Category Archives: Toilet Gator

Apr 15 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Network News One Transcript #3

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Network News One Transcript #3
KURT MANLEY (In Studio) – …witnesses on the scene report that they’d never seen such a high concentration of fire breathing midgets in one location and they doubt they ever will again. In other news, New York Governor Brian Graysmith was caught with a ridiculous amount of hookers in a hotel suite. Here to discuss the matter further is our own NN1 Hooker Analyst, Sam McCarthy.

(A scummy looking pervert appears on camera. He wears a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of sunglasses, as well as a bad toupee).

SAM MCCARTHY: Good to be here, Kurt.

KURT MANLEY: Sam, you’re one of the world’s most knowledgeable sources when it comes to hookers.

SAM MCCARTHY: Indeed I am, Kurt. Indeed I am. I may or may not have been a customer of various ladies of the evening and I may or may not have learned a thing or two in that time.

KURT MANLEY: Various official reports indicate that Governor Graysmith’s suite at the Swankforth Hotel was filled with a quote unquote ‘ridiculous amount of hookers.’

SAM MCCARTHY: That’s right.

KURT MANLEY: How many hookers is a ‘ridiculous’ amount of hookers?

SAM MCCARTHY: Well, that’s hard to say, Kurt. A ‘ridiculous’ amount of hookers could mean a lot of different things to different people. There are church going folk who would say that even one hooker in a hotel suite is one too many.

KURT MANLEY: What a bunch of prudes.

SAM MCCARTHY: Tell me about it. Now two or three hookers, that’s going to start raising some eyebrows.

KURT MANLEY: Naturally.
SAM MCCARTHY: And even upwards of ten hookers is going to turn the head of even the most experience hooker patron.

KURT MANLEY: Who has that kind of free time?

SAM MCCARTHY: I know, right? Now, in the governor’s case, witnesses disagree on the exact number of hookers involved. No one ever came up with an exact number but what we do know is that there were hookers in the bathroom, hookers in the breakfast nook, hookers on the balcony, hookers in the sitting room, hookers in the bedroom…

KURT MANLEY: My sources indicate there were even hookers in the closet.

SAM MCCARTHY: Exactly. I mean, the place was wall to wall hookers. Hotel staff claim that they couldn’t even get into the room because it was packed to the ceiling with hookers.

KURT MANLEY: That’s a lot of hookers.

SAM MCCARTHY: I mean, I don’t know if there’s any way to know for sure, but if you factor in the square footage of the room combined with the weight and height of the average hooker and I’d wager the Governor had packed his suite with over one thousand hookers.

(Kurt’s jaw drops.)

KURT MANLEY: Now that’s a lot of hookers!

SAM MCCARTHY: Even for me, Kurt. Even for me. I’m all about sampling a broad array of hookers, but a man could kill himself with that many hookers in one sitting. Luckily, the police broke up the hooker party before the governor was able to get in too deep.

KURT MANLEY: Wow. Thank you Sam. Incredibly disturbing news coming out of New York this evening. We take you live to the governor’s mansion, where Governor Graysmith is holding a press conference to address the scandal that has been dubbed, “Ridiculous Amount of Hookers-gate.”

(Cut to a podium where a man in his late fifties takes to the podium. He wears a sharp business suit. His very depressed looking wife stands by his side.)

GOVERNOR GRAYSMITH: Hello, members of the esteemed press. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to you, to the good people of New York, to my wonderful children, Bob and Nancy, and of course, to my darling wife, Judy, for the ridiculous amount of hookers I hired. Throughout my career as a dedicated public servant, I have done my best to hold myself out as a strong man, a proud man, but at the end of the day, I am also a weak man. I succumbed to temptation and that is what caused me to hire so, so many hookers. I want everyone to rest assured that I will be entering a rehab program for men who are addicted to hiring ridiculous amounts of hookers. I have found Jesus and have had many conversations with him in which he has advised me to stay away from such ridiculous amounts of hookers. I will rededicate myself to my church and to God and to taking each day at a time, making sure I never again hire such a ridiculous, ludicrous, insane amount of hookers. I would like to thank Judy for standing by me throughout this difficult time.

(The reporters flail their hands wildly and demand to have their questions answered.)

GOVERNOR GRAYSMITH: No, no. I will not take any questions about the ridiculous amount of hookers I hired at this time. My dear, sweet wife is suffering now because of this humiliating situation and I’d like to remind you all that if you continue to ask questions about it, then you are the ones causing her pain and not me, the one who hired a bafflingly ridiculous number of hookers. Thank you. That is all.

KURT MANLEY: And there you have it. Governor Graysmith is very sorry for all those hookers he hired.

(Kurt sorts through some papers.)

KURT MANLEY: We turn our attention back now on what is shaping up to be one of the most gut wrenching stories in the entire history of humanity. Yes, I’m saying that if you even were to go back as far as the days of Exodus, when God smote all the non-believers with plagues of locusts, pestilence, and even the deaths of their first born children, this story makes that time look like a walk in the park with a lollipop in hand. I’m talking, of course, about the tragic death of Countess Cucamonga, the world’s most beloved pop star, a talented artist whose songs about her ample hindquarters were loved by all and I’m not ashamed to say that they were even loved by this old newsman. We take you live to…

(Kurt presses his finger up against his earpiece and sighs.)

KURT MANLEY: Yeah, I’m sorry viewers. We’re still trying to work a Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties into the mix, but in the mean time here’s Natalie Brock…

(Natalie Brock appears on screen. She wears a cheap blonde wig, the kind that could be found at any thrift store. Her bosom appears much larger. Makeup is caked on her face.)

KURT MANLEY: Holy moly! Natalie! You had a growth spurt!

(Natalie is standing in front of the Geriatric Oaks Retirement Home in Boca Raton, Florida. She appears ill at ease and uncomfortable with her new look).

NATALIE: Um, yes. Hello…Kurt. A…

(Natlie closes her eyes, looks up to God for strength, then opens them and faces the camera.)

NATALIE: A Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties here with a new development in the grizzly murder of Countess Cucamonga. I’m here at a retirement home in Boca Raton where authorities have confirmed to me that retired history teacher Herb Hogan has been murdered.

KURT MANLEY: I mean, that’s terrible, but I don’t think anyone really gives a greasy turtle turd about some old ass teacher, Nat…er…Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties.

