assembly, and dared the President of the United States to do the same,” Kurt Manley said. “The Russian President openly doubted that President Stugotz would accept the challenging, saying, quote, ‘Everyone knows that in an international dick measuring contest, Russia will win every time!”

Kurt shuffled some papers. A photo of Chad Becker wearing a bra on his head with a beer on his head appeared on screen. Kurt spoke in a voice over. “In our ongoing coverage of the bizarre series of toilet murders that has gripped the state of Florida, we’ve talked a lot about Countess Cucamonga. But what about the other victims? We’ll talk about retired history teacher Hugh Hogan in the next hour, but first, a retrospective on the life of Chad Becker, who, some say may hold a world record for the longest amount of time ever spent in pursuit of a two year degree. We’ll look back on Mr. Becker’s life after this commercial break. Also coming up in the next hour, could this brand of frozen pizza cause you to hallucinate and believe that you are the Second Coming of Ethel Merman? We’ll tell you which brand after sports and weather but first, a word from our sponsors.”

The Network News One announcer came one. “Network News One. The Hottest Blonde Chicks. The biggest titties. Oh yeah, and occasionally we report the news and shit.”

The professor turned off the television. “Awful. Just awful.”

“Professor,” Kate said. “I don’t mean to be a downer…”

The professor and Connor looked at Kate, surprised she would say such a thing.

“…I mean, no more than usual but…I just don’t think I can concentrate given the fact that some psycho is running around murdering people while they shit.”

“I should be safe,” Connor said. “I have decided to stop using toilets as I have realized that every flush just puts another dollar into the pockets of Big Toilet.”

“Big Toilet?” Kate asked.

“The toilet industry,” Connor said. “They keep us subservient by making us believe that the only way to shit is through a toilet. I checked out a book on how to compost your own shit from the library and I’m going to do that from now on.”

“Wow,” Kate said. “That sounds hella woke. Can I join you?”

“Of course,” Connor said. “Maybe we could even, um…”

“I already told you I’m promised to Azaglotz, dirt beard boy!” Kate said.

Mackenzie yawned. “All I know is I got no sleep last night because my roommate was too afraid to shit in the bathroom after what happened to Chad, so she shit in a coffee can and stunk up the entire room.”

Professor Lambert scratched his long beard. “Hmm…yes. I suppose under the circumstances, it would be appropriate to cancel class.”

All three students jumped up to their feet with eager anticipation.

“Read chapters thirty through thirty-five in your textbooks,” Professor Lambert said. “And don’t forget there is a quiz on the anal cavity of the East Himalayan Snow Leopard next week. Good day, students.”

The students left the room. The professor sat down behind his desk. “How the hell am I supposed to get my Supersonic Chronic now?”

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 25

Sharon took the seat behind Cole’s desk. Freddie was placed in the visitor’s chair on the other side. Gordon took a menacing stance in the back corner of the room, watching Freddie’s every move.

“Mr. Milton,” Sharon said as she flipped through some papers in a file. “Do you know why we’ve brought you here?”

“What?” Freddie asked. “Do I look like I just picked up a plus five psychic powers card?”

“Plus five what now?” Sharon asked.

Freddie scoffed. “Clearly you’ve never been blessed with a good game of Magicians of Montazor.”

“Clearly not,” Sharon said. “Cut the bullshit.”

“Cut the bull-what?” Freddie asked.

Gordon grabbed the nerd by the back of the neck and slammed his head down on Cole’s desk. “How’d you off Countess Cucamonga, geek?!”

“What?” Freddie asked.

Gordon lifted the nerd’s head up then slammed it down on the desk once more. “The fat ass pop star! The old man! The college student! You killed ‘em all and we want to know how!”

“But I didn’t…”

Wham! Before Freddie could finish his sentence, his head was connecting with Cole’s desk again.

“Is this even legal?” Freddie asked.

Sharon sat back. Gordon kept his hand on the back of Freddie’s head, ready to strike at any moment.

“It’s a gray area, Freddie,” Sharon said. “Abuse of a scumbag like you only becomes a problem if a) the public finds out and b) the public cares about you. But let me give you a little piece of advice. Countess Cucamonga’s songs about her big butt were universally loved by people of every race, color, and creed in the entire world. Ergo, people want her killer found and won’t give a shit about what happens to him in the process.”

Wham! Another head slam. “That means you start talking now, bitch!” Gordon said.

“You think I killed Countess Cucamonga?” Freddie asked.

“Stop restating the obvious,” Sharon said. “My colleague has no patience for it.”
“I didn’t do it!” Freddie shouted. “Why would you think I did?”

Sharon perused Freddie’s file. “You were harassing and stalking her several years ago.”

“I was harassing and stalking her with love!” Freddie said.

Wham! Down the nerd’s face went yet again.

“You were caught red handed,” Sharon said. “You broke into the Countess’ mansion and she walked in on you while you were wearing one of her dresses and singing one of her songs. You even had a pillow stuffed down the back of your underpants to simulate the Countess’ fat ass. You left her so traumatized that some speculate you were the cause of her Japanese Moki fish huffing addiction.”

