Category Archives: Toilet Shocker

First Draft of Toilet Shocker Complete

I finished my first draft of Toilet Shocker, the sequel to Toilet Gator.

I began writing Toilet Gator in early 2017 and it is currently with my editor, keeping my fingers crossed that it will be out this year.

I began writing Toilet Shocker last July, and just finished the Epilogue today. It comes in at over a whopping 200,000 words, which I understand is a ridiculous length, and perhaps I do need to think in the future about scaling back my plots, the multitude of characters and all the moving pieces.

Anyway, it was nice to get the first draft done. Even so, there’s still a lot of work to do in polishing it up, but you can’t build a house without the foundation.

How to describe the plot?  In Toilet Gator, there were two supporting characters, Moses and Felix, ex-Marines who opened a gun shop in South Florida. The hero, Police Chief Cole Walker, enlists them and their arsenal of weaponry in defeating the toilet gator.

After toilet gator was complete, my mind started to wander to the multitude of other aquatic creatures that could attack people on the toilet, and electric eels seemed pretty funny. Better yet, what if a mad man somehow figured out a way to get his eels to hold its targets hostage, biting their butts and promising to deliver a deadly electric shock if the eels’ operator does not get his way?

I know. I probably could have put this time and effort into writing a serious work. Actually, I couldn’t. Give me the most serious World War II story to work on and I swear, it will be full of fart jokes by page 10.

Anyway, Moses and Felix become the heroes of this story, for, as it turns out, someone in their old special ops unit wants revenge, and has unleashed his eels on the butts of his former marines, now private citizens, threatening to shock them unless he gets want he wants.

I smell Oscar.

toilet shocker demo

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Toilet Shocker – Prologue

toilet shocker demo

March 20, 2003, 10:00 P.M. (SST – Standard Saddam Time) – Baghdad, Iraq

              Uday Hussein was such a raging psychopath that even his father, the despised Iraqi dictator Saddam, often found himself aghast at his son’s behavior.  Rape, torture, murder, kidnapping, theft, failure to rewind videotapes – and that was just a typical Tuesday night.  What happened on the weekends defied belief.

It was evening, so the rage had subsided into sleep.  Saddam’s eldest rested in his personal wing of the Hussein family palace, a massive structure covered in glimmering gold, inside and out.  In a wide, luxurious bed, Uday snored while clad in his favorite robe – a wavy, flowing, purple silk number.  A gold chain with a diamond encrusted dollar sign medallion rested on his hairy chest, while a pair of high-priced, designer sunglasses remained perched atop his forehead.

Uday never slept alone.  His bed was filled with 8 women, all of whom were assured by Uday’s goon squad that they wanted to be there and were having a good time.  Those who didn’t were asked to try once more, with feeling.

Ironically, while Saddam never missed an opportunity to stick it to the West, his man child craved copious portions of Western pop culture.  As Uday slumbered, he mumbled the lyrics to his favorite Stank Daddy tune.  As it just so happened, the rap song, Run a Bitch Over with My Car, topped the 2003 charts and won many prestigious music industry awards.  It went thusly:

Gonna run a bitch over with my car.

              Gonna run a bitch over with my car.

              Bitch, you ain’t gonna get very far,

              When I step on the gas and hit your ass with my car.

              One of the women stirred.  She opened her eyes and sat up, then directed her gaze toward the beefy goons blocking the door.

“Can we go now?”

The thugs shook their heads in the negative.

“Damn it.”

Uday continued to perform in his sleep:

Gonna run a bitch over with my truck.

              Gonna run a bitch over with my truck.

              Bitch, you know that I don’t give a….


No, that boom wasn’t part of the song.  There had been a loud explosion outside.  BOOM!  Another.  They were getting closer.  The third one shook the room. BOOM!

That last explosion caused Uday’s eyes to pop open.  He sat up in bed.  “Great Tupac’s ball sack!  What’s going on?!”

The goons flipped on the lights, ran to the window and drew the curtains.  Uday hopped out of bed and ran to the window, through which there was a sweeping view of the city.  Off in the distance, three government buildings were on fire.

A fiery streak cut through the sky until it crashed into a fourth building.  BOOM!

That one was so close that pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling in Uday’s room.

“Yankee doodle cocksuckers!” Uday cried as he picked up his phone.  He had a landline because it was 2003. He dialed the extension that connected to his younger brother’s wing.


“Qusay!” Uday shouted into the receiver.  “Are you seeing this shit?”

“Yes, Uday,” Qusay replied.  “It’s the Americans.  They’re here.”

“When in the name of Biggie’s big butt were you ever going to tell me?” Uday asked.

“I can’t think to tell you everything, bro,” Qusay replied.  “Maybe if you’d attend more staff meetings and less all-night cocaine binge raves.”

“Lies!”  Uday said.  “I’ve been off the coke for years now!”

The older brother pounded the receiver down, opened-up his dresser drawer, and pulled out a plastic baggie full of white powder.  He stuck his pinky finger into it, retrieved a good-sized dab, then sniffed it up his schnoz.  He took another dab and rubbed it on his gums.  “Mmm.  Yes.  That is good shit.”

The prolific party boy took one more snort, then placed the baggie in one of the pockets of his robe.  “Come, goons!” he shouted as he made his way to the door.

“Sir,” the first of the goons said.  “Should we um, you know…”

Uday looked at the first goon with a befuddled expression.  He was so used to people only speaking when he spoke to them.  After all, most were terrified of Uday’s hair trigger, displayed often in public settings where he was known to beat innocent bystanders to death for the most trivial of unintended slights.

“What?” Uday asked.  “What is it?”

The first goon pointed to the bed full of women.  “Should we save them?”

Uday looked at the bed, then turned his attention to a key-pad next to the door.  “Of course not.  Don’t be an idiot.  I can always kidnap more women.”

In his mind, the first goon noted that answer didn’t address the point of his question, but he wasn’t about to press the issue.  Those who pressed issues with Uday never lived to tell the tale.  He was well-aware of this, for he and his fellow security goons were called upon to dispose of their boss’s victims often.

Uday punched in a code and the door rolled open.  He and the goons exited the bedroom, only to find themselves in a dark, dank, dungeon.  Dozens of Iraqis who had run afoul of Saddam’s first born were clapped in irons, left to hang by their wrists from the wall.

One of the victims wore a soccer player’s uniform, which consisted of shorts and a shirt with the Iraqi flag on it.  Uday spotted a whip lying on a nearby table.  He seized it, uncoiled it and gave the player a good, hard crack across the midsection, causing him to scream in agony.  “Arrrrghh!”

“Did you figure out how to kick a lousy field goal yet, you wretched son of a herpetic goat molester?!”

“Oww!” the player said.  “Please, Supreme Iraqi Olympics Chairman! I beg of you.  Have mercy.”

Crack!  The whip was used once more.

Patooie!  Uday spat directly into the player’s face.  “I’ll show you mercy when you show me a decent Maradona, you diseased sore festering deep within the bowels of a dying ape’s rectum!”

Uday moved on.  The next victim was a middle-aged man.  He wore a pair of glasses and black pants.  His white shirt was disheveled.

“Please, Supreme State Approved Newspaper Publisher!” the man said.  “I have been the editor of the award winning and most highly revered Saddam Gazette for many years and under my watch, we have never once failed to report upon the wise and glorious actions of your most blessed and beloved father!”

Crack!  The whip tore a hole through the editor’s shirt. Blood poured out of the open wound.

“Yes, I know this!” Uday shouted.  “You think I don’t know this?”

The editor shook his head furiously to the left and right.  “No, Supreme State Approved Newspaper Publisher! I didn’t mean that at all.  I know there is nothing you don’t know.”

Crack!  The editor pleaded with his boss.  “Please.  Mercy!”

Patooie!  Uday hocked a big, sticky loogie right into the editor’s face.  “I’ll show you mercy when you learn to never, ever, EVER print Marmaduke in Section D again!”

“I’m sorry, Supreme State Approved Newspaper Publisher,” the editor said.  “I had no idea Marmaduke meant so much to you.”

Uday nodded.  “He does.  He really does.  He’s a giant dog who thinks he is people and this misunderstanding on his part causes all sorts of awkward situations for his human family.”

“I know, Supreme State Approved Newspaper Publisher,” the editor said.  “He is quite charming.”

“He is hilarious,” Uday said.  “He should always be in Section A or maybe if father is having an exceptionally good day, then Section B, but never Section C or lower.  Do you understand?”

The editor nodded.  “I understand.”

Uday lightly slapped the editor’s cheek with the palm of his hand.  “I am not convinced.  Another week for you.”

“Oh no,” the editor said as he lowered his head, defeated.

Indeed, many of the torture victims in the dungeon were people who had offended Uday in relation to one of his many ceremonial titles.  There were a few victims though, who were there because they accidentally bumped into Uday, or cut him off in traffic, or wore the same outfit he did to a social function, or broke wind in the same elevator he was in, or took the last slice of pizza, or, well, it didn’t take much to end up in Uday’s torture chamber.

As the explosions continued outside, Uday realized he didn’t have time to whip everyone, so he focused his attention on the one victim that had truly outraged him the most.  It was a frail, toothless, gray haired old woman, over ninety years of age.  Her head was slumped over and her eyes were closed.  It looked like she wouldn’t be able to take much more abuse.

“Traitorous bitch!” Uday shouted as he cracked the whip again and again.  One, two, three, four, five times in quick secession.  The old woman was beyond the capacity to scream now.  She had lost all control of her mental faculties and was simply waiting for death.

“How dare you breathe the same air as I, knowing full well the horrific atrocity you committed?”  Uday asked.

The victim did not respond.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”  Uday asked.  “How do you justify your vile crime?”

The old woman opened one eye.  “Ughhh…”

Uday backhanded the lady across the face.  “Answer me!”


Uday spat in the old woman’s face.

“Sir,” the first goon said.  “Forgive a lowly dog like me for interrupting.  I know you know that we must go but imbecile that I am, I feel the need to remind you that we must go.”

“Yes,” Uday said as he dropped the whip.  He gave the old woman a kiss on the cheek.  “I’m sorry, Grandma, but you keep putting raisins in my cookies even though you know I hate them.  This is the only way you’ll ever learn.”

“Ughhh,” Grandma Hussein replied.

Uday punched a key code.  The door opened.  This time he and his goons found himself in an armory.  Machine guns.  Pistols.  Revolvers.  Heavy weapons.  Every last firearm was plated in solid gold.  The psycho pulled a golden AK-47 off the wall and used a strap to sling it over his shoulder.  He then grabbed his favorite piece – a .45 caliber Desert Eagle handgun made out of 45 karat gold.

“Mmm,” Uday said as he sniffed the barrel.  “I have so many happy memories of this gun.”

“Yes, sir,” the first goon said.

“I shot my first babysitter with this gun,” Uday said.

“Yes, sir,” the first goon said.

“I shot my first girlfriend with this gun,” Uday said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I shot that degenerate son of a motherless street dog who parked in my space with this gun,” Uday said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And that piece of shit waiter who ground way too much pepper on my steak,” Uday said.

“You had clearly said when, sir,” the first goon said.

“I shot my first wife with this gun,” Uday said.

“She was most unworthy, sir,” the first goon said.

Uday raised a quizzical brow.  “Didn’t I shoot your wife with this gun?”

The first goon sighed and choked back the desire to give a derogatory response.  He knew that doing so would only end with him getting shot with that gun.  “Yes, sir.  And I thank you for it.  She was the worst.”

Uday grabbed a golden RPG launcher off the wall and handed it to the first goon.  He grabbed a golden bazooka and handed it to the second goon.  He then grabbed a golden revolver and tucked it into the waist band of his tighty whities.  He grabbed his X-Tab Mini, the most popular music playing device at the time, plugged his earbuds into it, then tossed the device into his other pocket.

The wannabe prince punched some numbers into another keypad and walked into another room.  It was Uday’s private disco club, where revelers where on standby, sleeping in leather chairs and couches. A few were scattered around the floor while others nodded off at the bar.  A drowsy DJ with a flattop hair cut noticed his boss enter and perked up immediately.

“Oh, hey, everybody!” the DJ said into a microphone as he flipped some buttons, bringing his turntables to life.  “Uh…what a delightful surprise!  Our very own Supreme Party Master is in the house.  Make some noise!”

The DJ flipped some more switches.  An electro beat played.  Lots of drums and cymbals.  Bump bump bump bump chicka chicka bump bump bump bump.  More switches.  Lights throughout the club flashed different colors – red, blue, green, yellow, orange and purple.