NATALIE: Normally, no. But authorities describe a gruesome scene, very reminiscent of the scene in which Countess Cucamonga’s giant ass struck down in its prime.

(Kurt’s eyes widen.)

KURT MANLEY: Whoa nelly! Now if that isn’t a dilly of a pickle. Feed me, Seymour! Feed me!

NATALIE: I’m here with Mr. Abraham Bromstein, a resident of this facility…

(Camera pans out to reveal Mr. Bromstein, standing next to Natalie in his bathrobe.)

MR. BROMSTEIN: Oy vey, can we move this along young lady? It’s very drafty out here and I’m freezing my genechtagazoink off.

NATALIE: Mr. Bromstein, you saw the scene where Mr. Hogan was murdered, is that correct?

MR. BROMSTEIN: Indeed it is, my dear. I have this nurse, you see, Nurse Sheila. She told me to tell her if the rash on my schmeckel got any worse and wouldn’t you now that as soon as she walked out of my room, it did. Now, I’m no medical doctor, but it was all red and doughy, such that I think I may have caught a male yeast infection. Do you want to see it?

NATALIE: Not at this time, no. Mr. Bromstein, if we could focus on the details of the crime scene…

MR. BROMSTEIN: Suit yourself, shiksa. So I go looking for Nurse Sheila and in the process of doing so, I happen upon Dolores’ Nelson’s room. Old Herb and Dolores were quite an item, you know. Dolores loved to brag about how Herb’s tongue whirled around faster than a high-powered blender blade, if you catch my drift.

NATALIE: I catch it, sir.

MR. BROMSTEIN: Cunnilingus!

NATALIE: I gathered.

MR. BROMSTEIN: Anyway, I find Nurse Sheila in Dolores’ room. I tell her about the worsening condition of my schmekel and she tells me she’s sorry but she’s dealing with a situation. I look around. The floor is all wet. The toilet is broken. And Herb’s been splattered all over the walls.

NATALIE: Which leads you to believe…

MR. BROMSTEIN: That either cunnilingus can cause a man to literally explode, which is what I always told my late wife as an excuse to get out of it whenever she demanded I bring my mouth down south, or…

NATALIE: Or?

(Mr. Bromstein looks directly at the camera.)

MR. BROMSTEIN: There’s a murderer on the loose!!!

NATALIE: There you have it, Kurt. A situation that’s eerily similar to what happened to Countess Cucamonga.

KURT: Eerily similar indeed. You’re looking good, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties. You’re a credit to our fine news organization, that’s for sure. This new development begs the question, ‘Is there a serial murderer on the loose?’ We have zero answers on that issue at this time, America. However, we here at NN1 feel it is important to advise everyone to drop whatever they are doing. Stop going to work. Stop going to school. Stop going about your regular business. Board up all your windows and doors and hole yourself up in your living room with a shotgun and a urine bucket. Most importantly, stay tuned to NN1 where we will be providing you with the latest updates as to the likelihood that you will be murdered by the horrific serial killer that we can only assume is very real and will not stop until he has killed everyone, especially you. Yes, you. The one sitting there watching me right now.

(Kurt changes camera angles.)

KURT MANLEY: That’s it for the Countess Cucamonga caper for now. And coming up in the next hour, a disgruntled coffee worker was caught masterbating into every fifth coffee ground can to come off of the assembly line. Could there be a little extra cream in your coffee? We’ll tell you which brand to stay away from after sports and weather. In the meantime, sit back and enjoy these commercial messages.

ANNOUNCER: Network News One! The hottest blonde chicks! The biggest titties! Oh yeah, and occasionally we report the news and shit.

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Apr 14 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 13

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The girls had been whisked away to Grove County Hospital. The water pipe had been shut off, but Cole and Rusty still had to slosh across the wet bathroom floor as they observed the crime scene.

“Well,” Rusty said as he stared at the blood stained tile walls. “I’m just gonna say it.”

“Don’t say it,” Cole replied.

“This is the work of the work of the Al Qaedas.”

Cole slapped his forehead. “You think everything is the work of the Al Qaedas.”

“That’s because everything is the work of the Al Qaedas,” Rusty said.

“Last week when you lost your keys you blamed it on the Al Qaedas,” Cole said.

“I don’t think it was ever conclusively proven that was not the work of the Al Qaedas,” Rusty noted.

“You left them in your other pants,” Cole said.

“Did I?” Rusty asked. “Or did the Al Qaedas put them in my other pants?”

Cole groaned.

“Well,” Rusty said. “If this isn’t terrorism then what is it?”

“Hell if I know,” Cole said. “Maybe some dumb ass kid tried to flush a firecracker and it got out of hand?”

“That would have had to have been one gigantic firecracker,” Rusty said.

“Yup,” Cole said.

A few seconds passed.

“The kind of firecracker that the Al Qaedas could get their hands on,” Rusty said.

Cole flipped out. “Not another word about the Al Qaedas!”

The bathroom door swung open. A third set of boots sloshed into the room. They belonged to Grove County Sheriff Floyd Hammond. He was a skinny, spindly man in his early fifties with a receding hairline and a handlebar mustache. His dark brown uniform clashed with the classier navy blue uniforms Cole and Rusty were wearing.

“Hooo weee!” Floyd shouted as he took in all the carnage. “Remind me to never eat the chili in this school’s cafeteria!”
Cole despised his counterpart in the Sheriff’s department. He choked back the bile that was inching its way up his throat. It was a reaction Cole got whenever he saw his longtime nemesis.

“Sheriff,” Cole said.

“Chief,” Floyd replied. “What in the bloody blue blazes do we have here?”

“I have no idea,” Cole said. “The Al Qaedas, a firecracker stunt gone awry and now, high octane chili, are the latest working theories.”

“Well slap my ass and call me Sally,” Floyd said. “This has got to be the shittiest crime scene I have ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on. Any witnesses?”

“All knocked unconscious,” Cole answered. “Except for one nerd who had stepped out of the room. He was useless.”

“As most of these fancy pants millennials with their precious degrees in bullshit studies are,” Floyd said.

“Yup,” Cole said.

Floyd stuck his pointer finger up his nose, fished around for awhile, then pulled out an economy size booger. Not wanting to contaminate the crime scene, he wiped it on his shirt. Cole and Rusty pretended as though they didn’t notice but…notice they certainly did.

“Heard you had a little run in with the Mayor this evening…”

“Did you now?” Cole asked.