“OK,” Freddie said. “You got me. Yes, I did that. But I was in a bad way back then. I just got out of college. I was depressed to discover that there weren’t that many career opportunities for sociology majors. I mean, who would have known that, right?”

“I knew that,” Sharon said.

Gordon slammed Freddie’s head into the desk. “Everyone knows that, nerd!”

Freddie’s forehead turned bright red. “Could he please stop doing that?”

Sharon looked at Gordon and nodded. “Cut him some slack.”

Gordon growled like an angry Rotweiller.

“I plead guilty,” Freddie said. “They let me off with probation. I got a job at Tasty Burger. I moved in with my Grandma. I joined the local chapter of Magicians of Montazor. I turned my life around.”

“You call living with your Grandma while you flip burgers and play kids’ games turning your life around?” Sharon asked.

“It was better than before,” Freddie said. “I used to have a problem with bath salts.”

“Shit,” Sharon said. “That’s a serious addiction. A lot of junkies do bad things after they ingest them.”

“Ingest them?” Freddie asked. “No. I’d just sprinkle them in my bathtub and take long, luxurious baths while lavender scents filled my nostrils. It relaxed me so much that I lost control and did, well, you know what I did. To this day, I feel so terrible that I caused the Countess so much pain.”

“Lies,” Sharon said. “You would have killed her right then and there had her security detail not pinned you to the ground and beat the ever loving shit out of you.”

“No!” Freddie said. “I would never hurt the Countess!”
“Then why’d you break into her house, freak?” Sharon asked.

“Because I wanted to know what it was like to be her!” Freddie said. “I listened to her songs in the bathtub whenever I felt down. Big Time Booty. Booty Funk. Asstravaganza. Around the World in Fifty Cheeks. She was fabulous and I guess for once I wanted to know what it would be like to be a beautiful woman with a corpulent keister that was loved by millions.”

“Right,” Sharon said. “So you cooked up a bizarre scheme. Figured you’d kill her and replace her and no one would notice? You were caught then but you went back to the drawing board, spent the past few years devising a new scheme to kill the Countess and you finally did it!”

“No!” Freddie said.

“Just admit it!” Sharon said.

“Never!” Freddie said. “I love the Countess too much!”

“How do Hugh Hogan and Chad Becker figure into this?”

“Who?” Freddie asked.

Sharon looked to Gordon. “Do it.”

“With pleasure,” Gordon said as he slammed Freddie’s head into the desk.

“I don’t know those people!” Freddie said.

“You’re on thin ice, Freddie,” Sharon said. “And it’s about to crack.”

Tears streamed down Freddie’s face. “I didn’t do it I swear. I could never hurt a fly!”

Sharon sighed. “That’s too bad, Freddie. I thought we could cut some kind of a deal but now you’re going to do life for this. You know who else loves Countess Cucamonga? Prison inmates. Her fat ass songs helped them get through their dreary days and you took that away from them. They’ll make short work of you.”

“No!” Freddie said. “Please, you’ve got to believe me.”

“Why should I?” Sharon asked.

Gordon loosened his grip on Freddie, allowing the nerd to sit up and dry his tears. “I have an alibi.”

“Don’t play me for a fool, Freddie,” Sharon said.

“I do!” Freddie insisted. “Talk to my fellow magicians. Talk to my Grandma. I was home all night.”
“Sounds pretty flimsy, Freddie,” Sharon said. “How do I know a bunch of nerds and an old lady wouldn’t lie for you?”

“You don’t,” Freddie said. “But please. I’m telling you the truth.”

“You gotta give me something, Freddie,” Sharon said.

“Give you something?” Freddie asked.

Gordon slammed Freddie’s head down on the desk. “Give her something!” the enormous man shouted.

“OK, OK!” Freddie said. “I may have something.”

“Spill it,” Sharon said.

“Well,” Freddie said. “I may have…kind of…sort of…committed a crime to get this info, so that’s why I never told anyone.”

“No surprise there, weirdo,” Sharon said.

“So I don’t want to go to jail for this,” Freddie said.

“Depends on how good the information is,” Sharon said.

Gordon tightened his grip on the back of Freddie’s neck. “You’re not in a position to bargain, little man.”

“OK,” Freddie said. “When I broke into the Countess’ mansion…I may have…kind of…sort of….”

“Stop beating around the bush,” Sharon said.

“I’m not saying I did this,” Freddie said. “But hypothetically speaking, I might have, in theory, hacked into the Countess’ personal computer and found some troubling files.”

“Troubling files?” Sharon asked.

“Her agent was robbing her blind,” Freddie said. “I was hoping to find, you know, photos of the Countess in the buff…”

“Because you’re an insane pervert,” Sharon said.

“I’m a reformed insane pervert,” Freddie said. “But back then, yes, I was out of my mind. But instead of nude photos, I just found a bunch of emails to the Countess from her manager, Irving St. John. Concert ticket sales, merchandising rights, TV special deals, album sales…none of it added up. Her cut of the take was supposed to be one thing, but the money being deposited into her bank accounts was another…”

“You hacked into her bank accounts?” Sharon asked.