One by one, the tired partiers, who were all expected to hang out in the club at all hours on the off chance that Uday felt like partying, sat up.  Like exhausted zombies, they trudged to the dance floor and wiped the crust from their eyeballs.

The DJ flipped a switch and a disco ball hanging from the ceiling began to spin, bathing the room in soft, twinkly light.  “Everybody make some noise!”

“Ergh,” was the collective response from the well-dressed but poorly rested party people.

Not wanting to be fed to Uday’s lions like the last five DJs that came before him, this DJ held up an airhorn and pressed the button three times.  BRAMP! BRAMP! BRAMP!  “I said, ‘make some noise’ you traitorous dogs!  Your Supreme Party Master is here!!!”

The partiers were awake now.  They cheered and applauded and danced.  “Wooo!  Yeah!”

A beautiful young woman in a red mini dress walked up to Uday.  She read from a prepared speech that had been typed up on a sheet of paper.  “Ahem.  Oh, Great and Glorious Party Master.  I am very much smitten with your manly, virile ways and would enjoy it very much if you were to take me, right here and right now.  Use all of my orifices so that I might know such gratifying pleasure and impregnate me with your manly seed.  FYI, I am saying this not because my mother, father, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and pets are tied up in a basement, but because I really am madly and passionately in love with you, oh Great Party Master.”

Uday pointed his gat at the disco ball and shot it out, scattering broken mirror shards everywhere.  The music cut out and the party screeched to a halt.

“Not now, a-holes!” Uday cried as he walked up to one last keypad.  After punching in the numbers, he and his goons found themselves walking down an incredibly long hallway.  The walls were golden and the floors were pure white marble.

Uday dropped his sunglasses over his eyes, popped his earbuds in, and pressed play. In his mind, he imagined himself and his cronies walking in slow motion as though they were the stars of one of his favorite American action flicks.  Stank Daddy’s Shoot a Bitch filled his ears:

Stank Daddy in da crib, gonna shoot a bitch.

              Bust out my nine, gonna shoot a bitch.

              Nah, it ain’t no crime just to shoot a bitch.

              Best check yoself, before I shoot a bitch.

The whack job pulled his buds out as he and his goons reached a grand foyer, which featured giant, Roman style columns and a waterfall that chugged H20 into the air all day and night long, even though the country’s peasants often had to stand in line for hours just to get a bucket of bacteria ridden drinking water.

In the center of the room stood Qusay, two years his big bro’s junior.  Unlike his bro, Qusay had actual responsibilities.  He stood at attention, wearing a crisply pressed military uniform and beret, surrounded by a dozen elite guards.

“Supreme Security Forces Commander!” one of the guards said as he saluted his boss.  “We await your wise and noble orders!”

“Guard those doors,” Qusay said as he pointed to the palace entrance.  “Meet the disgusting American scum head on and fight bravely, knowing that your reward in the afterlife awaits you.”

The guards assembled in front of the set of golden double doors that led into the palace.  Qusay smiled when he saw Uday approach.

“Ahh, big brother!” Qusay said.  “So nice of you to interrupt your beauty sleep to join us though honestly, it looks like you could use a few more hours…or days…or years.”

Any other man who spoke to Uday like that would have been shot dead already, but the psycho did so enjoy exchanging barbs with his sibling.  “Hello, little brother,” he said as he hugged Qusay.  “You look like a homosexual G.I. Joe.  How many penises have you caught in your kung-fu grip?”

Qusay smirked.  “Me?  You look like a Persian Barry Gibb.”

Uday smirked back and waited for another zinger.  “You look like Ali Baba and the 40 Pips.”

“Okay,” Uday said.  “One more.”

“If Chaka Khan and Cat Stevens had a baby…”

Uday lost his smirk.  “Okay, that’s enough.  Brother, what’s going on?”

“The American dogs have penetrated our defenses and are in the city.”

Uday held up his hand cannon and fired a shot into the ceiling out of sheer anger.  “Sons of bitches!”

“Damn it, Uday!” Qusay said.  “You know how the Supreme Papa hates it when you shoot that thing in the house.”

Uday nodded as he lowered his weapon.  He walked over to a 70-inch television, which was playing local coverage of the invasion.  A female Iraqi newscaster spoke.

“Good evening, fellow Iraqi citizens,” the newswoman said.  “I am Adiya al-Shuri and you’re watching Saddam TV – all Saddam, all the time.  If you are watching anything but Saddam TV, please report yourself to the police immediately.  Viewers, as you may have noticed, there have been several explosions throughout the city and some of you have called in with concerns that the American invasion of our country may be successful.  Here, with more on this is our very own Minister of Propaganda, Muhammad Saeed al-Sahhaf, better known as Baghdad Bob.  Muhammad?”

The screen split.  Adiya remained on the left-hand side of the screen. A large, bespectacled man wearing a military uniform appeared on the right side.  He was broadcasting amidst the charred rubble of downtown Baghdad.  “Hello,” Baghdad Bob said into a microphone.  “Adiya, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” Adiya said.  “Propaganda Minister, what is the situation like where you are?”

“It’s excellent, Adiya,” Baghdad Bob said.  “I have had the great privilege of speaking to our Supreme President, the one and only Saddam Hussein himself, glory be unto his name, may he live a thousand years for as we all know, his snots cure cancer and his farts cure AIDS.  The Supreme President assures me that as we speak, the treacherous American invasion is being repelled by our ruggedly manly Iraqi soldiers, who have been fighting like PCP addicted cobras, whereas the Americans fight like little school girls on their first periods.  This will be a shameful loss for the Yankee swine, to be sure.”

“That is wonderful news indeed,” Adiya said.  “Tell us, oh great Propaganda Minister, is there anything else our viewers should know?”

Baghdad Bob pressed two fingers up against his earpiece.  “Yes.  Adiya, I have just been informed that the war is over.  Hours ago, Saddam personally swam across the Atlantic Ocean and singlehandedly murdered all American forces with his dick.”

Adiya appeared shocked by this statement.  “His…”

“His mighty phallus, Adiya, yes,” Baghdad Bob said.  “Saddaam’s penis is massive and potent, whereas the average American penis is shriveled and disgusting, like a worm that wiggled out of the sand during the rain and can no longer find its home, so it just waits there on the sidewalk, all limp and defeated, ready to die.  Saddam used his penis as a machete and chopped off the heads of all American infidels who dared oppose him.  He is now in the Whitehouse as we speak, forcing the wretched pig George W. Bush to watch as he fornicates with Mrs. Bush.”

“Ahh,” Adiya said.  “So, that means…”

“Saddam is now the President of the United States, yes,” Baghdad Bob said.  “It is a little-known American law that if you are able to turn the U.S. president into a cuck by fornicating with the First Lady in the president’s presence, then you become the de facto president.  My reliable sources inform me that First Lady Laura Bush was so unsatisfied by Bush’s microscopic donger, that she cried out in ecstasy when Saddam arrived and begged our Supreme Leader to take her, right there in the Oval Office as that sniveling weasel Bush was left with no choice but to watch and eat popcorn as he learned how a real man pleasures a woman.”

“This all sounds legit,” Adiya said.

“Indeed,” Baghdad Bob said.  “So, to everyone watching at home, there is no need to worry.  Saddam is the President of America now and his first official act was to call off the invasion.”

With his eyes glued to the TV screen, Uday breathed a sigh of relief.  “Oh, thank God.  The Supreme Papa has saved us all.”

Qusay patted his brother on the back.  “It’s the Propaganda Minister.”

“So?” Uday asked.

“So, he tells the lies that the Supreme Papa tells him to say so the peasants won’t surrender,” Qusay said.

“Aww, shit,” Uday said.

Back to the show.  “Propaganda Minister,” Adiya said.  “Despite your good news, I am told that the American invasion of Baghdad continues.”

“Yes,” Baghdad Bob said.  “The Americans are fat, lazy and stupid and that is a very dangerous trifecta, Adiya.  Unfortunately, their communications system is in disarray, so the Yankee dogs on the ground here have not yet received the message that Bush has been cucked.  We have no doubt that in time, they will learn of this news and lay down their weapons, but in the meantime, all Iraqi citizens are urged not to surrender.  If you see any Americans in your neighborhood, please shoot them or stab them or in a pinch, you might throw a shoe or a rock or your own feces in their general direction.”

“Should our viewers be concerned?” Adiya asked.

“No, not at all,” Baghdad Bob said.  “I have it on good authority that American soldiers are surrendering by the thousands, scared shitless by the sight of our powerful Iraqi troops.  In fact, many Americans have committed suicide by shooting themselves or slitting their wrists or setting themselves on fire.  They rightly decided that it would be better to end their lives quickly than risk a battle with our brave fighting men.”

Behind Baghdad Bob, a group of Iraqi soldiers were marched across the screen with their hands up by gun toting American troops.  Adiya saw it but declined to ask about it.

“Propaganda Minister,” Adiya said.  “Is there any truth to the rumor that American tank battalions have reached Baghdad?”

As Baghdad Bob spoke, a big green tank rolled behind him, making its way across the screen.  “No truth whatsoever, Adiya.  The Americans are lying devils and they manage to get their lies out there but rest assured, there are no U.S. tanks in Baghdad.”

“Do you have any further information, Propaganda Minister?”  Adiya asked.

A duo of American soldiers walked up to Baghdad Bob and handcuffed him.  “No, that’s all for now, Adiya,” Baghdad Bob said as he was pulled away, kicking and screaming.  “Thank you for having me on the program and all Iraqis can be assured that the Americans are getting it up the ass and will be the laughingstock of the world when this is over!  Back to you!”

“Shit,” Uday said.  “This is bad, isn’t it?”

Qusay switched the channel to the American liberal news station, WNN, or the Woke News Network.  An American journalist in a flack jacket appeared in front of a destroyed building.

“I’m Fred Johnson, here in Baghdad, where George Bush’s unilateral, immoral, illegal and unjustified war on the sovereign nation of Iraq has begun.  American troops are literally decapitating babies and using the disembodied heads as hacky sacks, just so Bush can personally steal all of this nation’s oil reserves and get rich like the dirty Republican fuck face that he is.  You know, as a journalist, I try to stay impartial but honestly, I just gotta say it.  George W. Bush is literally worse than Hitler.”

“Alright, WNN,” Uday said.  “I love these guys.”

Qusay turned the channel to the American conservative station, Network News One.  A young Kurt Manley appeared at the anchor desk.

“Kurt Manley here, reporting that the U.S. invasion is underway.  U.S. forces are on the ground and already, we have reports of Iraqis tearing down statues of Saddam Hussein and replacing them with statues of President Bush, blessed be his name.  Iraqi citizens have already changed the name of Baghdad to Bushville and the Army Corps of Engineers are hard at work, tearing down mosques and replacing them with fast food joints, an act that the Iraqis actually asked for, because that’s how much they love America.”

“A-holes,” Uday said as Qusay switched off the television.

The sound of footsteps filled the nearby hallway.  Uday and Qusay snapped to attention as they saw their father enter the foyer.  The Supreme President was dressed casually in a black track suit with red stripes and a pair of white sneakers, ready to go on the lamb.

“Can you believe this shit?!”  Saddam asked.  “Americans in Baghdad!  What the fuck?!”

“Fear not, Papa,” Qusay said.  “The situation is under control.”

“Under control, my ass!”  Saddam said.  “There are so many honkies in this city it’s like Baghdad has been turned into a Pier One!”

Uday chuckled, only to be quickly slapped upside the head by his old man.  “And you, dumbass!  Did you do anything to stop it?”

The older brother hanged his head in shame.  “No, Supreme Papa.”

“No, of course not,” Saddam said.  “Look at you.  You look like a Babylonian Rick James.”

Qusay smiled, only to get slapped upside the head.

“Did I say something funny?”

“No, Supreme Papa,” Qusay said as he shook his head

“I expected better from you, Qusay,” Saddam said.  “I expected you to protect this city and you failed me.”

Qusay hanged his head low.  “Sorry, Supreme Papa.”

Saddam pointed at Uday.  “This one.  Whenever it rains, I have to remind him to keep his mouth closed so he doesn’t drown, but you, Qusay.  I definitely expected more from you.”

“I know,” Qusay said.  “I have failed you, Supreme Papa.”

Saddam grimaced at his children, then shook his head and held out his arms.  “Come here.”

Father and sons hugged it out.  “My boys.  Oh, how I love my stupid baby boys.”