“You know how people talk,” Floyd replied.

“Do you mean, ‘people?’” Cole asked. “Or do you mean the Mayor specifically talked to you? Or more specifically, he cried to you like a little bitch?”

Floyd snickered. “Let’s just say we had ourselves a little chat.”

Cole patted Floyd on the back. “Good for your, Floyd. It’s about time you found a friend you can share your love of wearing ladies’ underwear with.”

The Sheriff gnashed his teeth together. “Who the hell told you about that?!”

Cole and Rusty traded shocked expressions. “No one, Floyd,” Cole said. “I was just busting your balls.”

Floyd pulled out a dirty handkerchief and dabbed the sweat off his brow. “Oh…good. Yeah, I was uh…just busting your balls too.”

“Sure you were,” Cole said.
“Anyway,” Floyd said. “The Mayor solicited me with the most interesting proposal.”

“Aww,” Cole said. “And here I thought you weren’t the marrying kind, Floyd.”

“Not that kind of proposal!” Floyd barked. “Seems like the Mayor would very much like to see the Sitwell Police Department absorbed into Grove County Sheriff’s Department. Bigger budget for me, more competent officers for Sitwell. Sounds like a good deal but, oh, I do suppose you and your ginger lover would find yourselves on the unemployment line.”

Rusty raised his hand as if he were a kid in an elementary school class.

“Yes?” Floyd asked.

“Point of clarification,” Rusty said. “Cole and I are not lovers. We’re just longtime friends and colleagues.”

“No one asked you, Ron Weasley,” Floyd said.

“Floyd,” Cole said. “I could give two shits about what you and the Mayor talk about in your circle jerk sessions.”

“You should,” Floyd said. “And a word to the wise: don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“How bout you just bite me, Floyd?” Cole asked.

Floyd clicked his tongue in a disapproving manner. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. With a bad attitude like that, I doubt that you’ll ever cut it as one of my deputies, Cole. It will be such a shame when I have to let you go.”

Cole pointed at the door. “Get the hell outta here you booger picking transvestite! You’re screwing up my crime scene!”

“Very well, Cole,” Floyd said. “I’ll just sit back and laugh myself silly as you botch the case of the century.”

Cole furrowed his brow. “Case of the century?”

‘You mean you don’t…” Floyd stopped talking and grabbed his sides to keep them from bursting as he laughed and laughed. He then walked out the door, but not before saying, “Better check out the Internet, loser!”

Cole pulled out his old school flip phone. He flipped it open. “Does this thing get Internet?”

“Holy shit, Cole,” Rusty said. “Did you kick Fred Flintstone in the nut sack and run off with his phone?”

“What?” Cole asked incredulously. “This is a perfectly fine phone!”

Rusty pulled out his much more modern smart phone and started punching buttons. “All you can do on that thing is make phone calls.”

“All I need to do on this thing is make phone calls,” Cole said.

Boop. Rusty pushed the button on his Network News One live stream app. “Let’s see what that old sack of farts is on about.”

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Apr 13 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 12

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Six adult male nerds sat around a kitchen table. The room was dimly lit by a few flickering candles.

“Mage,” said the first nerd.

“Warlock,” said the second nerd.

“Knight,” said the third nerd.

“Elf King,” said the fourth nerd.

“Troll Lord,” said the fifth nerd.

The sixth nerd hesitated. He just sat there with his thick glasses, curly hair and bad acne, staring at his card.

“Your turn, Freddie,” the fifth nerd said.

“Ahem,” Freddie said as he slapped his card down on the table. “Dragon Rider!”

Kyle, aka the first nerd, became so irate upon seeing the card that he flipped over a bowl of cheese puffs, sending the crunchy snacks flying all over the room. “That’s bullshit!”

“Total bullshit,” added Dwayne, aka the second nerd.

“We all agreed upon a five dollar battle card limit,” said Steve, aka the third nerd. “Dragon rider is like a twenty-five dollar card.”

“Agreements?” Freddie said as he laughed. “There are no agreements in Magicians of Montazor! It’s every man for himself!”

“Where’d you get that kind of money?” asked Doug, aka the fourth nerd.

“Yeah,” Marty, aka the fifth nerd, said. “You been sucking up to your grandma again?”

“I’ll have you know my Gram-Gram is a lovely woman,” Freddie said. “I give her back rubs. She buys me battle cards. It’s a fair quid pro quo, don’t you know?”

“Ugh,” Kyle said as he stuck a finger into his mouth, pretending to gag himself.

“Dude,” Dwayne said. “You’re twenty-freaking-five. Move out of your grandmother’s house already.”

“Free rent, home cooked meals and good company?” Freddie asked. “Uh, methinks thou art just a wee bit jealous, my good sir.”

“Kyle,” Marty said. “Just kick him out of the game.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Kick him out. He broke our rule.”

“Pardon me, oh wise and glorious Game Watcher,” Freddie said. “But I believe that section 97F, paragraph 25, sentence 47b clearly states, ‘Once a battle card has been cast, it must be played, no exceptions.”

Kyle sighed.

“Oh, come on Kyle!” Dwayne said.

“He’s right,” Kyle said. “As Game Watcher, I have no choice but to let him play.”

Kyle’s ruling was met with a symphony of moans and groans. The Game Watcher rolled a pair of dice.

“Seven,” Kyle said as he flipped through a bunch of scene cards. “Aha! The scene? The secret lair of the goblins. Everywhere you look, there are vile, bloodthirsty goblins waiting to rip you apart with their sharp, jagged teeth. What move will you cast?”

“Invisibility spell,” Dwayne said.

“Fire ball,” Marty said. “And I’ll supplement that spell with my scroll of the marksman.”

Freddie studied the map that was sprawled all over his grandmother’s kitchen table.

“Your move, Freddie,” Kyle said.

“Hmm,” Freddie said as he tapped a finger against his cheek. “I think I will cast…”

The grumbly voice of an old lady cut the young man off. “Freddie! Freddie, are you down there?”

“Yeah!” Freddie shouted.

A few seconds past. “Freddie!” the old lady shouted. “You gonna answer me or what?”

Freddie sighed as his buddies laughed. “I’m here, Grandma! I’m busy! What do you want?!”

“Are you and your little friends going to stay up all night?” the old lady asks.

“We’re grown men, Grandma!” Freddie shouted.