Freddie blushed. “In theory.”

“Jesus,” Sharon said.

“You want a suspect,” Freddie said. “I’d look into that guy. Maybe the Countess finally figured out Irving was skimming off the top and he rubbed her out to keep her from going to the cops.”

“Did you save any of this evidence?” Sharon said.

“In theory,” Freddie said. “I might have a flash drive I could turn over…that is, if it gets me turned loose.”

Sharon nodded at Gordon. Gordon pulled the nerd up onto his feet. “Let’s go, nerd!”

“Wait!” Freddie said. “What about my deal?”

“We’ll see if your story checks out,” Sharon said. “Until then, you’ll be cooling your heals in a holding cell for awhile.”

“I want my lawyer!” Freddie cried.

Gordon dragged the nerd out of Cole’s office. “You’ll get nothing and like it you little dweeb!”

Once alone, Sharon leaned back in Cole’s chair and rested for a few moments. She spotted a turned over picture frame on the desk. She picked it up to find a photo featuring much younger versions of her and Cole, embracing on a beach. Cole’s lips were playfully pressed up against her cheek.

“Oh Cole,” Sharon said.

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Eleven Weeks of Toilet Gator Sundays!

3.5 readers, I truly believe that a thousand years from now, students of English literature will be studying this excellent book:


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Toilet Gator – Chapter 24

An army of FBI agents, computer experts, lab technicians and forensic analysts poured out of the RV and into the Sitwell Police Department building. They quickly made themselves at home. Maude found herself fielding all sorts of questions to which she had no answers.

“We’re going to need at least seven high speed, fiber optic connections and a designated multi-port router hub,” one computer tech said. “What’s your port to port ratio?”

“I know how to dial a phone, son,” Maude said. “That’s about it.”

“How are you set up for invasive, anthropometric, post-mortem inspections?” a forensic analyst asked.

“I was born when Eisenhower was president,” Maude replied.

“Oh,’ the forensic analyst said. “My condolences.”

The techs and agents went to work – moving desks and office furniture around, installing computer equipment, drilling holes and installing wires, and so on.

Burt perked up out of his slumber. “Should we be letting them wreck the place like this?”

“Well,” Maude said. “Cole said to let them do whatever they want.”

Sharon entered the room. She saw Maude and smiled, then went in for a hug. Maude graciously accepted it, but she had to fight back a yearning to punch Sharon in the face.

“Maude!” Sharon said. “It’s been so long.”

“Yup,” Maude said. “Sure has.”

“How have you been?” Sharon asked.

“Oh, you know,” Maude said. “Everyday I wake up, check to make sure I’m not dead yet and if I’m not I come to work.”

Sharon said. “Same old Maude. You still haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

Maude rested her hand on her oxygen tank. “Nope. Just everything else.”

The old lady watched as the Feds tore the office apart. “Looks like you’ve moved up in the world since you left all of us country bumpkins.”

“Yeah,” Sharon said. “I’m sorry about all the commotion. We’ll be out of your hair as soon as we can.”

“Agent Walker,” one of the computer techs said. “We should be all set up for a video conference call with Quantico within the hour.”

“Very good,” Sharon said.

Freddie Milton was escorted into the department by Gordon and two other agents. Milton was all decked out in an orange jumpsuit, with his hands bound together by a chain wrapped around his waist.

Maude was startled when she found herself staring up at Gordon’s gargantuan, bald head.

“You got an interrogation room?” Maude asked.

“Son, we don’t even have a break room,” Maude replied.

The old gal pointed to the door to Cole’s digs. “I suppose the Chief won’t mind if you use his office.”

Gordon opened up the door to Cole’s office and pushed the prisoner inside. “Move, maggot!”

“He seems charming,” Maude said.

“Oh,” Sharon said. “Agent Bishop may be a knuckle dragging caveman, but he has his own ways of getting things done.”

Sharon was about to enter the office when she stopped and turned around. “Maude?”


“How is Cole?” Sharon asked.

Maude sighed. “You want me to sugar coat it?”

“Since when do you do that?” Sharon asked.

“For Cole?” Maude said. “All day long. I take his words and put them into diplomatic terms to the assorted morons in this town who live to drive him nuts.”

“Right,” Sharon said. “But you always talk straight when you’re among friends.”

Suddenly, Sharon spotted a glare on Maude’s face that gave her a sneaking suspicion that she and Maude might not be friends anymore.

“He’s about as well as you might expect,” Maude said. “All things considered.”

“That was very diplomatic,” Sharon said.

Maude took a seat at her desk. “That’s what I do.”

Sharon entered the office, closing the door behind her. Maude got on her computer and live streamed Network News One. Kurt Manley’s face popped up on Maude’s monitor.

“Our wall to wall coverage of the death of Countess Cucamonga continues with an in-depth look at the pop diva’s life,” Kurt Manley said.