Once the hug fest was over, the Supreme Papa had an order.  “Qusay, you’re the Acting Supreme President now.”

Uday threw a fit, stomping his foot on the marble floor.  “But Supreme Papa!  That’s not fair.  I’m the oldest!”

“Yes, well,” Saddam said.  “Oldest isn’t always best, Uday.  I’m sorry, but I gave you your shot to impress me and you wasted your life on drinking and partying and whoring and gambling and underground tiger fighting and cocaine snorting.”

“How many times do I have to tell everyone I’m off the booger sugar?”  Uday asked, patting the plastic bag in his pocket just to make sure it was still there.

“Uday, enough,” Saddam said.  “You can’t be the Supreme President.  You are nuttier than squirrel shit.  The way you act.  Shooting people in the face because they spilled a drink on your shoes. It’s unseemly, even for me.”

Uday rolled his eyes.  “Oh, come on.  Like you and Qusay have never had someone shot because they spilled a drink on your shoes.”

“Yes,” Saddam said.  “But there’s a difference between what we do and what you do.”

“We don’t blow a guy’s head off in the middle of a crowded night club, Uday,” Qusay said.  “We wait a year after they offend us, plant some incriminating evidence on them and then have them executed as enemies of the state.”

“All fully sanctioned by the Code of Saddam and perfectly legal in a Court of Saddam Law,” Saddam said.

Uday shook his head.  “Damn it.  I knew I should have gone to Saddam Law School.”

BOOM! The explosions drew near.  Everyone lost their balance and struggled to regain their footing as the palace was rocked by the earthquake-like blast.

A flip-phone in Qusay’s pocket rang.  The Supreme Security Forces Commander took the call.  “Hello.  Go for Qusay.”

The person on the other end of the line didn’t speak.  Only his breathing could be heard.

“Who is this?” Qusay asked.

Finally, the caller answered in a Southern drawl.  “Don’t mess with Texas.”

“Oh, shit,” Qusay said.

“Listen, Hoss, you go ahead and you put your pappy on the line, pronto.”

Qusay rolled his eyes as he passed the phone to his old man.  “A call for you.”

“Who is it?” Saddam asked.

Qusay offered no reply but a deadpan glare.  Saddam’s eyes widened as he spoke into the receiver.  “George?!”

“Howdy Saddam.  How y’all holdin’ up?”

“Great!” Saddam replied.  “We’re doing just fine!  I’ve tied up all of your generals and I’m butt raping them as we speak.”

Saddam looked to his sons, urging them to play along with the ruse.

“Oh…uh…ow!” Uday said.  “Not my butt!”

“Ouch,” Qusay added.  “Anything but my butt!”

“Nice try, kemo sabe,” POTUS 43 replied.  “But I didn’t just fall off the cabbage train yesterday, buckaroo.  Now lookie here, Saddam old boy, why don’t you do us all a favor and come on out of there with your hands in the air and wave them around like you just don’t care?”

“I do care!” Saddam shouted into the receiver.  “This is my country, assface!”

“Not anymore, dipstick,” Bush said.  “All them tanks rollin’ up on your joint would say otherwise.”

“Look George,” Saddam said.  “I know you think you’re a big, swinging dick but trust me, Iraq is not a place you want.  I wouldn’t wish this shithole on my worst enemy which, coincidentally, is you, you inbred hillbilly assclown. Just do yourself a favor.  Call this shit off immediately.”

“Call it off?” Bush asked.  “Why in the name of Sam Houston’s dingus would I do that?  Hell, invading Iraq is the best Idea I’ve ever had.”

“It is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“Hmm,” Bush said.  “I don’t know.  I think this idea is pretty damn solid.  Hell, I think that ten, twenty years down the road, this idea is going to really hold up.”

Saddam slapped his forehead.  “George, listen to me.  Do you have any idea how this country was created?”

“Hell, if I know,” Bush said.  “The head camel jockey found a sword in a cave or some bullshit?”

“No,” Saddam said.  “After World War I, a bunch of old British fucks with shaky palsy hands scribbled some lines on a map at random and carved out a nation that looked like it was drawn by a Kindergarten class, shoving all kinds of groups that totally despise one another into one giant festering powder keg.  You’ve got Sunni.  You’ve got Shia.  You’ve got Yazidis.  You’ve got Kurds.  You’ve got so many conflicting ideologies and the only thing that keeps them from completely tearing the country apart is me threatening to hack them all into pieces and skull fuck their mothers while their fathers are forced to watch at gunpoint.  That’s what it takes to keep some miniscule semblance of order around here.  Do you really want to do that?  No, you don’t.  Your pussified Western media will never stand for it even if you did.  Get out while you can, George.  You will never, ever, ever be able to hold down this fort full of odiferous assholes for any considerable amount of time without draining your treasury and suffering heavy casualties.”

Bush laughed.  “Lies!  Everyone knows that the Iraqis are a good and just people and their only problem is you, dickhead!  My advisors assure me that once you’re gone, Iraqis from all kinds of diverse backgrounds will rally together and turn that crap hole into a genuine, bonafide, Western style democracy.  Hell, your people are gonna love us Americans so much that they’re gonna Americanize the shit outta that place.  I’m talkin’ high-priced coffee shops and burger joint drive-throughs on every corner.  Shoppin’ malls and barbecues.  Hoot nannies and square dance parlors.  Sitcoms where the sassy kid is the boss.  Reality TV shows.  Dames in short skirts, runnin’ around, bossin’ your menfolk into an early grave. I’m tellin’ you, Cochise.  The Iraqi people are gonna love the freedom I’m servin’ up to them so much that they’re goina be shittin’ red, white and blue for years to come.”

Saddam tossed his hand up and down in front of his crotch, pretending to jerk himself off out of sheer boredom.  “Oh, yes, Mr. President.  You sure do know what the Iraqi people want…not!”

“Listen, fartknocker…”

“No, you listen, asswipe,” Saddam said.  “Have you even thought about Iran?”

“What about it?”

“The Ayatollah and I have been in a perpetual dick measuring contest for nearly a quarter-century now.  Who is going to beat back the Ayatollah’s dick if my dick isn’t around?”

“Uh, hello,” Bush said.  “Have you not been listenin’ this entire time?  When the Iraqis fully embrace Western style democracy and become a Middle Eastern version of America, they’ll band together and chop the Ayatollah’s dick clean off.”

Saddam sighed.  “I can’t believe you sold your people on this shit.”

The Supreme President turned to Qusay and covered the receiver with his hand.  “I can’t even deal with this guy right now.  He thinks he’s just going to invade and then everyone is going to fart rainbows out of their assholes and hold hands and sing kum bai yah.”

“Just tell him to fuck off and hang up,” Qusay said.

“Yes,” Saddam said as he removed his hand from the receiver.  “George?  I have to go so please fuck off so I can hang up now.”

“This is your last warning, Saddam,” Bush said.  “You and your boys get your asses outside with your hands up or my boys are going to shoot you all full of so much lead that you’ll be able to use your dicks to take the SATs.”

“OK,” Saddam said.  “I’m hanging up now.  Give my best to your father and his wrinkly old ass.  I can’t believe out of all of you he was the smart one in the family.  Goodbye.”

The Supreme President hovered his finger over the end button, then held the receiver up to his mouth again.  “George?”


“The strangest thought just came over me,” Saddam said.

“Let’s hear it.”

“What if, and follow me on this one, say, fifteen years or so from now, our countries are run by assholes that are so smelly that they make the people yearn for you and I fondly, so much so that they remember our assholes as being as fragrant as roses?”

Bush mulled the question over.  “So, what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Like a bunch of terrorists just take over part of Iraq and I don’t know, part of Syria, and then just create their own terrorist country full of terrorists that just sit around and do terrorist shit all day?”

“Maybe,” Saddam said.

“And then what?” Bush asked.  “America ends up being run by, oh, I don’t know, say, obnoxiously rude serial philanderer billionaire businessman Vinny Stugotz?”

Bush and Saddam were quiet for a moment until they both busted out into laughter.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. President,” Saddam said.  “I needed that.”

“That’s crazy talk, Saddam.  Get your ass outside and surrender and I’ll make sure you and your mongoloid sons aren’t manhandled when you’re taken into custody.”

“Eat a dick, George.”

“Alright then,” Bush said.  “Have it your way.  The Scorched Eagles are en route.  Adios.”

Saddam felt the bottom of his stomach fall out as he gave the phone back to Qusay.

“Supreme Papa,” the younger son said.  “You don’t look well.  What is it?”

“The Scorched Eagles,” Saddam replied.

“Shit,” Qusay said.

“Well, we’re so screwed that there’s no point in hiding this anymore,” Uday said as he pulled out his cocaine baggie and served himself up a snort.

“Time is running out,” Saddam said.  “And I have one last directive for you boys before I cast myself off into exile.  Tell me, where is my…”

Saddam gulped as though he were choking on words he did not want to say.  “…other son?”


Toilet Shocker – Chapter 14

toilet shocker demo

Natalie and Walter sat at a table in the middle of the lounge.  The anchorwoman sipped her coffee as Walter noshed on a plastic cup full of celery sticks.

“Still taking your coffee black?”

“Yes,” Natalie said.  “Apparently cutting back on sugar works.  Look at you.”

“Oh,” Walter said.  “I’m not that special.”

The soft, supple arms of a random hot ass reporter chick with big titties were suddenly draped around Walter’s neck as a pair of red lips were pressed up against his cheek.  “Walter, darling, it’s so thrilling to see you’re back in New York again.”

“Start spreading the news,” Walter said.

The hot ass reporter chick tussled the ex-cameraman’s hair.  “Stop by my place and we’ll spread something else.”

Walter gulped as the hot ass reporter chick walked away.

“Does that happen often?” Natalie asked.

“Literally at least three times an hour,” Walter replied.

“Of course, it does,” Natalie said.  “You’re an Adonis now.  Good for you.”

“What can I say?” Walter asked.  “I’m popular.”

Natalie drummed her fingers along the table.  “So…”

Walter nodded his head.  “So…”

The pair sat in silence until Walter spoke up.  “So, you and Ed Enwright?”

“What business is it of yours?” Natalie snapped.

Walter threw up his right hand in a “stop” motion.  “It’s not.  I’m just making conversation.”

“You had your chance, Buster Brown,” Natalie said.

“I know,” Walter said.

Spencer stopped by the table and set down a plate full of goodies. “Miss Brock, I’ve brought you assortment of muffins.  We have blueberry, cranberry, pomegranate, chocolate chip and pistachio.”

“Thanks,” Natalie said.  “Oh..”

“Oh?” Spencer asked.

“It’s just that,” Natalie said.  “I don’t see any corn…”

Spencer’s eyes widened.  “You’re right!  There’s no corn at all!”

“It’s not a big deal,” Natalie said.

“It’s a very big deal!” Spencer shouted.

“Don’t worry about it,” Natalie said.

“I will worry about it, my lady,” Spencer said as he walked off.  “I will scour the earth for a corn muffin!”

Walter laughed.  “Do you even want a corn muffin?”

“No,” Natalie said.  “I’m power tripping.”

Walter chomped down on a celery stick.  “If anyone ever deserved a good power trip…”

The table got quiet again.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Walter said.

“No need,” Natalie said.  “Just you know, when a woman invites a man up to her suite on New Year’s Eve and you’re a no show, it doesn’t feel good.”

“I know,” Walter said.  “I don’t know what to say.  I respect you too much to treat you like…”

“Like what?”  Natalie asked.

“A piece of meat,” Walter said.  “I’ve got a monster inside of me, Natalie.  Every man has one.  Usually, most men can satisfy it with a few youthful trysts before they settle down and commit to one woman but my whole life, I was so overweight no woman, not even the ugliest of females, would give me a time of day, and then, all of a sudden, our toilet gator book hits the big time, we’re getting invited on all these talk shows, I’m doing cameos in movies…”

Natalie nodded.  “And your previously empty soul mug is now overflowing with pussy.  I get it.”

“And I get it,” Walter said.  “A lot. Like, non-stop.  24/7.  My confidence levels are higher than they’ve ever been and women can sense that.  I can’t walk three feet down the street without a woman running up to me and offering to…”

“I understand,” Natalie said.

“Over four and a half decades with nothing,” Walter said.  “And then all of a sudden my phone is ringing off the hook with calls from lady rappers, pop stars, TV stars, movie stars, authors, politicians scientists…”

“Scientists?”  Natalie asked.