“I don’t like it one bit,” the old lady shouted. “You’ll be tired and cranky tomorrow!”

Freddie threw up his hands. “For Christ’s sake, Grandma! I’m a man! I’ve got a bachelor’s degree in sociology and the best fry cook Yummy Burger has ever seen! Can’t I just get a night to chill with my peeps without your shit?”
Kyle snickered. “Did you just say, ‘peeps?’”

The old lady was quiet for a few more seconds before piping up again. “Did you offer your little friends some refreshments?”

“We’re fine, Grandma!” Freddie shouted. “Take your pill and go back to bed!”

“I could make you boys some grilled cheese sandwiches!” the old lady shouted.

“No, Grandma!” Freddie screamed. “We’re fine!”

Steve raised his hand. “I could actually go for a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Before Freddie could yell at his grandmother again, a bright spotlight poured in through the kitchen window. The sound of whirring helicopter blades deafened everyone.

Crash! Members of an elite SWAT team bursted in through the kitchen windows. They were dressed all in black and their faces were covered with balaclavas. Each officer wielded an assault rifle.

“Which one of you dip shits is Freddie Milton?” asked an officer.

All of the nerds pointed to Freddie. Without hesitation, Freddie threw his hands into the air.

“Freddie!” the old lady shouted. “Somebody’s at the door! Go see who it is. Don’t be rude!”

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Apr 13 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 11

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12:00 A.M.

The late Countess Cucamonga’s dressing room had become a full fledged crime scene. FBI Agent Sharon Walker supervised as an army of forensic technicians worked the scene, placing every blood soaked item into individual evidence bags. She was a tall woman in her late thirties. Her long black hair was pulled back behind her head in a ponytail and a pair of sunglasses sat on top of her forehead. Much like her black pantsuit, her demeanor was all business.

“Bag and tag everything, people,” Sharon said. “And God help you if I see those butt implants being sold on the Internet.”

Sharon’s partner, Gordon Bishop, was a snappy dresser. He wore a dark suit with white pinstripes, suspenders, and a wide white tie. A red pocket square poked ever so slightly out of his breast pocket.

“What do you suppose could have done this?” Gordon asked.

“I don’t know,” Sharon said. “Chainsaw? Wood chipper?”

“I suppose,” Gordon said.

“What else could liquify a human body within seconds and leave it sprayed all over the walls?” Sharon asked.

“So I’m a world famous pop star with a fat ass,” Gordon said.

“The fat ass part is the only believable portion of that statement,” Sharon replied.

“Shut up, bitch,” Gordon said. “You know I work out more than you do. So anyway, I’m a world famous pop star with a fat ass. I just did a big show. I say good night to my manager and my security guards. I come inside my dressing room. I enter my bathroom to take a shit and what, some psycho with a chainsaw is waiting for me?”

“Or a wood chipper,” Sharon said.

“OK,” Gordon said. “Assume for the sake of argument that some whacko was able to sneak a chainsaw or a wood chipper or some other kind of large cutting device into the building and get past all of the security and end up lying in wait in Countess Cucamonga’s dressing room and he slices and dices her, what happens next?”

“Both guards made it clear in their statements that the second they heard the Countess scream, they ran into the room and found the bathroom in the horrendous state it is in now,” Sharon said.

“Right,” Gordon said. “Which begs the question, ‘How did the perp get away?’”

“It’s like he vanished into thin air,” Sharon said.

“With his giant cutting device as well?” Gordon said. “Something doesn’t add up.”

Sharon poked her head into the bathroom, where a technician was taking photographs of all the blood and guts stuck to the walls. “A lot of things don’t add up.”

“Why would the suspect bust up the toilet?” Gordon asked. “Why would he break the water pipe?”

Sharon sighed. “It’s like every question generates a new question…and the answers never come.”

Gordon’s ringtone blared. “Stank Daddy in the house, gonna smack a bitch…”

“Hello?” Gordon asked as he raised the phone to his ear. “Uh huh…”

Gordon looked to his partner and raised his pointer finger up in the air as if to say, “one minute.” He then stepped out into the hallway.

Irving, Countess Cucamonga’s manager, sat on a couch, crying with his head in his hands. Sharon took a seat next to him.

“I’ve answered all your questions!” Irving snapped.

“I know,” Sharon said.

Irving wiped the tears from his cheeks. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Sharon said.

“Good,” Irving said.

Sharon ran her left hand along the soft, velvety couch arm. “Although in my experience, people with something to hide usually don’t blurt out, ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’”

“I didn’t do it,” Irving said. “Why would I? The woman was making me a fortune. She was my cash cow, my meal ticket, my, my…”

“Relax,” Sharon said. “I don’t think you did it.”

“Thank God,” Irving said. “I wouldn’t last a day in prison.”

“What I would like to know…”

Irving interrupted his inquisitor. “Seriously, they’d pass me around the yard like a doobie and do all manner of unspeakable things to my butt hole.”

“Your butt hole is safe,” Sharon said. “Now, what I would like to know, is who do you think did it?”

Irving sat back and stared at the ceiling. “Who do I think did it?”

“Any suspects come to mind?” Sharon asked. “A jealous ex-boyfriend? An ex-employee with a grudge? A psycho fan, a…”

Irving snapped his fingers. “A psycho fan.”

“She had one?” Sharon asked.

“Tons of them,” Irving said. “Literally every man in the world was in love with her enormous behind.”

“I’m aware,” Sharon said. “I have a TV.”

“Thousands of letters pour in everyday, weirdo perverts ranting and raving about all the terrible things they want to do to her butt,” Irving said.

“The price of fame,” Sharon said.

“Yeah,” Irving said. “But there’s this one guy. Freddie Milton.”

“What about him?” Sharon asked.

“Insane stalker,” Irving said. “Sent her videos of himself naked, cutting himself, saying he wanted to crawl up inside her giant ass and live inside it forever.”

“Ugh,” Sharon said.

“She had a restraining order against him,” Irving said. “Last year, she came home and found him lying on her bed, wearing her clothes, two giant soccer balls stuffed down the back of his underpants. Told her he wanted to be with her while he was dressed like her.”

“What happened?” Sharon asked.

“Security goons beat the shit out of him,” Irving said. “Drove him out to the desert and threw him out of the car. Judge ordered him to stay a thousand yards away at all times. She never heard from him again.”