A photo of an eight year old girl with two missing baby teeth appeared on screen. Kurt’s voice continued. “She was born Sally Ann Dubawitz, just a simple girl from a simple backwater Florida town, although no one can seem to pinpoint which town that was…”

Maude squinted at the photo. “I’ll be damned…”

Irving, the Countess’ manager, appeared in a pre-recorded interview segment. “The Countess was very guarded about her past. She grew up around hayseeds and hillbillies but once she became a star, she cast that all aside to become the regal princess-life figure we all came to love and admire.”

Maude paused the stream, then picked up her phone and dialed.

“Bernice?” Maude said. “It’s Grandma. How are you? Uh huh…yeah…really? Oh, that’s wonderful. Yeah….yeah…isn’t that something? Wow…uh huh…well, listen girl, I need you to do your Grammy a favor. You got your high school year book? Yeah…no I know but it’s important….sweetheart, I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t important….yeah…go find it and send it overnight delivery to me…oh holy shit Bernice you make three times what I make but if you want to quibble then fine, I’ll pay the charges…what? Just a little something I’m working on, never you mind. Yeah…yeah…ok darlin’ I love you too. Talk to you later.”

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 23

Maude gave up on her knitting and moved on to a crossword puzzle. She chewed on the end of a pencil as she stared blankly at a particularly confounding clue.

“Hmm…number fourteen across,” the old gal mumbled. “An eight letter world that starts with N. ‘This small fellow rode high in the saddle until he got his Waterloo.’”

At the desk to Maude’s right sat Officer Burt Duncan. He was a year older than Maude and only a year away from retirement. Thus, he didn’t really try to hide the fact that he was openly sleeping at his desk during his shift.

“Burt?” Maude asked.

Burt snored.

“Hey!” Maude shouted. “Burt!”

Burt snored some more.

Maude wadded up a piece of paper into a ball and chucked it at Burt’s head. The old, gray haired man jumped up with a start. “Huh? What?”

“What’s an eight letter word that starts with N and is a small fellow who rode high in the saddle until he got his Waterloo?” Maude asked.

“Oh, hell, Maude,” Burt said. “You woke me up for that?”

“You’re an officer of the law, numb nuts,” Maude said. “You should be awake already.”

“Eight letter word that starts with N,” Burt said. “Let me think.”

“OK,” Maude said as she studied her crossword puzzle. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Nipples?” Burt said.

Maude mouthed the letters as she counted them on her fingers. “N-I-P-P-L-E-S…you dumb ass, that’s seven letters.”

“Close enough,” Burt said.

“It needs to be better than ‘close enough,” Maude said. “And ‘Nipples’ isn’t even the name of a person.”

“Oh well,” Burt said as he closed his eyes. “I tried.”

Maude’s phone rang.

“Hello. Sitwell Police Department.”
The voice of a frazzled woman was on the other line. “I’m gonna kill him!”

Maude rolled her eyes. “Henrietta Wilkinson, is that you?”

“Yeah!” Henrietta shouted. “Ernie done come home drunk again! He’s fat, lazy, don’t got no job, and I’m sick of cleanin’ up after his loser ass.”

“Calm down,” Henrietta said.

“I’m gonna shoot his ass!” Henrietta shouted. “You better send someone down here to stop me!”

Maude sighed. She covered up the receiver then looked over to Burt. “You feel like breaking up the Wilkinsons’ weekly bru ha ha?”

Burt pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Not particularly. She sound serious?”

“About as serious as the hundred other times she’s pulled this stunt,” Maude said.

“She’s bluffing,” Burt said.

Maude spoke into the phone. “Henrietta are you bluffing?”

“No!” Henrietta said. “I’mma put two in Ernie’s ass! One in each cheek!”

Maude turned to Ernie. “She says she’s not bluffing.”

Burt shrugged his shoulders. “Eh. Ernie had a good run.”

“Maude!” Henrietta said. “You better do somethin’ quick or else I’ll…”

An angry look took over Maude’s face. “Henrietta Dorothea Wilkinson!”

The other end was quiet for a minute. There was some light sobbing before Henrietta finally answered. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Don’t you sit there and bark orders at me, young lady!” Maude shouted. “You used to be such a nice girl when you’d come over to my house and play with my granddaughter, Bernice, but lord have mercy, I just don’t know what’s come over you, girl.”

“I’m sorry,” Henrietta said. “I just feel down.”

“We all do, darlin,’” Maude said. “But that doesn’t give you the right to go and threaten your husband and call the police department, making all kinds of crazy demands. That’s a good way to get yourself locked up.”

“I know,” Henrietta said.

“Look, girl,” Maude said. “I know Ernie isn’t much to look at. Lord knows that on the day he was born he must have fallen out of an ugly tree and hit every single branch on the way down, but you gotta be honest and realize you’re no prize pig at the county fair either.”

“I know,” Henrietta said.

“Sure, Ernie doesn’t have a job,” Maude said. “She’s he’s dumber than a box of rocks and he drinks like a fish but honey, we all know that big sore on your lip isn’t a zit like you keep telling everyone. I know a herpes sore when I see one.”

“I tried rubbin’ some cream on it,” Henrietta said.