“Last week,” Walter said.  “I had a three way in a coat closet with a lady Nobel prize winner, a Congresswoman and the coat check girl itself.  Don’t even get me started on the non-famous woman.  Once a month, I’ll allow myself to splurge and go to a diner and enjoy a nice breakfast of whole wheat toast with light butter and a glass of ice water and I can’t even do that without the waitress leaving me a note on my bill to meet her in the bathroom.”

Natalie sipped her coffee.  “That sounds terrible.  What an exhausting life you lead.”

“Tell me about it,” Walter said.  “Oh, and I can’t keep myself out of the gossip rags.  Every day, these famous babes are fighting over me.  You see that story about how Lady Cyanide threatened to cut Juicy Judy at the rap awards?”

“It made our newscast,” Natalie said.

“I tell you, Natalie,” Walter said.  “I can’t keep up with it.  I wish I could say no and just settle down, have a healthy relationship with a nice, loving, intelligent woman.  Constant, non-stop sex is fun, but the downside is none of these women can carry a conversation in a bucket.”

Cody stopped by the table with a single corn muffin on a plate.  He set it down.  “Miss Brock, I’m so sorry to interrupt.  I just want you to know I heard about the snafu that Spencer had with your muffin and I gave him a good talking to.  The nerve of that imbecile, showing up to your table without a corn muffin, but don’t worry, I gave him a good piece of my mind.  Now, it took some doing, but I ran to the bakery one block over and got you this…”

“It’s looks great,” Natalie said.  “Thank you.”

Cody nodded.  “Call on me whenever I can be of service.”

The intern walked away.  The anchorwoman smirked at her ex-cameraman.  “Threatening bodily harm against their relatives with a mythical weapon?”

“Works every time,” Walter said.  “I thought everyone in this business knew that.”

“Apparently, I didn’t get the memo,” Natalie said.

The duo sat in silence for a moment until another hot ass chick reporter walked past the table, being sure to drop a hotel room key card down before moving on.  Walter picked it up.  “The Swankforth Manhattan?  Jesus, that must have set her back a pretty penny.”

“Do all you women usually spend that much on you?” Natalie asked.

“God,” Walter said.  “All day long, the stuff just shows up at my door.  Suits.  Clothes.  Man jewelry.  Cologne.  Tickets to exotic locations.  Gift baskets filled with expensive gadgets.”

“Sounds like a real drag,” Natalie said.

“I have to keep track of it all on a spreadsheet for my taxes,” Walter said.  “That’s how much these women are spending on me.”

“Aww,” Natalie said. “Poor baby.”

“This is rude!”  Walter said.  “To just book a hotel room without even asking me.  She doesn’t know that I’ll come and…and…”  Walter stopped and read a note taped to the back of the card out loud.  ‘Room 306 at 9 p.m.  Don’t be late.  Plow me nasty.’”

Natalie laughed.  Walter tucked the card and note into his pocket.  “See what I mean?  The nerve of these women.  She doesn’t know that I’m available to plow her nasty but now that she’s booked the room, I feel obligated to…”

“Plow her nasty?” Natalie asked.

“I mean,” Walter said.  “I’m probably going to anyway but she could have asked first.  It’s just common courtesy.”

“You know, Walter,” Natalie said.  “You could say no.”

Walter said.  “I could…but also, I can’t.”

“It seems to me that you’ve replaced one addiction for another,” Natalie said.

“Food for sex,” Walter said.  “I know.  Believe me, I figured it out.  I’m in touch with my inner psyche more than ever.”

“Do what you want, buddy,” Natalie said.  “But do you want some advice as a friend?”

“Sure,” Walter said.

“I remember how you always said you thought you had your food addiction under control until one day it caught up with you,” Natalie said.  “You woke up.  You had a hard time walking.  Your knees ached.  Your back hurt.  You’d gained more weight than you thought you could ever lose.  You suffered chest pains, you couldn’t breathe at night without a CPAP machine.”

“Not fun memories,” Walter said.

“But you beat all that,” Natalie said.  “And if it’s a stable relationship you’re yearning for, maybe you have to learn to say no once in a while.”

Yet another hot ass blonde chick reporter with big titties stopped by the table.  Without warning, she slapped Walter across the face, then leaned over and kissed the red mark she made on his cheek.

“Ow,” Walter said.

“Son of a bitch!”  the hot ass reporter chick with big titties said.  “You have your way with me and my twin sister behind my back and you never call either of us!”

Walter looked confused.  “I…I…when was that again?”

The hot ass blonde chick reporter dropped two plastic hotel room keys on the table.  “You’ll meet me tomorrow night and my sister the night after that.  Stand us up again and we’ll hot you down like an animal.”

Walter grabbed both keys and shoved them into his pocket as the bodacious babe stormed off.

“Must be hard to keep track of your schedule,” Natalie said.

Walter pulled out his cell phone and punched a few buttons.  “That’s cool.  I’ve got an app for that.  Where were we?”

Natalie reached across the table and grabbed her friend’s hand.  Walter put his phone away.

“You thought food fulfilled you but your life only got better when you put the snack cakes down,”  Natalie said.  “Your food addiction caught up with you.  It tore your life apart and you had to do a lot of work to pull it together.  Just like all those little individual snack cakes eventually built themselves up into a giant fat roll on your belly, maybe, just maybe, all of these individual skanks will build up into a giant skank avalanche that’s going to suffocate you.”

Walter smiled.  “A skankalanche?  What a way to go.”

“You laugh,” Natalie said.  “Go on.  Have your fun.  Just know the odds of this lifestyle being sustainable forever aren’t good.  Use enough women as your personal playthings and sooner or later, you’ll wake up with either a disease that will make your dick turn gangrenous and fall off, or worse…”

“There’s something worse than my dick falling off?” Walter asked.

“One of them will talk about you,” Natalie said.  “Publicly.  Have you seen Lifebox, lately?”

“I try to stay away from it,” Walter said.  “Every woman who ever rejected me before I became famous writes me daily messages on there.  The ones who since got married are the most aggressive but, blech.  Like I’d ever be caught dead with a woman my age.”

Natalie’s face recoiled in disgust.  “I’m not even going to get into that mess.  But seriously, if you cavort with enough random bimbos and then you’ll either wake up with a disease that liquefies your innards, or one of the bimbos will feel jilted and will write an unflattering post that will make show business drop you like a bad habit.”

“That’s true,” Walter said.  “I have been thinking about getting my lawyer to draw up a pre-sex contract.”

“A what?”

“A pre-sex contract,” Walter said.  “Initial here.  Sign there.  Indicate you understand you’re having sex with me out of your own free will, that you’re free to leave at any time and I won’t try to stop you, that there will be no repercussions if you say no, for I am offering a safe, non-coercive sex environment and also, that you agree that even if you decide, thirty years from now, that you wish you hadn’t had sex with me in the past, that you won’t consider it rape and assassinate my character on Lifebox.”

Natalie took her hand away.  “Did it ever dawn on you that if you have to go through all that…”

“That I should stop and just find one kind, caring, trustworthy woman to love and cherish?” Walter said yes.  “But first, I have to get all the lust out of my system.”

“You’ll never get it out,” Natalie said.  “You just have to get it under control.”

“Believe me,” Walter said.  “I’ve thought about the various sex diseases and I’ve thought about getting called out on Lifebox.  The one thing that worries me the most though is that one day all this might go away.”

“You think so?” Natalie asked.

“I know so,” Walter said.  “All this success came so late in life for me.  Soon, I’ll be fifty and even though I live a healthier lifestyle now, my body will start to fall apart and when that happens, all the show business bookings will stop and when they stop, I’ll just become a sad, old man, sitting in a big empty house all alone.”

“Well,” Natalie said.  “If that isn’t enough to motivate you, then…”

“Fifty more trysts,” Walter said.  “Sixty, seventy, tops.  And then I’m done.  Then I’ll swear off random pussy until I find the love of my life.  I swear.”

“Whatever happened to award winning actress Marisol Villalobos?” Natalie asked.  “I liked her.”

“I did too,” Walter said.  “We’re taking a break.  She uh…got heavily into the furry lifestyle.”

“The furry lifestyle?” Natalie asked.

Walter straightened his tie.  “She had this thing where she would dress up like a hound dog and she’d make me dress up like a fox and then she’d chase me around her estate.  When she caught me, she’d…”

The shock in Natalie’s eyes was palpable.

“That doesn’t leave this table,” Walter said.

“My lips are sealed,” Natalie said.  “And hey, Walter, I’m not here to judge.  I just hope you come to your senses and find a stable relationship, but that’s a decision you’ll have to make.”

Natalie looked at her watch. “I should get going. It’s been fun to catch up with you, but now that I’m with someone, you really shouldn’t drop without calling, even just as friend.”

Walter leaned bit into another celery stick.  “I didn’t come to see you.  I’m here to tape an interview with one of the hot reporter chicks with big titties.”

“Why?  What are you promoting?”

Walter pulled out his cell phone.  He pulled up a video and passed the phone to Natalie.  The anchorwoman pressed play.  A buff, studly looking Walter appeared on screen, wearing a sleeveless shirt that accentuated his arm muscles, and a pair of shorts that showed off his calf muscles.

“He used to be a fat fuck,” an announcer said.

“Has TV lost all standards?” Natalie asked.

“Yes,” Walter said.  “For a long time now.

The on-screen version of Walter looked off into the distance, as though he were lost in thought.  “His name is Walter Dawes, and he was such a fat fuck that he huffed and puffed and was barely able to walk while he was helping Network News One Anchorwoman Natalie Brock track the toilet gator…”

“Name dropper,” Natalie said.

“Your people said it was OK,” Walter said.

On-screen, Walter walked through a gym, barking orders at overweight people as they worked out, their sweat bodies on the verge of collapse as they did push-ups, sit ups, lifted weights, walked on treadmills and so on.

“One day, Walter woke up, shouted, ‘I don’t want to be a fat fuck anymore!’ and took control of his life.  He said no to pizza…”

In the video, Walter knocks over a table full of hot, steaming pizza pies, sending a wave of pepperoni and sauce to scatter all over the floor.

“He kicked ice cream’s ass,” the announcer said.

The video version of Walter round-house kicked a tub of rocky road, sending it flying.

“He at the shit out of that celery,” the announcer said.

Video Walter held up a celery stick.  “Mmm! I love celery.”

Real life Walter pushed his celery stick away.  “I really don’t.”

Video Walter ran around a track, a legion of fatties behind him, struggling to keep up.

“You can’t keep saying you’ll start your diets tomorrow, fatties!” Video Walter shouted.  “Tomorrow is here!  Tomorrow is now!  Tomorrow is today!”

“Are you serious?” Natalie said.

“Yes,” Real Walter replied.

The announcer continued.  “He’s the co-author of Jaws of Death: The Inside Story of the News Duo That Tracked the Toilet Gator.”

              “I should sue you,” Natalie said.  “You didn’t write a word of that book.”

“Too late,” Real Walter replied.  “We have a deal.”

“And he’s the author of the best-selling weight loss books that have helped millions shed unwanted, unsightly fat,” the announcer said.  “Books like, ‘You Don’t Have to Be a Fat Fuck’ and ‘Stop Being a Fat Fuck Today.’”

              “A ghost writer may or may not have been involved with those,” Walter said.

Video Walter spoke up.  “I’m Walter Dawes and when I got tired of being a fat fuck, I took action, and now I’m not a fat fuck anymore. Let me tell you, life is great when you’re not a fat fuck.  When you’re not a fat fuck, you’ve got the energy you need to do the things you want and be the best possible version of yourself.  Over the next six months, I’ll be taking twenty fat fucks and taking them on a journey to becoming the slim, trim, healthy, non-fat fucks that they always dreamed of being.  If you’re a fat fuck watching at home, I hope you’ll join us, because believe me, as bleak as things may look now, a life of non-fat fuckery is within reach.  Will you let me help you grab it?”

Natalie looked up from the phone.  “Are you actually helping these people or exploiting them?”

Real Walter shrugged.  “Meh.  A little of both.”

The anchorwoman returned her eyes to the screen, where Walter could be seen chasing overweight contestants around a dining room table.  The spread was overflowing with healthy options, like cauliflower and brusell sprouts, as well as not so healthy options, like buffalo wings and candy.

“No!” Video Walter shouted as he pulled out a cattle prod and used it to shock a chubby woman in the butt.  “It puts down the chocolate bar and picks up a tofu bar! It does this whenever it’s told!”

“Please!” the chubby woman pleaded.  “I’m so hungry!”