Sharon pulled a small notebook out of her pocket and jotted Freddie Milton’s name, as well as some of the details Irving had shared.

“I’ll definitely be passing this along to Miami PD,” Sharon said.

“Miami PD?” Irving asked. “But the Countess deserves the best!”

“Honestly, sir,” Sharon said. “We came at the request of Miami PD to back them up as this is a high profile celebrity case but ultimately, this is Miami’s jurisdiction here.”

Irving pointed towards the bathroom. “I know a lot of people wrote her off as just another flighty diva, but she was an angel, I tell you.”

“I’m sure she was quite special,” Sharon said.

“She was literally on the verge of saving the world with her exquisite ass!” Irving said.

“I’m sure she was,” Sharon said.

Gordon appeared in the doorway and motioned for Sharon to join him. As soon as Sharon entered the hallway, Gordon started walking. Sharon followed.

“Where are we going?” Sharon asked.

“You’re never going to believe this,” Gordon said.

“Try me,” Sharon said.

“Two more murders,” Gordon said. “One at a nursing home in Boca Raton. One at a community college.”

“Holy shit,” Sharon said.

“Same circumstances,” Gordon added.

“Same circumstances?” Sharon asked.

“Victims killed on the toilet,” Gordon said. “Their bodies eviscerated, nothing but blood and guts on the walls remaining. Toilets and water pipes broken.”

“A serial killer?” Sharon asked.

“Or a serial killing cult,” Gordon answered.

“Holy shit,” Sharon said. “The FBI has jurisdiction then.”

“Damn right we do,” Gordon said. “Special Agent in Charge Baker says we’re on this mess for the duration.”

Sharon pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and popped a smoke into her mouth. She then pulled out her lighter and lit the cigarette.

“Guess I’ll be putting off my plan to quit smoking until next month,” Sharon said.

The duo reached an elevator. Gordon pushed the call button.

“Do what you want,” Gordon said. “But can I give you some free advice?”

“Would it matter if I said no?” Sharon asked.

“No,” Gordon said.

Ding! The elevator doors opened. The duo entered. Gordon pushed the button for the lobby.

“If you wait for your life to get easy before you fix it, then your life will never get any easier,” Gordon said.

“That was exceptionally profound, Gordo,” Sharon said. “You pull that out of a fortune cookie or something?”

Gordon shook his head. “Read a book, bitch. Read a book.”

Ding! The elevator doors opened. Sharon and Gordon made their way into the lobby, through a sea of unruly fans and out of control paparazzi. Their camera flashes were blinding. Sharon dropped her sunglasses over her eyes.

“Where’s the community college?”

“Sitwell,” Gordon replied.

Sharon’s face turned red. “Son of a bitch.”

“Something wrong?”  Gordon asked.

Sharon went into a trance for a few moments, then snapped out of it.  She pulled her phone out of her pocket and started dialing.  “No.  I just need to get a pervert arrested.”

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Apr 11 2017
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Toilet Gator, Uncategorized

Toilet Gator – Chapter 10

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The Right Honorable Mayor Beaumont Dufresne was too busy listening to the Stank Daddy jam that was blaring on his radio to notice the flashing lights in his rear view mirror. He rolled down his window, tossed out an empty beer can, then popped open another. He then started to sing along with America’s favorite rapper, though the words sounded odd in his Foghorn Leghorn-esqu Southern drawl.

“Stank Daddy in the house, gonna smack a bitch…whoa yeah, Stank Daddy, smack those bitches!”

Cole got on his loudspeaker to get His Honor’s attention. “Beau! Pull over!”

The mayor spotted Cole’s cruiser and sipped his beer. “Shit! That goddamn boy scout always trying to ruin my good time.”

Beaumont pulled over to the shoulder of the highway and Cole pulled up behind him. Moments later, the police chief was rapping his knuckles on the mayor’s window. His Honor rolled it down and stuck out his beer.

“Howdy Chief!” Mayor Dufresne said. “Care for some refreshment?”

“Jesus Christ, Beau,” Cole said. “Have enough respect for me to hide it, will you?”

The mayor nodded. “You’re right.” He chugged his beer, crushed the can, then tossed it out the window, where it landed at Cole’s feet. “The Dufresne administration is nothing if not a friend to law enforcement.”

“License and registration,” Cole said.

The mayor rolled his eyes. “Cole, are we really going to do this little dance?”

“What dance is that?” Cole asked.

“The one where you pretend like you’re going to haul me in and I pretend as though I’m frightened all the way to my under britches and then you let me off with a warning?” The mayor said.

Cole cleared his throat. “License and registration.”

The mayor sighed. He reached into the glove compartment, found the requested documents, and forked them over.

“You like this little beauty?” Mayor Dufresne asked as he patted his steering wheel. “Got twelve of these babies lined up ready to go for a steal at the lot. You ought to treat yourself to one, Cole. It’s a surefire panty dropper.”

“Not interested,” Cole said.

“You sure?” the mayor asked. “You help me, I help you…”

Cole stared the mayor down. “You trying to bribe an officer of the law, Beau?”

Mayor Dufresne threw his hands up. “Heaven forbid! I’d never insult your integrity in such an unsavory manner, Cole. You’ve got to work on your paranoia.”

Cole examined the documents, then handed them back to the mayor. “And you’ve got to work on staying in the same lane.”

“Duly noted, my boy,” the mayor said. “Duly noted.”

Cole ran his hand through his hair. “Second time this month, Beau. Tenth time this year.”

“I never knew you were such an astute mathematician, Cole,” the mayor said. “You truly missed your calling.”

“Step out of the car,” Cole said.

The mayor shook his head. “Son, I do believe you ought to think long and hard about what you’re doing.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Cole said. “I’m not going to wake up one morning and find out you ran some kid over because I didn’t do my job.”

“A bit overdramatic, aren’t we?” the mayor asked.

“I’ve given you more chances than you deserve, Beau,” Cole said. “Step out of the car.”

The mayor looked at the chief. “I don’t believe I will.”

“Now you’re the one who needs to think about what he’s doing,” Cole said.

“You’ve made your point,” the mayor said. He put two fingers up to his forehead and gave Cole the boy scout salute. “I’ll go right home and join a twelve-step program. Honest Injun.’”

The bright yellow handle of a taser gun poked out from Cole’s utility belt. The chief put his hand on it. “I will light you up like a Christmas tree, Beau. Don’t even try me.”