“Herpes is for life, sweetheart,” Maude said. “So what’s your big plan? You’re gonna shoot Ernie and then what? Prince Charming is gonna ride on in on his noble steed and whisk you and that big purple golf ball on your lip away to a better life in his castle?”

“Well,” Henrietta said. “When you say it like that…”

“Truth is you’re both ugly as sin and no one else wants either of you so you two had better make the most of it,” Maude said.

Henrietta sniffed. “We will.”

“Good,” Maude said. “Are you lying to me about having a gun?”

“Yeah,” Henrietta said.

“I thought so,” Maude said. “I thought Chief Walker took your piece the last time you pulled this.”

“He did,” Henrietta said.

“Good,” Maude said. “Now baby girl, this line is for serious police business so you can’t be calling it just because you want some attention. You want attention, you go on over to the library and join the ladies’ book club or flash your titties to strangers on the inter webs or something.”

“OK,” Henrietta said.

“I mean it,” Maude said. “Our officers are too busy chasing down the killer that did in that singer with the fat ass to worry about your bullshit.”

Henrietta blew her nose…loudly. It was a snotstravaganza, right in Maude’s ear.

“Oh yeah,” Henrietta said. “I been hunkerin’ down in my house watchin’ Network News One around the clock like that handsome anchorman fella told me to. They catch whodunnit yet?”

“That’s classified,” Maude said.

“Oh,” Henrietta said. “Say, Maude. Do you think it’s safe to shit?”

Maude was taken aback. “What kind of question is that?”

“Well,” Henrietta said. “You got three people who all died when they were trying to take a shit so, I figure this killer has got it in for people who take shits.”

“Young lady that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard and I’ve answered this line in a town full of degenerate drunk ass hill billies for thirty years,” Maude said. “You go and get off this line and think about what you’ve done.”

“OK,” Henrietta said.

“And go take a shit!” Maude said. “Maybe you’re all backed up and that’s what’s causing you to have a screw loose.”

“OK,” Henrietta said. “Bye.”

“Goodbye,” Maude said.

Maude hanged up the phone. She turned on her computer and logged on to the Network News One website. “Big story our little town is wrapped up in, huh?”

Burt was back to snoring again. Maude looked at the old man and shook her head. “Sitwell’s finest.”

The phone rang again. “Hello. Sitwell Police Department.”

A random male voice was on the other end of the line. “Hi. I had a question about something I saw on the news.”

“You’re talking about the famous girl with the big butt and the other two people that got killed?” Maude asked.

“Yeah,” the man said.

“I’m not sure I have much information to give you sir,” Maude said.

“Well,” the man said. “I was just wondering. Do you think it’s safe to go to the bathroom?”

“Pardon me?” Maude asked.

“I got one giant, angry turd in the chamber, lady,” the man said. “But these people on the news, constantly talking about people getting murdered while they’re on the toilet…kinda makes me afraid to go to the toilet.”

“Sir,” Maude said. “I’m not an expert on toilet related homicide, but I’d say the odds of you getting murdered on the toilet are pretty slim.”

“But,” the man said. “It’s still possible. I mean, Countess Cucamonga and that old guy and that college guy probably thought the odds of them getting murdered on the toilet were slim, right?”

“I suppose so,” Maude said. “Look, sir. You’re a grown man. You need to make your own decisions vis a vis your bowel movements. I can’t decide for you.”

“OK,” the man said. “I think I’m gonna try to hold it for a little while longer. It’s just gonna be hard because I had a deep dish pizza with stuffed crust and extra sausage last night and I’m prairie dogging like there’s no tomorrow.

“Prairie dogging?” Maude asked.

“That’s when the shit pokes out of your butthole like it’s trying to take a look around because, you know, it’s ready to come on out into the world, but then it pops back up there because you’re trying to hold it,” the man said.

“Sorry I asked,” Maude said.

“OK,” the man said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Maude said.

Maude hanged up the phone. She worked on her crossword puzzle for a little while. “Eight letter word that starts with…”

Ring! Maude picked up the phone. “Hello. Sitwell Police Department.”

The voice of an angry old man was on the other end of the line. “Do you have any idea how much I pay in taxes every year just to pay the salaries of all you useless people?”

“I have no idea, sir,” Maude said.

“I practically want to slit my wrists every time I pay my taxes,” the old man said. “But I pay them anyway because I’m a good, God fearing American.”

“Are we going somewhere with this, sir?” Maude asked.

“Yes,” the old man said. “I want to know why is it that with all the taxes I pay, you morons can’t make it safe for everyone to shit.”

“Huh?” Maude asked.

“The news!” the old man shouted. “People are dying as they shit and you people haven’t done a damn thing about it. My wife just had to shit in the woods like a bear. I feel one coming on in a minute and now I’m going to have to shit under a tree because I don’t dare use the commode while a lunatic is running around killing people on the can!”

“I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” Maude said.

“You better be!” the old man said. “I’m going to write the governor, my congressman, both senators, the president and…”

“OK sir,” Maude said. “I have to go do anything but be on this call now. Bye.”

Maude hanged up the phone. Over the course of the next ten minutes, the calls came in at a fast and furious pace. All of the callers had one word on their minds – “shit.” As the calls came in, Maude jotted the details of each one in her notebook:

Ed Larson – wants to know if it is safe to shit.