“No!” Video Walter shouted.  “It puts down the chocolate bar and picks up the tofu bar or else it gets the cattle prod again!”

Natalie looked up from the phone and shook her head at her friend.

“Maybe a little more of the latter,” Walter said.

On-screen, the track scene resumed. Video Walter knelt down to yell at one of his hefty charges, a morbidly obese man in his twenties who had stopped running and had collapsed on the ground, red faced, sweaty and out of breath.

“Get up!” Video Walter shouted.

“No!” the portly young man cried.  “I need to rest! Leave me!”

“I will not leave a single one of you fat fucks behind!” Video Walter shouted.

“I can’t do this,” the portly man said.  “Not anymore.”

Video Walter got into the obese man’s face.  “Son, do you want a good life or not?”

“I do,” the young man said.  “I really do.”

“Do you want to be a fat fuck forever?” Video Walter asked.

“I don’t,” the young man said.

“Well,” Video Walter said. “Tick tock, fat fuck.  Time’s a wastin.’”

“I know,” the young man said.  “I just need a minute.”

“You don’t got a minute, son,” Video Walter said.  “You’re pushing thirty.  You think you’ll ever get a good job looking the way you do?”

“No,” the young man said.

“You think any reputable company wants a gross fat fuck representing them?” Video Walter asked.

“No,” the young man said.  “No, I don’t.”

“You think you’ll ever get a wife the way you look?”  Video Walter asked.  “Son, you haven’t been able to see your ding dong in years.  How the hell do you expect a woman to see it let alone do anything worthwhile with it?”

“I don’t,” the young man said.  “I gave up on ever being loved a long time ago.”

“Stop giving up and get up and get in the game, boy!” Video Walter said.

Tears flowed from the young man’s flabby face.  “Please…I just need some time.”

“You’re all out of time, boy!” Video Walter shouted. “Every second that goes by is another opportunity you missed because the skinny fuck you want to be is trapped inside the fat fuck that you are! Boom!  Some skinny fuck just took a job you could have gotten!  Boom! Some skinny fuck just ran off with a woman you could have fucked!  Boom, boom, boom!  It’s now or never, kid.  What’s it going to be?”

“I don’t know,” the young man said.

“Son,” Video Walter said.  “I’ve got plenty of time for winners but I don’t have a second free for losers.  Are you a winner or are you a loser?”

“I want to be a winner,” the young man said.

“Boy,” Video Walter said.  “Are you tired of being a fat fuck?”

“Yes,” the young man said.

“Are you tired of watching your life pass by, knowing that you’re missing out on the brief, fleeting time that God gave you to exist in this world because you’re too fucking fat to live the life you’ve always dreamed of?”

The young man dried his eyes.  “Yes.”

“Here’s the million-dollar question,” Video Walter said.  “Do you want to be a fat fuck anymore?”

The young man stood up.  “No!”

“I can’t hear you!” Video Walter shouted.

The young man smiled.  “No!”

“Son!” Video Walter cried.  “Tell me at the top of your lungs so the whole world can hear you!”

There on that track, in front of all his fellow contestants, the obese young man screamed like a man reborn.  “I don’t want to be a fat fuck anymore!”

Video Walter hugged the sweaty young man before returning to the head of the pack.  The young man continued to run alongside the contestants.  The screen faded to black.

“I Don’t Want to Be a Fat Fuck Anymore,” the announcer said.  “Now playing on the Real Life Channel, Sundays at 9 p.m., right after ‘Teenage Crack Whore Interventions’ and before, ‘America’s Worst Anal Bleaching Disasters.’  Tired of scripted programming?  Then come to the Real Life Channel, where we just put cameras on a bunch of dumb, stupid assholes and let them do their thing.”

Natalie passed the phone back to Walter.  “I don’t know whether or not I should be disgusted by your lack of intregity or jealous of your time slot.”

“A little of both,” Walter said.

“You logged so many years as a cameraman,” Natalie said.  “After the toilet gator, after your transformation…you could have become a journalist if you wanted to.”

“I didn’t want to,” Walter said.  “Please.  Having to deal with all the political fruitcakes screaming at each other all the time?  No thanks.  I’ll just stick with my show.  I can harass fat people into losing weight for a month, turn the footage into twelve shows and then I’m free to do whatever I want for the rest of the year.”

“Yeah,” Natalie said. “Speaking of political fruitcakes screaming at each other all the time, can I show you something?”

Walter stood up.  “Lead the way.”