The mayor nodded. He opened the door and stepped out with his hands up. “Well, I suppose I’ll play along with this charade, but only because my pacemaker wouldn’t find that to be agreeable at all.”

Cole threw the old coot down on the hood of the Ferrari. “Assume the position!”

“Oh for the love of God!” Mayor Dufresne cried as he felt every nook and cranny being poked and prodded.
Snap. Snap. Cole cuffed the mayor’s hands behind his back, making sure to close the metal bracelets extra tights.

“Damn it, Cole!” the mayor said. “You got me shittin’ my pants now, alright? Enough is enough!”

“You’re right,” Cole said. “Enough is enough.”

“Cole Walker!” Mayor Dufresne said. “You do this and I’ll sue the shit out of you for police brutality! I’ll have your badge!”

“Take it,” Cole said. “It’s brought me nothing but trouble.”

Cole’s radio squawked. The froggy voice of the chief’s trusty dispatcher Debbie came through. “Chief?”

“I’ll have every badge on the force!” the mayor said. “First thing I’ll do is call up the county sheriff and roll out a plan for him to absorb the entire Sitwell Police Department.”

“Oh well,” Cole said as he pulled his radio off his belt and pressed down the call button. “We had a good run. What’s up, Debbie?”

“There’s a big to-do at the community college,” Debbie said.

“Wild party?” Cole asked.

“Nope,” Debbie said. “Twenty calls already reporting a murder.”

Cole looked up to the sky and mouthed a trail of dirty words underneath his breath. He got back on his radio. “10-4.”

“You’ll never work in this town again, Walker!” the mayor shouted. “When I’m done with you, you’ll be lucky to be a jizz mopper at a titter bar!”

Click. Click. Cole removed the cuffs and the lousy excuse for a mayor was free.

“You got lucky,” Cole said.

“Thank the lord you listened to reason,” the mayor said.

Cole walked back to his cruiser. He stopped, turned, and pointed at the mayor. “To be continued…”

The chief got in his car and rolled out into traffic.

“Pussied out again, huh?” Rusty asked.

“Shut your suckhole, Ronald McDonald,” Cole replied.

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Apr 09 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 9

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Sitwell, Florida

11:00 p.m.

Chief Cole Walker sat behind the wheel of his broken down, bucket of bolts cruiser, stationed in a well-known yet effective speed trap behind a billboard off of Route 199.  Up on the billboard, there was an image of a grimy looking slime ball with a white cowboy hat and matching white suit.  He was surrounded by cars and held up two fist filled with cash.

The message on the sign?  “Beaumont Dufresne’s Used Car Emporium – Prices so low he’s practically handing you cash!”

Seated in the passenger seat was Walker’s trusty right hand man, Russell “Rusty” Yates. Both men were roughly the same age.  Cole looked like he might have been a handsome ladies’ man in his youth but time had since had its way with him.  While his body remained in good shape, his face was weathered.  His black hair had patches of gray around the temples.  In short, he always looked like he needed a nap.

Rusty, on the other hand, had a boyish face, so much so that he had the appearance of a giant kid.  He had two bucky front teeth.  They didn’t protrude so much out of his mouth that he was able to open up a beer bottle with his choppers, but they did poke out ever so slightly, even when his lips were closed.  His hair was red.  Shockingly, blindingly red.  His locks had withstood the test of time, as a single gray hair had yet to infect his scalp.

The duo had been working together for two decades and in that time, they had their rituals.  Well, Rusty had his rituals.  Cole usually just grunted and nodded.  Occasionally he’d offer a thoughtful response if he was in a good mood, which wasn’t often.

Reading the newspaper out loud was one of Rusty’s rituals.  “President Stugotz Mulls Whether or Not to Send U.S. Troops into “NoOneCanPronounceThisCountry’sShittyName-istan.”

Rusty took a sip of his coffee.  “Good golly, it’s about time, don’t you think, Cole?”

Cole sat and blankly stared at the highway.  He offered no response.

“I say, Cole, what do you think?”

“Huh?”  Cole asked.

“Stugotz might be sending the Army into NoOneCanPronounceThisCountry’sShittyName-istan,”  Rusty said.  “It’s a good idea, don’t you think?”

Cole rolled his eyes and emitted a thirty second long sigh, the kind that Rusty had grown used to over the years.  It was clearly meant as a warning that Cole was angry that he was had already expelled the minimum mental energy required to recognize Rusty’s existence and now he was downright irate that he was being pressed to engage in an actual conversation.

“I don’t know,” Cole said.

“All these people dying,” Rusty said.  “Getting machetes up their taints and rocket propelled grenades up their butts.  It’s all a crime against humanity if you ask me.”

A few moments passed before Cole finally offered.  “Did anyone ask you?”

“No,”  Rusty said.  “But innocent people are dying and America can’t proclaim itself as a beacon for justice if we all sit back and do nothing.”

Cole popped a cigarette into his mouth and let it dangle from his lips as he mustered up a response.  “Who says we have to do anything?”

Rusty shrugged his shoulders.  “I don’t know.  Nobody.”

“Then why get involved?”  Cole asked.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,”  Rusty replied.

“And who says that?” Cole asked.

“I don’t know,” Rusty said.  “President Stugotz.  Senators and Congressmen.”

Cole flicked his cigarette light, lit up, and puffed away.  Within seconds, the car was filled with a smokey stench.

“Right,” Cole said.  “All the people who aren’t going to pick up a gun and travel thousands of miles to some place they’ve never been to before, a place they know nothing about, just to shoot at people who want to shove a machete up their taints or an RPG up their asses.”

Rusty coughed dramatically and waved the smoke away from his face with his hand.  “Will you put that out?”

“Oh, shut up, Russ,” Cole said.  “Don’t give me your sanctimonious health kick bullshit.  That coffee you’re sucking down is just as bad for as you as this cigarette is for me.”

“Yeah,” Rusty said.  “But at least I’m not forcing you down and pouring my coffee down your gullet, whereas you’re making me smoke that thing with you every time you blow your second hand smoke around my airspace.”

Cole shook his head and rolled his window down.  He took another puff, then blew his smoke out the window.  He then held his hand outside, leaving the cigarette to chug smoke into the night air.

“There,” Cole said.  “That better, you crybaby?”

“Much,” Rusty said.  “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Cole replied in a sarcastic tone, denoting that he felt Rusty’s request was, in fact, very much a problem.