Sarah Michaels – is it safe to shit?

Terry Bradford – Is it possible to throw the killer off the trail by shitting in a neighbor’s toilet instead of your own toilet?

Jenny Waterman – What if you just have to pee? Does the killer have anything against people who pee?

Mitch Douglas – Is it safe for me to shit in a box and then bury the box in my back yard?

Kate Rooney – Has the town considered setting up police monitored port-a-potties?

Finally, there was a lull in the calls. “Burt,” Maude said.

Burt snored.

“Burt!” Maude shouted.

Burt kept snoring. Maude threw another wadded up paper ball at the old man’s head. “Burt!”

“Damn it, Maude!” Burt shouted. “What now?”

“Do you think it’s safe to shit?” Maude asked.

“I don’t know,” Burt said. “What’s the alternative?”

Maude was about to turn back to her crossword puzzle when she noticed something peculiar about the items on her desk. The photo of her and her grand daughter, her cup of pens and pencils, even her cup of coffee – everything was shaking.

“What in the…”

Maude looked out the front window of the building. There, in the parking lot, a giant, jet black RV with government plates pulled up. The door opened and Sharon stepped out, her eyes masked by her sunglasses.

“Aw shit,” Maude said.

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Toilet Gator – Chapter 22

Natalie sat on a bench just outside the sorority house, checking Lifeboat for updates about the Countess Cucamonga case. Every media outlet was all over the story, and many were applauding Natalie’s crackerjack reporting skills. Unfortunately, these accolades were not directed at “Natalie Brock” but rather, “that Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties on Network News One.” Such was the plight of all female NN1 reporters – no one remembers their names. They just remember the blonde hair and the big titties.

Walter approached with a cardboard tray that contained two styrofoam coffee cups, sugar packets, cream containers, and a couple of swizzle sticks. The cameraman took a seat next to the reporter.

“I didn’t know how you take your coffee,” Walter said. “But I’ve got sugar and cream.”

“Thank you,” Natalie said as she took a cup. “That’s ok. I take it black.”

“Like your men?” Walter asked.

“Like my soul,” Natalie replied. “All my feminist heroes would stab me with a rusty butter knife if they could see me with…with…these things!”

Natalie stared down at her melon stuffed bra and hanged her head in shame.

“Buck up, buttercup,” Walter said. “Anyone who’s anyone in this business walked down a long road of shit before they got anywhere.”

Natalie perked up. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” Walter said. “You think Kurt Manley got behind that anchor desk without sucking a bunch of dicks?”

Natalie sipped her coffee. “I never thought about it but yeah, I’m sure he had do go through a lot to get to where he is.”

“No,” Walter said. “I’m saying the man literally sucked a bunch of dicks. The board of directors of the NN1’s parent company called the man up to their meeting room and went full bukkake fest on the guy just to make sure they could control him.”

Natalie’s face contorted with disgust. “Ew.”

“You didn’t hear that from me,” Walter said.

Natalie’s phone buzzed. She looked at it. A new text from the unknown number.


“Oh my God,” Natalie said. She showed the phone to Walter. He nodded. Natalie typed a reply.

“For now?”

A few seconds passed before the reply. “I HOPE THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER INCIDENTS.”

Natalie showed the phone to Walter. He nodded again.

“You hope?”

The reply came quickly. “I AM NOT IN CONTROL.”

“Wow,” Walter said as he read the text over Natalie’s shoulder.

“What should I do with this?” Natalie asked.

“Yeah,” Walter said. “About that. I’ve been thinking and…that’s got to be the killer.”

“Duh,” Natalie said. “You think?”

“It’s the killer or a friend of the killer or someone who knows something about the killer,” Walter said.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Natalie said.

“You’ve got to talk to NN1,” Walter said. “Get their legal department involved. And you’ve got to tell Sharon Walker about this.”

“I do?” Natalie asked.

“Yup,” Walter said. “If it gets out that you had information vital to the case and sat on it, NN1 will be dragged through the mud and no reputable network will want to work with you, whether or not you stuff melons down your shirt.”

“This sucks,” Natalie said.

“Not necessarily,” Walter said.

“First thing they teach you in journalism school is to report the story, but don’t be the story,” Natalie said.

“Oh, who cares about journalism school?” Walter asked. “You get ahead of this thing and you’ll be the hero.”

“I will?” Natalie asked.

“Sure,” Walter said. “You’ll be the Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties from Network News One who helped crack a celebrity murder investigation wide open.”

“Yeah,” Natalie said. “But no one will remember my name.”

“Such is the burden of an NN1 Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties,” Walter said.

“Fine,” Natalie said. “Let’s go show my phone to the alleged lesbian.”

“Wait,” Walter said as he handed Natalie his phone. “We have to make a pit stop first.”

Natalie looked at Walter’s phone. Walter had cued up a video featuring Sitwell’s illustrious mayor. The reporter pushed play and the Mayor bursted into action.