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 13

toilet shocker demo

Chapter 13
At the Network News One headquarters building in Manhattan, anchorwoman Natalie Brock sat behind the center of the news desk. She closed her eyes as a makeup artist’s brush dabbed her cheeks. Once all the poking and prodding of her face was finished, she opened her peepers and studied the words on the monitor while working on her voice exercises. “Rubber buggy baby bumpers…rubber buggy…is it rubber baby or rubber buggy?”
On Natalie’s right (from a TV viewer’s perspective) a dapper, healthier, clean-shaven, Ed Enwright sat and ran a highlighter over a sentence in a news article he’d brought in preparation of the next segment. Ed wore a perfectly cut black suit and had shed his extra pounds. “It’s rubber baby buggy bumpers.”
“Shush,” Natalie said. “I’m not talking to you.”
An insanely beautiful woman with an ample bosom to the right of Ed confirmed Ed’s assertion. “It’s rubber baby buggy.”
“No,” Natalie said. “Because why would you have a rubber baby?”
Ed slapped his forehead. “It’s a rubber baby until you get to buggy bumper and then you’re no long talking about a rubber baby, you’re talking about the bumper of a buggy that holds a baby.”
“That makes no sense,” Natalie said. “And stop it. I’m still not talking to you.”
Over on the left side of the news desk, another ridiculously attractive woman with a massive chest confirmed Ed’s claim. “It’s confusing but that’s the point, to get you to string along a number of words that sound similar. It helps you maintain focus while speaking.”
“So, the buggy bumper isn’t made out of rubber?” Natalie asked.
“It is,” the woman on the left said.
“Then why is it a rubber baby buggy…”
Ed snickered.
“Shut up, Ed,” Natalie said. “You’re in no position to…”
Dan Kowalski, Natalie’s nerdy producer, stepped up to a spot that was just a few feet away from one of the multiple cameras in the studio. His frame was slight and his head was bald. Even though he was only in his early thirties, he wore a grandfatherly cardigan sweater. He held a clipboard and wore a headset with a microphone.
“Get ready to make the magic happen, people,” Dan said. “Thirty seconds people
Ed faced a camera and positioned himself in a poised manner. Natalie did the same.
“Are we cancelling our plans this evening then?” Ed asked without taking his gaze from the camera.
“You can cancel my foot up your ass,” Natalie replied.
Ed laughed. The beauties tried not to, but soon enough, they joined in.
“What?” Natalie asked.
“Nothing,” Ed said. “It’s nothing.”
“Ten seconds,” Dan said.
“Idiot,” Natalie said.
“It’s just that if you cancel putting your foot up my ass, that means you’re not putting my foot up your ass,” Ed explained.
Natalie maintained her smile. “Whatever. Please stop speaking to me. I can’t stand you.”
Dan held up three fingers and ticked them off. “3…2…1…action!”
Natalie took her cue. “Welcome back to Network News One, where we have the hottest and also, the not so hot, average, and even below average looking women whose titty size is none of your business. We’re reporting the news and shit a lot more often these days. In political news, confirmation senate confirmation hearings continue for Harold Clarke, President Stugotz’s pick to replace the late Justice Myron Rosenbaum. Here’s a clip of those solemn, dignified proceedings.
The senate chamber appears on screen. In the rafters, three women dressed in purple, frumpy, ankle length dresses with bonnets on their heads are arrested and dragged away, kicking and screaming whilst shouting, “We won’t be your birthing cows! If you appoint Clark to the Supreme Court, your daughters will be birthing cows for the rest of their lives!”
Natalie explained the commotion with a bit of voice over commentary. “For our viewers at home who aren’t up to date on their show streaming, ‘Birthing Cow’ is a popular show on the pay to stream service Wezzle, about a dystopian future in which women are forced by law to remain barefoot and pregnant at all times and never know the joys of working a 9-5 job where a boss breathes down their neck and they never get to…well, I won’t spoil it for you.”
U.S. Appeals Court Judge Harold Clarke took a sip of water while various senators preened for the cameras.
“Republican Senator Phil Taylor of Iowa will now call the meeting to order,” Natalie told viewers.
An elderly man banged a gavel down. “I hereby call these nomination proceedings to order. Before we begin, I’d like to remind my colleagues on both sides of the aisle that the world is watching and therefore, at all times, we must adhere to certain standards of decorum and decency, and not descend into…
Senator Carol Hastings, a California Democrat, interrupted the Republican. “Mr. Chairman?”
Senator Taylor continued. “…petty insults and nasty potshots. I assure you, everyone will have time to get their questions answered, but we must…”
“Mr. Chairman,” Senator Hastings said. “I’d like to move that this judicial nominee has poopy pants.”
Senator Taylor banged his gavel. “Senator Hastings, please, hold on until I finish my…”
More protestors appeared in the rafters. They all wore shirts with pictures of fetuses on them. “Save the babies!” they cried. “Every minute Judge Clarke isn’t sitting on the SCOTUS bench is a minute where 1,000 babies die!”
Security dragged the protestors away as the chairman continued. “Now then, as I was saying, a free and open discussion will be allowed, one where a diverse array of opinions will be shared but we must remain respectful to one another and we can’t…”
Republican Senator Scott Masterson, who throughout his career had taken the unusual step of wearing his ten-gallon cowboy hat everywhere, even on the senate floor interrupted. “Mr. Chairman…”
“No,” Senator Taylor said. “The proceedings have not begun yet. When they begin, all will have their time to…”
“Mr. Chairman,” Senator Masterson said. “I move this illustrious body recognize the irrefutable fact that the gentlewoman from California’s pants are much poopier and indeed, much smellier than Judge Clarke’s pants ever have been or ever will be.”
Senator Taylor tossed his gavel on the desk and pulled out a shiny flask. “Fuck it,” the old man said as he took a long pull. “Have at it, assholes.”
Senator Hastings took first dibs. “Judge Clarke. When it comes to the issue of abortion, what is your position on the Supreme Court’s ruling on the landmark decision of Roe vs. Wade? Specifically, will you uphold that decision in any and all cases that come before the Supreme Court in the future?”
Judge Clarke leaned into the microphone. “Senator, with all due respect, it would be improper for me, as a judge, to state publicly how I might rule on a matter as I am required at all times to remain impartial and..
“Blah, blah, blah,” Senator Hastings said. “Look, if there’s one thing this country needs, it’s twenty-four-hour, taxpayer funded, drive-through abortion clinics.”
“Disgraceful,” Senator Masterson said.
“No one asked you, redneck,” Senator Hastings said.
“Why don’t you go back to San Francisco and burn your bra, ya’ hairy armed…”
Senator Hastings glared at Senator Taylor.
“What?” the old man asked. “Oh, no we’re paying attention to me?” The old man picked up his gavel and half-heartedly pounded it down. “Whatever. Order, order, and so on. Whatever.”
“All I’m asking you, Judge Clarke,” Senator Hastings said. “Is if the issue of twenty-four-hour, taxpayer funded, drive-through abortion clinics were to come before the highest court in the land, would you be for it or against it?”
Judge Clarke took a sip of water. “Senator, I really don’t foresee a way in which that issue would ever come before the Supreme Court, but even so, like I said, I can’t just publicly make random pronouncements on hypothetical scenarios what may or may not ever happen.”
Senator Masterson interjected. “How the hell would you even have a twenty-four-hour drive-through abortion clinic?”
“No one’s talking to you, Uncle Clovis,” Senator Hastings said.
“I’m genuinely intrigued,” Senator Masterson said. “Is the good woman from California suggesting that women should actually drive their automobiles to a side window located at an abortion clinic and stick their womanly area through two sets of windows, one belonging to the car and the other to the abortion providing establishment?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Senator Hastings said. “Now, Judge Clarke…”
“Or,” Senator Masterson said. “Is my colleague on the opposite side of the aisle suggesting that women drive their cars into some type of garage or pit bay where a doctor will work on their hey-nanner-nanners in a rapid manner, using some type of gas-powered apparatus to remove an unborn child from the womb, as if it were a rusty lug-nut that can only be removed by a pneumatic wrench?”
“It’s a meaningless lump of cells,” Senator Hastings said. “And stop making light of it, because removing that meaningless lump of cells is the hardest decision a woman will ever have to make. Now, if the buffoon from the Lone Star State would stop interrupting, I could proceed with my question. Judge Clarke, we’ve already established your status as an owner of poopy pants…”
“Senator,” Judge Clarke said. “I don’t believe we established the veracity of that allegation with any degree of clarity whatsoever. In fact, I advise this body that my pants are in fact, quite poopy free.”
“We’ll let the debate on that issue rage on,” Senator Hastings said. “But for now, I’ll need an answer as to how you would rule on…”
Senator Masterson pounded his fist down on his desk. “Jumpin Jehosaphat, ya’ ornery broad! Can’t you get it through your thick head that this honorable jurist isn’t here to be picked apart so you can score points with your hippie base?”
The senator from California cleared her throat. “Let the record reflect that my colleague from Texas is only wearing that hat to compensate for his tiny, insignificant…”
Senator Taylor openly read a copy of Breast Connoisseur Digest, ignoring everything that was going on around him.
“It would seem Mr. Chairman has checked out,” Senator Masterson said. “Judge Clarke, I’m so sorry you’ve had to undergo such vicious, underhanded tactics when every nitwit with half a brain knows you can’t comment on matters that might come before the court.”
“Thank you, Senator,” Judge Clarke said. “Now, if we could move on to my qualifications, I think you’ll find that…”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Senator Masterson said. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. Are we gonna string these sinful she-devils up or what?”
“I beg your pardon?” Judge Clarke asked.
“Look,” Senator Masterson said. “I’m not saying we should actually hang a woman for having an abortion, I mean…uh, wait, we can’t do that, right?”
“I’m not aware of any legal precedent that would allow that,” Judge Clarke said.
“Of course not,” Senator Masterson said. “At any rate, I’m not saying we should deep six these shrews. I’m just saying there should be a law that would require them to be placed in a public stockade for a day or two, possibly three, four, no more than five, tops, with a sign hanging from their necks that says something to the effect of, oh, I don’t know, ‘I’m a failure as a mother’ or ‘I care more about a good time than raising the next generation,’ something catchy like that, and people would be allowed to walk by and hurl various and sundry epithets at these women, perhaps pelt them with rotten eggs, throw spoiled food products at them, and just make them think twice about deviating from the course that Mother Nature herself put them on.”
“Where are we going with this line of questioning, Senator?” Judge Clarke asked.
“How would you rule on that, son?” Senator Masterson asked.
Judge Clarke closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “I can’t…even. Let me get this straight. The people of every state had an opportunity to select their best and brightest to represent them, and you people are the result?”
“Damn right, fascist,” Senator Hastings said.
“You’re darn tootin,’’ Senator Masterson added.
Senator Taylor was so startled by the question that he awoke from a state of half-slumber. “Huh? Oh yeah, I ask that all the time. Eh, screw it. I’m just here until my term runs out and then I’m going to go home and become a blueberry farmer. Yes, while the world burns, I’ll be rolling around in a field of blueberries, smushing them between my toes, smearing them all over my naked body until I…”
Senator Taylor remembered that cameras were present and banged his gavel. “Let’s take a five-minute recess.”
Natalie Brock returned on-screen. “In other news, the civil war in the third world nation of “No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan may be over for now, but it is now raging on in the West. Over the past few months, vicious acts of terrorism have broken out in London, France, Canada, and the United States, as radical supporters of both factions in the country with an unpronounceable name have taken their vile show on the road. For more on this, we turn to our very own Network News One Counter-Terrorism Analyst, Ed Enwright. Ed?”
Ed surmised that Natalie’s demand that he not speak to her was only in effect off-camera. “Thank you, Natalie. For years, No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan, there was a bloody conflict over whether the country’s citizenry should submit to one of two rival factions, the Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians, or the Obey-Us-Or-Get-an-RPG-Up-the-Butt-ians.
The war was brutal, with high casualties on both sides. Ironically, the leaders of both groups agreed nearly 100 percent on every single issue that the country faced, but just disagreed on how to get people to go along with their edicts, with the Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians maintaining that a machete strike to the taint is the best way to gain compliance, whereas the Obey-Us-Or-Get-an-RPG-Up-the-Butt-ians held steadfast that if you want to capture a dissenter’s attention, there’s no better way to do it than with a rocket propelled grenade fired directly up the aforementioned dissenter’s posterior.
In late 2017, the Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians emerged victorious, taking control of the country the name of which no one can pronounce and renaming it the People’s Republic of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan.
“I’m told the UN has yet to official recognize that designation,” Natalie said.
“That’s correct,” Ed said. “Now, Natalie, when General Ooba Gadooba took control of this country and declared himself the country’s Grand Imperial Honcho, he swore publicly that he would make sure that machete wielding death squads would be spreading his message of control through taint hackery all over the Western world.
Footage rolled of a bearded dictator with sunglasses, a funny hat, and a uniformed chest with hundreds of unearned medals pinned to it spoke at a podium. “We will slash taints in London! We will slash taints in Paris! We will slash taints in America! The streets of the West will run red with the taint blood of the non-believers!”
More footage rolled, this time of three people being carried away on stretchers from a shopping mall in Scranton, Pennsylvania with X shaped bandages covering their genitals. Ed spoke over the footage. “And it looks like the Grand Imperial Honcho made good on his promise. The Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians have set up sleeper cells all throughout the West. These cells are comprised of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan nationals, who by day, pose as hard working, law abiding immigrants and by night, plot heinous acts of taint slashery, like the scene that unfolded yesterday at the Scranton Heights Mall when 28-year-old Doopa Badoopa, who was in the U.S. on a student visa, went berserk in a food court and hacked away at three innocent taints until he was apprehended by police.
Similar attacks have taken place in London and Paris, a total of 103 taints have been hacked beyond recognition thus far. Natalie?
Natalie shuffled some papers around. “President Stugotz spoke about this deadly attack from the White House this morning.”
Footage rolled of President Vinny Stugotz, a man in his early seventies with a spray on tan and a tall, jet black pompadour on his head that defied all laws of physics. “Look, what all of you lying sacks of horse manure in the press need to realize is that these attacks on American taints need to stop, OK? They need to stop. That’s all there is to it. If they continue, then I’ll have no choice but to shoot a nuke up Taint Boy’s ass. That’s what I call Ooba Gadooba on Lifebox, by the way. Taint Boy. He hates it. Gets right under his skin. Alright, I guess I’ll some questions from you suckbags but only because I haven’t got anything else better to do. You! Dirt beard! Go!”
A reporter with a patchy beard addressed the president. “Mr. President, do you think your harsh rhetoric offends the Americans of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian descent, most of whom are hard-working, law abiding, and have made great contributions to this country?”
“That is the dumbest question I have ever heard,” President Stugotz said. “Tonight, I want you to go home, open up the junk drawer in your kitchen, take all of the junk you keep in it, you know, your pencils, your rubber bands, your batteries, your ten old cell phones that you want to keep but don’t know why, that remote control to the TV you don’t have anymore. Take all that junk out of it, then put your literal junk inside of it, by which, I mean, your literal penis. I want you to put your penis inside a drawer and slam the drawer shut at least seventy or eighty times so that the intense pain will remind you to stop asking your president such moronic questions.”
“But,” the reporter said. “Mr. President, your critics on the left have said your approach to this issue is nothing short of bigoted xenophobia.”
“Nine hundred times,” President Stugotz. “I just upped your dose, loser. Slam yourself in the weiner 900 times because that’s the only way you’ll learn to not be so stupid. Look, I’ll explain it so you dummies will understand. When No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan sends its people here, they aren’t sending the cream of the crop, OK? They’re sending people who want to carve your taint up like a Thanksgiving turkey. They’re sending people who want to shoot a rocket propelled grenade so far up your ass then when you burp, it’ll look like you’re spitting out a Roman candle. And yes, OK, once in a blue moon they send like two, maybe three people who just want to live a normal life and drive a cab or become a janitor or mow a lawn or some other shit I wouldn’t be caught dead doing and that’s fine. Let them do that. But I’m telling you, if you start importing No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians into this beautiful country by the boatloads, then get ready, because there won’t be a single taint left. You want to sacrifice every American taint in this nation on the alter of political correctness? I don’t think so. Not on my watch.”
Natalie appeared on screen. “Tough words from a Commander-in-Chief who isn’t afraid to mince them. With us in the student are two of Network News One’s most popular pundits, a hot ass liberal chick with big titties and a hot ass conservative chick with big titties. Hot Ass Liberal Chick With Big Titties, I’ll start with you, what’s your take on the president’s reaction to the wave of taint slash attacks that have been carried out throughout the Western world?”
“Thank you for having me,” the Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties said. “Natalie, what a sad day for America. What this so-called president doesn’t seem to understand is that our country is a nation of immigrants. Our land was built off the blood and sweat of people who came here seeking a better life and the No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian immigrant community is no different. Do you think it’s fun to live in No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan? Do you think it’s fun to wake up every day, not knowing if your taint will be slashed if you incur the wrath of the ruling regime? And suppose you do obey all Grand Imperial Honcho Gadooba’s capricious demands? Then what? You’re still at risk that the roving bands of Obey-Us-Or-Get-an-RPG-Up-the-Butt-ian rebels will shoot a live, honest to God explosive device up your asshole. Life sucks in No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan and if America can improve the lives of those who are brave enough to make the trek here, then that’s wonderful.”
“Hot Ass Conservative Chick with Big Titties,” Natalie said. “Your response?”
“Thanks Natalie,” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties said. “You know, it’s funny that all of a sudden, the hot ass liberal chick with big titties has a great opinion of America, that it’s this wonderful country with an amazing track record of helping immigrants live better lives, because if my memory serves, in past segments, the hot ass liberal chick with big titties dumped all over America, saying that all this great country ever does is discriminate against minorities and it’s the most racist place on the face of the earth. Which is it, Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties? You can’t say, and I quote, ‘America is a racist turd hole’ and then also say everyone who is suffering around the world should be allowed in? Why would you want suffering people to come to a country that you called a racist turdhole? Come on, Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties. Pick a lane and stick with it, already.”
“You’re taking my words out of context,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said.
“You know what else is funny?” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties asked. “Last year, when President Stugotz, blessed be his name, referred to No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan a, quote, ‘big time shit factory full of shit,’ you said it was racist to refer to any country like that…”
“It is,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said.
“You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties,” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties said. “Either No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan is a terrible place where at any moment, a citizen might get a machete to the taint or an RPG up the butt, and therefore, the president was right when he called it a shit factory, or it’s a wonderland full of puppies and kitties and cotton candy and rainbows and the president was racist for referring to it so negatively, but if that’s the case, then why would the No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians need to come to America, which, I remind you, you referred to as a racist turd hole?”
Natalie raised her pointer finger. “I’d just like to point out for our viewers who may not be up to speed on this issue, No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians are actually considered white. In fact, anthropologists have written extensively about how No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians favorite pastime is to locate an old television that has yet to be chopped in half by a machete or blown up by a rocket propelled grenade, set it up, and watch old reruns of NASCAR races. Further, according to historian Roland Dalrymple, who stopped by NN1 last week to discuss his new book about the conflict, not one single No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian has ever uttered the words, ‘Boy, have you lost your damn mind?’ in response to a bratty child’s temper tantrum inside the unpronounceable name’s open market bizarre.”
“Wow,” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties said.
“That’s white as hell,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties added.
“And,” Natalie said. “No parent in that situation has ever said the words, ‘You’re not getting shit now. Wait till we get home and your father hears about this.’ Instead, as Dalrymple pointed out, No-One-No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian parents will usually buy their unruly children their choice of the limited supply of toys made out of sticks available and will even tell their children they are sorry for being such bad parents and will try better next time. They’ll even let it go when their children talk sass and call them by their first name.”
“I’m surprised Stugotz isn’t importing these people by the millions then,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties.
The hot ass conservative chick sighed. “Once again, another liberal wack-job feels the need to dumpster dive into racebaiting.”
“Slow your roll, facist,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said. “All I’m saying is just because a small handful, a tiny percentage of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian-Americans are taking their allegiance to their ex-country’s leader a little too far doesn’t mean that all immigrants from this country should be treated with suspicion. You’re whiter than a ghost’s asshole, Hot Ass Conservative Chick with Big Titties, and yet, I assume you’d call it racism if minorities were to guard their homes whenever you walked by out of fear that you’d conquer them and call it manifest destiny, right?”
The hot ass conservative chick seethed with rage. “I challenge you!”
A bell rang. Natalie pressed a finger up against her earpiece. “Uh oh, ladies and gentlemen. Dan, my producer, informs me that this is a new feature for Network News One. Whenever one hot ass pundit chick with big titties throws down the gauntlet and the other hot ass pundit chick with big titties accepts, the pundits will move their debate from the news desk to the jello wrestling ring and…wait…Jesus, Dan…do we really have a wrestling ring for women to wrestle in? Have we forgotten this is a news channel? We have? Alright then. Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties, do you accept?”
“I do,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said.
Natalie turned to the camera. “That’ll do it for this block. Stick with Network News One because coming up in the next hour, our counter-terrorism analyst will give us his response to the recent spate of machete attacks in the West, right after sports and weather. Oh, and stay away Mama Esposito’s frozen pizzas, because according to a recent study, that brand of pie caused ten out of ten test subjects to fart out a powerful hallucinatory gas that makes people believe spiders are crawling all over their body. We’ll be right back.”