“It’s just about being considerate is all,” Rusty said.

“I’m not considerate?”  Cole asked.

Rusty had seen Cole’s temper flare up before and didn’t want to cause it to do again.  He chose his words carefully.  “You seem to be lost in your head most of the time.  I’m sure you don’t do it on purpose.”

“Whatever,” Cole said.

“You got to care about other people, Cole,” Rusty said.  “Whether it’s your partner in a police cruiser or innocent civilians on the other side of the world getting machetes in their taints and RPGs up their butts.”

Cole looked at Rusty incredulously.  “Maybe I do care about people.  Maybe I’m just caring about the people that you aren’t caring about.  Did that possibility ever make its way into your soul-less ginger skull?”

Rusty turned the page of his paper.  “You know, if you’re going to start name calling, let’s just forget it.”

“No,” Cole said.  “You started it, so let’s finish it.  Maybe I do care about those innocent people who are getting taints and RPGs up their butts.  But maybe I also care some dipshit kid from Podunk, Kentucky who signed up for the Army because he couldn’t find a job anywhere and he’s going to shipped off to some hellhole to fight for people who will resent the shit out of him for being there.  If he doesn’t get his taint hacked with a machete or his ass blown up by an RPG within the first three days of his tour of duty, then he’ll have to come to grips with the fact that his mission there is destined to fail for, as we all know, all the limelight sucking politicians will blow each other with compliments and praise for as long as the war is going well, but they’ll finger point and play the blame game the second shit goes south.  The war will always go south, because that’s what happens in war, and when that kid needs a new flak jacket, or a new gun, or God forbid, more soldiers to back him up, the same assholes who sent him there in the first place will deny him all the assistance he needs to win in a desperate effort to save their political careers as well as their ability to suckle off of the government teet for the rest of their lives, so don’t give me that shit about me not caring about all the innocent civilians in NoOneCanPronounceThisShittyCountry’sName-istan.  That’s a shitty place.  It’s always been a shitty place.  It will always be a shitty place.  There’s never been a time when people haven’t been dying there and there will never be a time when people won’t be dying there.  Sending Americans to die there will not solve the problem one iota.”

Rusty studied his newspaper.  “Sorry Cole, I’ve already moved on to the funny pages.  Oh Garfield, I’m with you about Mondays.  They sure do suck.  Preach on, my furry orange brother.”

“Yeah,” Cole said as he stuck his head out the window to puff on his cigarette.  “The moral of the story, whether its war or a heated political discussion, is don’t start it if you don’t want to finish it.”

The minutes passed.  Cole smoked.  Rusty read and drank his coffee.

Zoom!  A cherry red Ferrari blasted down the highway at warp speed, veering back and forth over the center line.  Cole squinted just in time to spot a tell-tale white cowboy hat poking up over the driver’s seat.

“Son of a bitch,” Cole said as he flicked his butt out the window and pulled out into traffic.  He turned on his lights and siren and began a pursuit.

“You think its smart to start something with our illustrious mayor, Cole?” Rusty asked.

“Why not?” Cole asked.

Rusty flashed his partner a wry grin.  “Because you and I know both know you won’t finish it.

 

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Apr 09 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Part 1 – The Crimes

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Throughout Florida, people are dying…on the can.  They drop their pants, do their dirty business and end up splattered all over the walls.

A pop star, an old man and a perpetual college student are the three victims thus far.

Plucky Network News One affiliate reporter Natalie Brock and her bumbling cameraman Walt are the first on the scene when Countess Cucamonga’s life is cut tragically short.  Alas, Natalie’s looks are average and Network News One prefers hot ass blonde chicks with big titties to report the news.  In fact, that’s their motto.

Will Natalie overcome her cameraman’s incompetence and the network’s sexism in order to follow this story to a conclusion?  Or will a Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties take over?

From the Desk of Bookshelf Q. Battler

Network News One Transcript #1

Chapter 1          Chapter 2          Chapter 3

Chapter 4         Chapter 5          Chapter 6

Network News One Transcript #2

Chapter 7          Chapter 8

Apr 09 2017
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Toilet Gator

Eight Weeks of Toilet Gator Sundays

Destined to become an Academy Award winning picture:

toilet-gator-book-1

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Apr 06 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 8

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Natalie sat in the passenger seat as Walt drove down the highway. The bravado laden voice of America’s favorite anchorman blustered through her ear.

“Natalie Brock. A helluva job you did on the Countess Cucamonga murder story. Helluva job.”

Natalie’s heart fluttered. She’d always dreamed of talking to the man behind the most coveted desk in cable news and now she was. “Thank you. I’m so glad you called, Mr. Manley.”

“Oh, please,” Kurt said. “Mr. Manley was my father. Call me Kurt.”

“OK Kurt,” Natalie replied.

“To be the first on the scene when the world’s most beloved pop star is snuffed out like a spent candle,” Kurt said. “You must have drunk a second glass of lucky juice today, my friend.”

“I was just in the right place at the right time,” Natalie said. “Not that I’m happy the Countess is gone, of course.”

“Of course,” Kurt said. “Blah, blah, blah, we all have to be human and say we’re sorry that we were around when bad shit went down but you know as well as I do that bad shit is always going to go down and its better for our careers if we’re there when it does.”

“I can’t deny that,” Natalie said.

“I hope you broke your foot off in that incompetent cameraman’s ass though,” Kurt said.

Natalie looked at her driver. His attention was on the road. “He was, um, severely reprimanded.”

“Excellent,” Kurt said. “Well anyway, I just wanted to congratulate you on the bang up job you did and let you know that you can take it easy because a Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties is being dispatched to Florida as we speak.”

Natalie closed her eyes. She covered her phone’s receiver with her hand, then blurted out multiple obscenities.

“Natalie?” Kurt asked as the reporter raised the phone back to her ear. “You there?”

“Sorry,” Natalie said. “Bad connection. You were saying?”

“You’re off the story,” Kurt said. “The bigwigs and I were impressed by your bravery. I mean, appearing on TV with your looks? That takes huevos, chica. Huevos grandes.”

Natalie took a deep breathe. “Kurt, with all due respect, I believe I’m the most qualified to report on this story. I’ve already broken it. I’ve already spoken to witnesses and authorities on the scene. I’ve even interviewed Countess Cucamonga’s manager on a number of occasions and he will no doubt prove to be a vital contact as the case progresses.”