“Howdy doo, ladies and germs! I’m Mayor Beaumont Dufresne of Beaumont Dufresne’s Slighty Used Car Emporium. Exit 93 off Route 199. If you pass the titty bar, then you’ve gone too far! Folks, I got trucks. I got cars. I got SUVs. I got big cars. Little cars. Medium sized cars. I got hatchbacks and full backs. Hell, if I look around the place long enough I might even find a quarterback or a running back. Look people, my prices are lower than a snake slithering under a limbo stick and I just want to…”

Natalie pushed the pause button. “Did he just refer to himself as, ‘the Mayor?’”

“He sure did,” Walter said. “Saw a few kids making fun of his commercial on the TV in the cafe.”

“So what?” Natalie asked. “He seems like an asshole.”

“Natalie,” Walter said. “Is the police chief returning your calls?”

“No,” Natalie said.

“And Agent Walker is a by the book Fed with a stick up her ass?” Walter asked.

“Yes,” Natalie said.

“Well,” Walter said as he took back his phone. “You see an asshole, but I see a public official who is prone to say crazy things and loves being on camera.”

Natalie launched up to her feet. “Start the van!”

Walter stood up. “Way ahead of you.”

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Toilet Gator – Network News One Transcript #4


KURT MANLEY: …witnesses on the scene said that the Secretary of State will be fine and all he needed was a fresh pair of pants and a spatula. In other news, an incredibly depressed man in Wichita, Kansas snapped today. The man, one Joe Allen Babcock, age fifty-nine, lost control, grabbed his gun, and then publicly stated, “Hey, just because I’m fucking nuts and ready to end it all doesn’t mean that all the other people around me have to die as well. Nope, there’s no need for me to take anyone with me while I blow my brains out. No need whatsoever.” Not only did Mr. Babcock not shoot anyone before he shot himself, he even walked outside and shot himself over the fresh, green grass to save a clean up crew the trouble of having to wipe his brains off the walls. A representative of the Wichita police department stated this was by far the most considerate suicide they had ever seen.

(Kurt shuffles some papers and changes camera angles)

KURT MANLEY: In world news, a ceasefire agreement was reached last night in the civil war that has been raging its way through No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan.” UN Secretary General Boodie Boodie A’Mumugavi reports that it was a full five minutes before the “DoWhatWeSayorTakeaMacheteUpYourTaint-tarians” and the “ObeyUsOrGetanRPGUpTheButt-ians stopped trying to stab and explode each others’ taints and butts. Mr. A’Mumugavi believes next time these warring factions may very well go ten minutes before resorting to violence. Sounds like progress to this newshound.

(Kurt changes camera angles again)

KURT MANLEY: Good morning, USA. If you’re just tuning in, I’m America’s favorite news anchor, Kurt Manley and you’re watching Network News One. Yes, that’s Network News One, where he have the hottest blonde chicks with the biggest titties and oh yeah, we occasionally report the news and shit.

You’re no doubt standing by for more news of the unbelievably tragic death of Countess Cucamonga. She was widely recognized as the world’s most beloved pop diva, largely for her catchy tunes about her ginormous bum. Goodness gracious, even this desk jockey wasn’t immune to the Countess’ charms. I know I spent many a lonely night sitting behind this very desk during a commercial break, listening to the Countess sing about her delectable backdoor while flogging my…

(Kurt coughs into his hand and straightens his tie)

KURT MANLEY: And my producer has reminded me that I’ve meandered off the teleprompter. Time to veer this story back on track. Natalie Brock, who I’m pleased to report has been named NN1’s newest Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties is covering this story like stink on a monkey. She’s ready to feed us some more information like the hungry little savages that we are. Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties, are you there?

(The screen switches to Natalie Brock who is standing in front of the sorority house. Her fake wig is still blonde and her bra is once again stuffed with ripe melons.)

NATALIE BROCK: I’m here Kurt. A shocking new development in what the media has now dubbed, “The Great Potty Caper.” A third victim, twenty-eight year old perpetual college student and energy beer drink enthusiast Chad Becker, has died in circumstances similar to those of the other two victims. Like Countess Cucamonga in Miami and Hugh Hogan in Boca Raton, authorities found Mr. Becker’s remains splattered all over the walls of a restroom in this sorority house. The toilet was smashed, a water pipe broken. Four students were knocked unconscious when the wall of the stall Mr. Becker was sitting in landed on them.

KURT MANLEY: That’s incredible, Natalie. While I have no law enforcement experience of any kind and only have a tentative grasp on the facts of this case, based solely on your reporting, I think it is safe for me to conclude that this has got to be the work of a psychotic serial killer, an unstable madman who could lash out at any one of our viewers at any moment and therefore they should all keep their eyes glued on Network News One around the clock for further details on when they can breathe easy again. Have the authorities confirmed this?

NATALIE BROCK: Not as of yet, Kurt. At this time, Sitwell Police Chief Cole Walker has refused to respond to press inquiries, while FBI Agent Sharon Walker, the lead investigator on this case, has stated she will not engage in speculation until the facts are known.