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 12

toilet shocker demo

Chapter 12

              January 21, 2019

A fly buzzed around the light that hanged from the ceiling in Maddox’s cramped cell.  The villain made the most of what little space he had, doing pushups on the cold, cement floor.  As his back raised up, the light glistened across the mad man’s sweat, revealing the intricately detailed tattoo of a hideous sea creature.  The monster had a dragon-esque head, a mouth full of sharp teeth, and a long, winding, snake like body that disappeared into the sea – a patch of water that had been inked in blue on his lower back.  The beast was blacker than the darkest night, though its features were illuminated by a gush of fire that roared out of its mouth.  Above the creature’s head, there was an inscription, a biblical verse relevant to the dreaded devourer of those who became drunk on their own power.  “Nothing on earth is like him – one made without fear.  He looks on everything that is high.  He is king over all the sons of pride.”

So large was the piece of body art that it no doubt required its owner to undergo a great deal of pain during its application.  Many would have relented after the first few lines were drawn, but Maddox?  He enjoyed pain.  In fact, he was on his one thousandth pushup when the sound of a pair of knuckles rapping on the side of his cell’s plexiglass window broke his concentration.  The prisoner rose to his feet, grabbed a towel and turned around to face the perpetually displeased looking face of Capt. Kent.  As usual, he was flanked by his own personal army of soldiers with M-16s at the ready.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Maddox said as he wiped the sweat from his body.  “Had I known I was to have company, I would have tidied up a little.”

“Not interested in your games, Maddox,” Capt. Kent said.  “Up against the wall and assume the position.”

Maddox nodded and obeyed.  He dropped the towel on his bed, then turned, faced the back wall of the cell, and pressed his body up against it.

“Lock your hands behind your head,” the captain ordered.  The prisoner complied.

“On your knees, shit heel,” the captain said.  Once again, the prisoner did as he was told, though this time he flexed his vocal chords with a song.  “You put your right foot in, you put your right foot on…oh Captain, do come in and do the hokey pokey with me.”

“I have some items to give you,” the Captain said.

First, the captain held up a smartphone.  “You have a call from your attorney.  I don’t need to remind you that this phone does not link to the Internet, nor can it be used to make any other calls.  Should you accidentally hang up the call, your time to talk to your legal counsel will be considered over, and the United States government will have no further duty to get your attorney back on the phone for you at this time.  Are we clear?”

“Crystal, my good man,” Maddox said.

“Second,” Captain Kent said as he held up a bulging manilla envelope.  “Your attorney sent some reading material you requested.  A book and a magazine.  Both were checked for contraband.  Both were clear.”

“Thank goodness,” Maddox said.  “You know, I do so hate to engage in stereotypes but I must admit I suffer from a chronic inability to trust the members of the bar.”

“I will now place these items in your pass-through,” Capt. Kent.  “As I do so, you will remain completely still.  If you make the slightest move, your cell will be filled with tear gas.  Are we clear?”

“I could use a good cry,” Maddox said.  “But not today.”

“You will wait until my men and I have cleared the area before you take your items,” Capt. Kent said.  “If you move before you hear the door to this area shut, we will assume your intentions to be hostile and will put you down like the dog that you are.”

“Can’t be too careful nowadays,” Maddox said.

“The reading material you can keep,” Capt. Kent said.  “The phone will be collected when your call is over.”

“Your service has been positively thorough, Captain,” Maddox said.  “I have half a mind to post a positive review of this fine establishment on Lifebox.  Is that still a thing?”

“Shut up,” Capt. Kent said as he opened a drawer in the middle of the door to Maddox’s cell.  He popped both items into the drawer, closed it, then twirled his finger around in the air, a sign for his men to move out.

When the door to the area was shut, Maddox stood up, grabbed the phone and put it up to his ear.  “Emmett!  It’s been so long.”

Attorney Emmett Carlisle, a skilled Manhattan litigator in his late forties was on the other line.”

“Pierce,” Carlisle said.  “I trust they’re treating you well?”

“As well as one might expect,” Maddox said.  “How’s your lovely family?”

Carlisle hesitated to answer.  “Oh…that’s…you know, we should get down to business.”

“Indeed,” Maddox said.  “I have no doubt my jailor is pleasuring himself to this conversation as we speak.  Do slow down, Captain Kent.  You’ll go blind and grow hair on your knuckles.”

“The actions were successful,” Carlisle said.

“Good show, old boy,” Maddox said.  “And the upcoming maneuver?”

Carlisle’s voice wavered.  “That’s…that will take some time.”

“Pish posh,” Maddox said.  “I’ve given you plenty of time already.”

“You have,” Carlisle said.  “But sir, the thing you have to understand is…”

Maddox’s nostrils flared.  Just as the villain was about to blow a gasket, his neighbor across the hall called out from his cell.  “Who are you talking to?  Is it the voices?”

The villain ignored the question.  “Emmett, need I remind you that…”

Another interruption.  Oh, how Maddox despised that.  “Do the voices command you too?”

“Shut up, Sergei,” Maddox said.  “I’m on the phone.”

Carlisle spoke up.  “Sir, I understand your disappointment, but the request you made is very involved, a lot of working parts.  I want to make sure it’s done right and that my best people are on it.”

Maddox calmed down.  “Yes.  Right.  Measure twice, cut once as the bourgeoisie say.”

Sergei pounded a fist on his clear plastic cell door.  “Tell me what the voices are telling you!”

“Emmett, hold a moment,” Maddox said as he turned his attention to his neighbor.  “The voices told me to tell you to pound your head against your door until you fall asleep.”

Sergei appeared bewildered.

“Well,” Maddox said.  “Go on then.  You don’t want to keep the voices waiting.”

Maddox turned his back on Sergei.  As he did, he could hear a non-stop thumping sound from across the hall.

“Very well, Emmett,” Maddox said.  “I suppose I’m in no position to argue.”

“We should be able to help you in March, sir,” Emmett said.

“Until March then,” Maddox said.  “Ahh, good help is so hard to find.  Once you’ve fulfilled your obligations to me, Emmett, you should really kill yourself to make up for your failure.  Really, it’s the only way you’d ever be able to recover any semblance of the formerly high regard I held you in.”

Emmett stammered.  “Sir, I…I…it’s just that…I can’t just…”

“That will be all,” Maddox said.  The madman placed the phone in the drawer, then picked up the manilla envelope.  As he laid down in his short, uncomfortable bed, the thump sounds grew louder.

Maddox pulled out a book titled, Jaws of Death: The Inside Story of the News Duo That Tracked the Toilet Gator. The book featured a photo of recently appointed Network News One anchorwoman Natalie Brock standing next to her cameraman, Walter Dawes.  Natalie wore a woman’s business suit while Walter wore a photographer’s vest and ball cap.  In the background, the big yellow eyes of the late toilet gator that had rocked South Florida in late 2017 loomed large.

“Do the voices still want me to do this?” Sergei asked.

“Indeed,” Maddox said as he opened the book to a section filled with pictures of the toilet gator investigation.  Maddox flipped through photos of Cole Walker, the hero who saved the day, his ex-wife and lead investigator, FBI agent Sharon Walker, Sharon’s partner, the late Gordon Bishop, Cole’s partner, Officer Rusty Yates, Moses Malone and Felix Howard, the gun owner’s rights advocates who backed the team up, dispatcher Maude Fleming and Officer Burt Dunbar, not to mention Professor Elliot Lambert, the marijuana addicted scholar who introduced the world to the field of toilet animal studies.

Thump, thump, thump.  “Can I stop now?”

“No,” Maddox said as he unfolded a centerfold.  In doing so, the villain found a foot long print of a screenshot taken from the video footage of Mayor Beaumont Dufresne being eaten alive by the toilet gator.

“Oh, Mr. Toilet Gator,” Maddox said.  “I love your work.”

The thumps continued as Maddox opened-up a copy of Gossip Digest.  The villain flipped through a few pages until he found an article circled in red pen.  It was titled, “Call Them Benwright!”

Underneath the headline was a recent photo of Enwright and Brock, he in a tuxedo, she in a flowing, formal gown, taken at a charity function.

Maddox read the article.  “Recently resurfaced ex-Fed turned NN1 counter-terrorism analyst Edward Enright was seen with America’s favorite anchorwoman Natalie Brock on his arm at the Twenty-First Annual ‘Save the Platypi’ Fundraiser Gala at Sid’s Bistro in New York City.  At first, a pair of co-workers attending a swanky soiree seemed harmless enough, but witnesses who dropped a dime to this publication indicated that the pair was seen after hours, fogging up the windows of a limousine and canoodling up a storm.”

The villain grinned.  “Oh Ed, you dog, you.”

The thumps stopped.  An alarm blared.  Within seconds, Captain Maddox and company entered the hallway to check on Sergei, who was lying prostrate on the floor of his cell.

“Get him to sick bay, STAT!” the captain said to his men, just before he looked at Maddox.  “What did you do?”

Maddox laid his magazine down on his chest.  “Who…me?”

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 11

toilet shocker demo

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

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 10

toilet shocker demo

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

Toilet Gator – Chapter 9

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The door to Chester’s luxuriously roomy private bathroom had been opened. The quartet stood in awe of the sight before them, namely, the most powerful man in Hollywood, sitting on the toilet, his mouth agape, his eye balls hanging out of the sockets, his body cooked through and through until nothing was left but a charred, smoldering husk.
“I…I don’t…” Dag struggled for words. “Is he?”
“He’s dead,” Shirley said.
“Right,” Dag replied as he turned to Rudy. “I mean, you’d have to be, right?”
“Don’t look at me,” Rudy said. “I’m not a doctor.”
Dag rolled his eyes. “Wow. The lengths that people will go to avoid responsibility in this game.”
The agent raised his voice and directed it toward the bathroom. “Hello in there! Yoo hoo, Chester! Are you alive? Do you need us to call an ambulance or your personal physician or…”
The movie mogul’s blackened jaw dropped off, then disintegrated into dust upon hitting the floor.
“OK,” Dag said. “I’m convinced. He’s a goner.”
Jordan wept. The agent put his arm around his talent for comfort. “There, there, dear. Please tell me that beast didn’t touch you.”
“He didn’t,” Jordan said between sobs. “But he said things…terrible things…that I’d never work again if I didn’t…if I didn’t…”
“It’s ok, dear,” Dag said. “You don’t need to say it. I get the gist.”
Jordan finished the thought. “…if I didn’t give him a blumpkin.”
Dag appeared confused. “A blumpkin? What in the world is a…”
Shirley scooched up on her tippy toes and whispered into Dag’s ear, causing her boss to recoil in disgust. “Oh, that’s sick! That is sick!”
Hearing no disagreement, the quartet remained quiet as the agent comforted his charge. “I mean, unless both parties are consenting adults and they’re into that sort of thing, but otherwise…no, that is sick! Completely sick!”
“I need to call security,” Rudy said.
“Now wait a minute,” Dag said. “Hold on there. I need to talk to my girl here and make sure she’s got her story straight before you bring in the authorities. What happened, Jordan? How’d you do him in?”
Jordan pushed Dag away. “Me?”
Dag looked around the room. “No one else was in here at the time.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Jordan protested.
“Oh, come on,” Dag said. “You’re among friends. Shirley and I are behind you all the way, right Shirl?”
“One hundred percent,” Shirley said. “That pig had it coming.”
Dag pointed at the associate producer. “And Rudy doesn’t care. Hell, the studio will probably give you Chester’s job, right Rudy?”
Rudy’s eyes lit up as he looked around the office. “I hadn’t even thought about that. Oh man, I’m going to have to call a decorator and make this place my own and, you know a ficus would look positively breathtaking right in that back left corner.”
“You did the world a favor, kid,” Dag said. “We just need to make sure you don’t go down for it. So tell me, what happened?”
Jordan sniffed. “I just…I was just…”
Dag pulled his cigar out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “I get the picture. Pervy McGee here tried to blumpkinize you and you were left with no choice but to pull out a can of hair spray and a lit match and fricassee this chump. Sound good, Rudy?”
Rudy was too busy measuring the drapes.
“I don’t have a can of hairspray,” Jordan said.
“What?” Dag said. “You mean your hair gets that much volume on its own? Bah, no matter. Anyway, I have no idea how you did this but that’s the story we’re sticking with but…oh, you torching an unarmed man probably isn’t going to go over well with a fuzz. We need to plant a gun and…Shirl?”
“Yes, boss?” Shirley asked.
“Can you get an unregistered firearm with the serial number filed off?” Dag asked.
“I’ve got a guy,” Shirley said.
“Stop,” Jordan. “That’s not what happened at all. He told me to wait out here and give him a few minutes to ‘chub up,’ then he started screaming, making all sorts of weird sounds. I was about to run when you all came in and when you opened his bathroom door is the first time I saw him….this way.”
Rudy returned to the group. “I must have a wet bar. I don’t even drink, but maybe my visitors will. Oh, this is going to be fab-u-lous!”
Dag chomped on his cigar. “Faulty wiring.”
“What?” Rudy asked.
“I guess that’s the story we’re going with,” Dag said. “Jordan’s broken from reality and can’t admit to…”
Jordan stomped her foot. “I didn’t do it!”
“It’s fine,” Dag said. “No worries. We’ll find a crooked building inspector to say some idiot plumber accidentally ran an electrical line through the toilet and…”
Dag turned to Shirley. “Are you getting this?”
Shirley punched buttons on her phone. “I’m on it, boss.”
“Call the cops, Rudy,” Dag said.
“Right away,” Rudy replied.
“Oh, and Rudy?”
“Can you hear this poor wretch’s last words?”
Dag flattened out his right hand and held it up against the right side of his mouth. Then, in a squeaky voice, he said. “Booo! Hire Jordan to be the female lead in Chop It Off, boo, I’m a ghost, boo!”
“Meh,” Rudy said as he shrugged his shoulders. “Good enough for me.”