“Let me stop you right there,” Kurt said. “You’re talking about qualifications and I’m talking about something else.”

“What are you talking about?” Natalie asked.

“Blonde hair and big titties,” Kurt said. “You don’t have ‘em and we need ‘em.”

“That’s disgusting,” Natalie said.

“Maybe it is,” Kurt said. “But we’re Network News One and you know our motto: The Hottest Blonde Chicks. The Biggest Titties and…”

“Oh yeah, and occasionally we report the news and shit,” Natalie said. “I know it well.”

“Then you understand the bind we’re in,” Kurt said.

“I understand you’re a bunch of sexist pigs,” Natalie said.

Kurt sighed. “Natalie, it’s easy to write the type of reporter that we here at NN1 prefer as a product of sexism, but if you do that, I think you’re missing the bigger picture.”

“Which is?” Natalie asked.

“The world is a terrible place,” Kurt said. “Umpteen zillion years ago, God granted us the gift of life and we’ve been repaying him for the favor by killing ourselves and each other at a rapid clip ever since. We’ve yet to put our minds to curing that which ails us, like cancer and heart disease, but everyday a new fangled method of killing the masses is invented. It’s sickening when you really think about it.”

“What does that have to do with…”

“Hot ass blonde chicks with big titties?” Kurt asked.

“Right,” Natalie asked.

“The people must be educated about what’s going on in the world,” Kurt said. “But with all the death and depravity going on, would anyone really bother turning on the news unless a hot ass blond chick with big titties was there to report on it?”

“I like to think that people don’t care about what the reporter looks like so much as the quality of the news report,” Natalie said.

Kurt chuckled. “And I think a leprechaun ought to swoop down on a magic unicorn and give me a pot of gold and a Vietnamese hooker loaded up with enough ping pong balls to choke a horse but we’re talking about reality here, kiddo, not fantasy.”

“This isn’t fair,” Natalie said.

“Oh boo hoo,” Kurt said. “Guess what? Life is unfair. Do you think some janitor making minimum wage to snake out shitty toilets only to come home and write out an alimony check for three-quarters of his pathetic salary to his no-good, two-timing ex-wife even though she hasn’t allowed him to see his kids for six months would ever, EVER want to turn on the news and learn about how many people were blown to smithereens today unless that information was pouring out of the supple red lips of a hot ass blonde chick with big titties?”

Natalie struggled for a response but couldn’t find one.

“Do you know how much joy our hot ass blonde chicks with big kitties bring to the average male news viewer?” Kurt asked. “Do you know that the average porn website costs over fifty dollars for a three month subscription? Do you know that in our recent viewer survey, a whopping eighty-nine percent of respondents said that they watch our channel for ‘fapping material?’ We’ve got people masterbating to our reporters and learning about war, destruction, chaos and the latest monkey produced virus to be found in their microwave TV dinners. It’s a beautiful thing.”

“I guess I never thought about it that way,” Natalie said.

“Most women don’t,” Kurt said. “Most women don’t understand what it’s like to have a penis. That little guy demands action 24/7, the type of action that our overburdened, overpopulated world is ill-equipped to offer anyone. The closes the average man will ever come to a hot ass blonde chick with big titties is to watch our channel.”

“Even so,” Natalie said. “I still…”

“Plus,” Kurt said. “Did you know that we are the nation’s number one employer of hot ass blonde chicks with big titties? Without our network, hot ass blonde chicks would be forced to resort to one of the other despicable professions they’re known to work in. We’re talking stripping, pornography, or even worse, appearing in network dramas for scale. Scale, Natalie! Are you trying to starve our hot ass blonde chicks with big titties?”

“No,” Natalie said. “I would never want to hurt the hot ass blonde chicks with big titties.”

“Good,” Kurt said.

Natalie searched within herself for strength. After mustering some up, she gave it one last try.

“Kurt,” Natalie said. “I’ve been trapped at the same local station for ten years. I don’t want to be here for my entire career. If I lose this story, I doubt I’ll ever find another one like it. Please. Don’t take me off it.”

There was dead silence on Kurt’s end of the phone for a moment. Finally, the anchorman sighed and started talking again. “You got guts, lady. You know, you remind me of a young me. Hard to believe, I know, but I wasn’t born the stud muffin I am today, the same stud muffin that gets women to tune in by the millions. We here at NN1 aren’t just about brining the news to men while they get off. Every night, the nation’s supply of females tune in just to flick the old bean around to yours truly.”

Natalie made a face of pure disgust. She was glad Kurt wasn’t able to see it. “OK then.”

“With a little hair dye a whole lot of plastic surgery, you too can be a hot ass blonde chick with big titties,” Kurt said.

“But I don’t want to be a hot ass blonde chick with big titties,” Natalie said.

“Yeah, well,” Kurt said. “Maybe I didn’t want to have ten trillion hairs ripped out of my anus and surgically implanted on my head in order to fight my male pattern baldness. Maybe I didn’t want my teeth replaced with shiny porcelain chiclets. Maybe I didn’t want silicone gel implanted in my pecs or off brand, illegally imported, discount Guatemalan botox shot into my face by a nursing school drop out every morning but damn it, I wanted to be the best damn anchorman around so I did what I had to do. Was I wrong when I said you had huevos grandes?”

“No,” Natalie said.

“Then get out there and get yourself some blonde hair and big titties!” Kurt said.

“But,” Natalie said. “There’s not enough time for me to get blonde hair and big titties.”

“Well,” Kurt said. “You better think of something because your boldness just bought you another round of airtime, kid.”

“Thank God,” Natalie said.

“No,” Kurt said. “Thank me.”

“Thank you, Kurt,” Natalie said.

“And the next time I see you on air, you better look like you just walked off the set of Jumbo Jigglers Part Seventeen.”

Click. Kurt hanged up. Natalie did as well.

“Network News One?” Walt asked.

“Kurt Manley himself,” Natalie answered.

“Wow,” Walt said. “Someone’s moving up in the world.”

Natalie rested her head against the cool glass of the passenger’s side window and watched the bright lights of Miami pass her by. “Where the hell am I going to get blonde hair and big titties at this hour?”

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Apr 06 2017
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Toilet Gator, Uncategorized

You’re in Luck, 3.5 Readers

A new chapter of Toilet Gator and it isn’t even Sunday.  Enjoy!

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