KURT MANLEY: Well she doesn’t sound like fun at all. I believe we have a clip of Agent Walker’s press conference from earlier this morning. Maybe if my producer will pull his thumb out of his ass for five minutes he could roll it for us….Dan? Hey, Dan? Yeah, roll the clip. Holy shit Dan. Maybe spend less time worrying about what I’m doing and focus on doing your job.

(A clip of a press conference rolls. FBI Agent Karen Walker takes questions from the press).

AGENT SHARON WALKER: At this time, I can confirm that the remains of Sally Ann Dubawitz, age twenty-eight, better known by her stage name, “Countess Cucamonga,” the remains of retired history teacher Hugh Hogan, age eighty two, and the remains of Sitwell Community College student Chad Becker, age twenty-eight, were all found in similarly disturbing circumstances.

RANDOM REPORTER #1 – Agent Walker, can you elaborate on those circumstances?

AGENT WALKER: I’m not at liberty to discuss such details during an ongoing investigation.

RANDOM REPORTER #2 – But when you speak of similar circumstances, surely the only conclusion the public can draw is that a serial killer is on the loose?

AGENT WALKER: I don’t think it would be productive for me to entertain conspiracy theories. Believe me, when we have solid facts that can be shared, we will share them.

NATALIE BROCK: Hello, Agent Walker. I’m a Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties, reporting for Network News One.

AGENT WALKER: Hello, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties.

NATALIE BROCK: Should the public panic over the very disturbing possibility that a serial killer is at large and ready to kill anyone and everyone?
AGENT WALKER: Absolutely not. I encourage everyone to go about their daily lives and rest assured that this case is being investigated with the utmost professionalism.

NATALIE BROCK: So the public is not in danger?

AGENT WALKER: I have no reason to believe that the public is in danger.

NATALIE BROCK: Do you have any information to indicate that the public is not, not in danger?

AGENT WALKER: I’m not sure I care for this line of questioning.

NATALIE BROCK: Are you any relation to Chief Cole Walker?

(Agent Walker pulls the microphone attached to her shirt collar off and throws it down on the podium).

AGENT WALKER: This press conference is over!

(Cut to Kurt Manley, back in the studio).

KURT MANLEY: Mee-ow! That Agent Walker seems like one feisty little kitten.

NATALIE BROCK: Indeed, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Were you able to figure out if she’s related to the police chief?

NATALIE BROCK: Yes, Kurt. A number of gossipy townsfolk with too much time on their hands indicated to this Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties that Sharon and Cole Walker were once married, but they divorced ten years ago. No one was able to give me a clear reason why, but theories ranged from an allegation that Agent Walker is, quote, “a big time clam diving lesbo,” to claims that Chief Walker cared more about alcohol than his marriage.

KURT MANLEY: Wowie zowie. Christmas has come early for Little Kurty because this is the story that keeps on giving. America, if you’re just joining us, Countess Cucamonga is dead. A retired school teacher is dead and a community college student is dead. Normally, we wouldn’t give a day old rat’s ass about those lost two were it not for the fact that they died in circumstances similar to that of the Countess. They were all found with their guts smeared all over the walls of bathrooms like some kind of grotesque Jackson Pollack painting. Their toilets were smashed to bits. The water pipes leading to the toilets were broken. Yes, you heard it here, folks. Three toilets have been broken and authorities have nothing to go on.

NATALIE BROCK: That’s very clever, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Thank you, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties. Now America, even though the lead investigator of this case, a highly trained federal agent, has told the public there is no need to panic, I am going to go ahead and say that you’d have to be a complete and total moron if you didn’t go ahead and panic. I mean, even though we haven’t officially confirmed it yet, two of the investigators involved in this case got divorced because one of them is a deep sea muff diver and the other is a gin soaked rummy. As America’s favorite newsman, I feel confident throwing out those wild accusations, even without one shred of credible evidence in hand to back them up. Panic, people. Panic loud. Panic early. Panic often and be sure to hunker down in front of a television tuned to Network News One. Once your station is tuned to our top notch network, go ahead and break your controller in half so you won’t miss a single bit of information. After all, this is a matter of life and death, people. A serial killer is on the loose, possibly hiding in your bathroom at this very moment as we speak, and you won’t have any idea if you’re safe or not until we tell you, right here on NN1. Thank you, Hot Ass Blonde with Big Titties.

NATALIE BROCK: You’re welcome, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: We’ll be sticking with the Great Potty Caper as it develops. Stay tuned for the upcoming commercial break and oh, do be sure to buy our advertisers’ wonderful products. Their support keeps us on the air and well, as you might have gathered, without their support, we won’t be able to stay on the air and if we can’t stay on the air then we can’t tell you when you don’t have to worry about a psychopath murdering you while you’re on the toilet. Coming up after the commercial break, we’ll share an adorable viral video of a squirrel making out with a tarantula. Also, have you read the latest study that cookies can give you face cancer? We’ll tell you which brand of cookies that is in the next hour, after sports and weather. But first, these messages…

NN1 ANNOUNCER: Network News One! The Hottest Blonde Chicks! The Biggest Titties! And oh yeah, occasionally we report the news and shit.

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