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 8

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Dag, Shirley, and Rudy waited in a room just outside Chester’s office, holding back a collective urge to freak out.
“Oh my God,” Dag said. “It’s been too long! It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Shirley, how long has it been?”
“Twenty minutes, boss,” Shirley replied.
“That’s too long!” Dag said. “Oh, for the love of Doris Day’s pearly whites! He’s probably giving her the business as we speak.”
Rudy pressed his ear against the door. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Aw, the poor thing!” Dag said. “She’s too afraid to scream. That obese lummox, flopping around on that Goddess like a diseased, syphilitic flounder. Oh, perish the thought! Perish, I say.”
The assistant producer kept his ear against the door. “I really don’t hear anything.”
“Bah!” Dag said. “I know the likes of this guy. All these power hungry Hollywood oligarchs are the same. Take a young, innocent, naïve beauty and fill her head full of fear. Tell her she’ll never work in this town again unless she smooches the pickle. Tell her it’s not so bad. Really. Just play tonsil hockey with the tallywhacker for a couple minutes and presto! A lifelong career in the pictures is yours! You’d be a fool not to!”
A loud, male scream emerged from the office. “Yeaarrrrrrgh!”
Dag joined Rudy in listening at the door. “What was that?”
Another male scream. “Arrrrrgh! Oh God!”
The agent balled up his fist and bit into it as if it were an apple. “It’s worse than I thought!”
Chester kept at it. “Gaaahhhhh!!!!”
Dag threw the back of his arm up against his forehead. “Oh my dear little Jordan! What have I done to you! I’ve delivered to the lion’s mouth, like a lamb to slaughter!”
The agent removed his arm and looked at his silent colleagues. “Well, don’t everyone rush to disagree with me at once.”
Chester’s screams grew louder. “Muhh…muhh….Mommy!!!”
“That’s sick,” Shirley said. “Someone should get in there and do something.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Dag said as he pushed his right hand woman towards the door. “Get in there and save the day, Shirl!”
“Me?” Shirley asked. “I don’t get paid enough to walk in on…”
“Wahga wahga wahga!”
“…whatever that is.”
“Right,” Dag said before addressing Rudy. “Get in there and stop your boss, man. You’ll be a national hero.”
“Me?” Rudy asked. “But I work here.”
“Oh, so what?” Dag asked. “You’re just following orders? Every Nazi was just following orders!”
Chester’s cries were constant. “Buh…buh…buh…bahhhhhh!”
“I’m not a Nazi,” Rudy protested.
Dag pushed a pointer finger into the associate producer’s chest. “You are a Nazi. You are just like a high ranking official in this studio’s Third Reich and you are allowing your fuhrer to blitzkrieg that young lady’s orifices!”
Rudy threw his hands up. “My job is to just make movies happen and keep my nose out of wherever it doesn’t belong, Dag. You’re the one whose job it is to shepherd young talent through the pitfalls of stardom and protect them from the whims of horny, power hungry scumbags and slimeballs.”
Dag took the cigar out of his mouth. “That’s..that’s not….” He turned to Shirley. “Is that my job?”
“It is,” Shirley replied.
“Whoa!” Chester shouted. “Whoa, whoa, warrrrrrggghh!”
“Fine,” Dag said. The agent tucked the unlit cigar into his pocket. He covered his eyes with his left hand, turned the door knob with his right, and entered the room blind. “Chester, you dirty, deviant old man! Stop whatever it is you’re doing and pull up your pants right now, buster! Your penis’ reign of terror ends right here and right now.”

Toilet Shocker – Chapter 7

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Chapter 7
To a casual observer, the scene may have looked as though an enchanted princess had just been kidnapped by a bridge troll. In actuality, the lovely Jordan was seated opposite the desk of one Chester Bloomfield, an ogre of a man who was over a hundred pounds overweight. His face was shrouded by three weeks of unkempt beard growth, his belly spilled over his belt and he reeked of flatulence.
As he spoke, he wheezed as though his lungs were having difficult processing air. “Blumpkin.”
Jordan clutched her existent pearls. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yeah,” Chester said. “I’m going to need a blumpkin.”
“A what?” Jordan asked.
Awards, props, and movie memorabilia littered the executive’s office, all shiny reminders to the world of his Hollywood pull and prowess. The big wig licked the back of his hand, then used it to straighten one of the three strands of hair left on his head. “You know, a blumpkin.”
“I have no idea what that is,” Jordan said.
Chester opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a can of sardines and a box of crackers. He tossed a tiny fish onto a crunchy disc, then popped it into his mouth, allowing the stinky juices to pour out all over his chin. “What are you, a nun? You have no idea what a blumpkin is?”
“I do not,” Jordan said.
“Yikes,” Chester said. “Boy, you good lookin’ broads live sheltered lives. Look, we’re going to go into the bathroom, I’m going to sit on the toilet and you’re uh…going to uh…”
If Jordan could have shot lasers out of her eyes, she would have.
“…you’re going to uh…yarble my narbles.”
“What?” Jordan asked.
“You know,” Chester said as he popped another sardine on a cracker. “Play the skin flute.”
“Huh?” Jordan asked.
Chester gobbled up the revolting snack. “Spit shine the piccolo.”
“Polish Mr. Winky.”
“Gargle the sausage.”
“Down the DNA milkshake.”
“Now you’ve lost me.”
“Slurp the snake?”
“Speak English.”
Chester made himself another sardine cracker, then ate it. “Honey, if you want the part, I’m going to need you to perform felatio on my while I’m taking a shit, OK? Simple. Don’t make a Federal case about it.”
Jordan sprang to her feet. “This conversation is over.”
“Fine,” Chester said as he made another sardine cracker. “Adios, loser.”
The actress marched for the door, then stopped and turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you either roll my smelly dingle donger around in your yapper for five to ten minutes, fifteen tops, until I release my happy juice or you’ll never work in this town again,” Chester said.
“No,” Jordan said. “No, there’s way you have that kind of power, not anymore.”
Chester threw his feet up on his desk, then clasped his hands around the back of his head. “I’m in this chair, aren’t I?”
Bile rose in the back of Jordan’s throat. “Please. I’ll go. I won’t tell anyone about this.”
“I can’t take that chance,” Chester said as he chomped on his sardine cracker, letting the crumbs spray all over. “I can’t keep coming up with phony twin brothers to take the fall forever.”
Jordan returned to her chair. Her legs were wobblily and she felt as though she might faint. “Why do you do this?”
Chester smiled. “Now there’s a question. I could answer that one for hours, but I’ll give you the short version.”
“Please do,” Jordan said.
“Look at me,” Chester said. “And look at you.”
“What of it?” Jordan asked.
“Hard work,” Chester said. “Dedication. Talent. It’s all huey. Truth is kid, the better looking you are, the better off your life will be and well, when you look like me, life isn’t so kind.”
“You’re the head of a major movie studio,” Jordan said. “You’re worth millions.”
“True,” Chester said. “And if I looked like Guy Kincaid, I could have farted my life out in my sleep but since I look like me, I had to beg, borrow, steal, blackmail, connive and harass my way to where I am and you know why I did it?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” Jordan said.
“Pussy,” Chester said. “Not just any pussy. The primo kind. The top shelf stuff. See, when you’re born looking the way I do, you grow up and you realize you have one of two options. The first option is to accept the limits that God gave you and find some other ugly broad who also knows her place. Work a regular, boring job for shitty pay. Make a couple of ugly kids and continue the cycle. The other option is to get rich, so rich that you can offer a beautiful woman anything she wants, so rich that she’ll overlook the way you look.”
“You have that,” Jordan said. “I’ve seen your wife on TV. She’s quite fetching.”
“She is,” Chester said. “But you know how it is. Tell someone their entire life they can’t have a cookie and pretty soon…”
Jordan finished the sentence. “…cookies are all you can think about.”
“You got it,” Chester said.
Jordan found her strength. She stood up. “I won’t do it and if you besmirch my name to other studios, I’ll sue.”
“Good,” Chester said. “Save me the trouble.”
“What?” Jordan asked.
“Either I tell every suit in town that you’re a big whack-a-doo who makes false accusations of sexual harassment, or you hire an attorney and put out an all points bulletin, alerting every other studio head that you’re just a lawsuit waiting to happen. Either way, I win and you lose.”
“Whatever,” Jordan said. “I’ll figure it out later.”
Chester sighed. “Oh, how the feminists have warped your mind.”
“I’m not listening to this.”
“Honey,” Chester said. “This is the way it has always been. Casting couches have existed in Hollywood since the film industry began. The first time some prick put a camera together, I have no doubt he told some chick that she’ll have to tongue bathe his dingus for a one-minute walk-on in a silent picture.”
“That’s not the way it is anymore,” Jordan said.
“Jesus,” Chester said. “Do you have any idea the kind of deal I’m offering? A few measly minutes of displeasure, followed by an entire lifetime of getting paid millions of dollars to play pretend. Your face will be projected on giant movie screens all over the world. Your adoring fans will hang on every word. Awards. Accolades. Fame. Fortune. You’ll go wherever you want. Do whatever you want. Marry whoever you want. No man will say no to you. And when you die? People will remember you. Film students will study you. Authors will write books about you. You’ll be remembered. Revered. You’ll live on as a piece of American pop culture forever. Eh, I know it seems gross now but trust me, when you’re seventy-years old and dying alone in a cheap nursing home bed after working the Fatty Burger drive-through for the next fifty years, you’ll kick yourself for not smoking the pole. You really will.”
Jordan sat in defeated silence.
“Hell,” Chester said. “When I was your age, if some Hollywood big shot had offered me this deal, I would have gobbled that knob, cupped the balls, swallowed the baby batter, offered a reach around and a second go-around. Oh well, some people don’t know a good thing when it’s staring them in the face. Go on. Get out of here. Go find out I’m right the hard way.”
Jordan felt disembodied, as though she was no longer inside her own skin. She couldn’t believe the words that came out of her mouth next. “Just tell me one thing.”
“What’s that?” Chester asked.
“Why does it have to be on the toilet?” Jordan asked.
“It’s a power thing,” Chester said.