Tag Archives: Son of Toilet Gator

Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 2

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Underneath the hot lights of Network News One’s flagship studio in New York City, anchorwoman Natalie Brock smiled into the camera as she read the latest copy.
“Witnesses on the scene report the Dalai Lama will be fine as long as he pours a bucket of ice down his pants, drinks three beers, and calls his doctor in the morning. The product of the day to stay away from is Bickerstaff Pretzels. A new scientific study indicates that eating just one bag of these salty treats will give you inoperable ear cancer. So, if you don’t want your ear filled with cancer, go ahead and throw away any bags of Bickerstaff pretzels you have lying around the house right now, and we’ll fill you in on further details after sports and weather. For Network News One, I’m America’s favorite anchorwoman, Natalie Brock.”
Natalie maintained her focus on the camera until her producer, a tall, skinny, bespectacled doofus by the name of Dan Motley, shouted, “Clear!”
Various members of the production team milled about the set as Natalie stood up and removed the microphone from the lapel of her fashionable black blazer. “Hey guys? Can I get a cup of coffee over here? Hello! Dan!”
Dan picked his head up from his clipboard and faced the newswoman. “What’s up, boss?”
“Dan-o,” Natalie said. “I try really hard not to play the feminist card…”
“But you’re about to, aren’t you?” Dan asked.
“No,” Natalie said as she picked up an empty ceramic mug emblazoned with the NN1 logo. “However, I’d like to point out that I’m on camera anywhere between eight to twelve hours a day, bare minimum and thus, I don’t really think it’s too much to ask for prompt caffeine fix deliveries.”
“You’re right,” Dan said. “It’s not too much to ask at all.”
“Are you sure?” Natalie asked. “Because what I’m getting at is, I highly doubt Kurt Manley’s cup ever went dry, so if Kurt wasn’t treated this way but I am, then I can only conclude.”
“It’s not because you’re a woman,” Dan said.
“It isn’t?” Natalie asked.
“No,” Dan said. “It’s because you’re too nice to the interns. Walk with me.”
Natalie followed Dan into a nearby breakroom where three college age interns sat around, playing games on their phones and texting each other. That’s right. They were literally texting each other, rather than opting to talk to each other. Their names were Spencer, Maya, and Cody, respectively.
“These three are the lowest of the low,” Dan said. “Literally, the one and only job they are trusted with here is to fetch coffee, snacks, and meals.”
“And they’re playing, what, Sweetie Smash?” Natalie asked.
“They haven’t been properly motivated,” Dan said.
“Are you kidding me?” Natalie asked. “Hey, kids! Hello! Heads up from the cell phones, please!”
“Not good enough,” Dan said. “You’re being too nice to them.”
“Excuse me?” Natalie asked.
“Kurt used to yell at the interns,” Dan said. “He’d hurl all kinds of stomach churning obscenities at them, tell them things like…uh…I don’t want to say it.”
“Just say it,” Natalie said.
Dan cleared his throat. His face turned red. “He’d say things like, uh, ‘Hey, you fucking millennial puke bags, if my coffee cup ever goes empty, I’m going to butt rape all of your mothers with the handle of the Hammer of Thor and then I’ll cut off your fathers’ dicks with a rusty…”
Natalie nodded. “I get the picture.”
“You’ve created a much more positive work environment around here, Natalie,” Dan said.
“I’m happy to here that,” Natalie said.
“It’s true,” Dan said. “The overall staff suicide rate is down by eighty-percent, sexual harassment lawsuits are down ninety-percent and me personally? My wife is a lot happier now that I don’t go home every night and curl up into the fetal position and cry over the latest Kurt Manley rage fit.”
“I prefer positive reinforcement over negative,” Natalie said.
“Cool,” Dan replied. “See, the thing is, that’s not going to work with these three because they make diddily squat.”
“They’re unpaid?” Natalie asked.
“They’re supposedly paid with experience,” Dan said.
Natalie raised a quizzical brow. “Which means?”
“They get college credit to fetch drinks and snacks,” Dan said.
“OK,” Natalie said. “That sucks for them but surely, being able to put down that you were an NN1 intern on your resume…”
“Means literally nothing,” Dan said. “Maybe back in the day when there were only a handful of channels it meant something but today, there are so many news sources out there competing for a limited audience that outlets across the board are cutting back, firing journalists left and right. All things considered, OJ Simpson will probably be elected Pope before any of these kids gets a job in the news business that pays a living wage.”
“It’s that bad out there?” Natalie asked.
“And how,” Dan said.
“So…I should be meaner?” Natalie asked.
“With these three at least,” Dan said. “The people who get paid actual money love you and are trying their best to keep you happy.”
“Well,” Natalie said. “That’s something.”
The anchorwoman approached the trio of interns. “Hey guys…”
“Meaner,” Dan said.
“Right,” Natalie said. “Hey, um…you little jerks…”
“Meaner,” Dan said.
“Hey!” Natalie said. “Dummies! This cup had better be…”
Natalie shook her head. “Screw it. This isn’t me. I’ll just fetch my own brew.”
“Suit yourself,” Dan said as he walked away.
Natalie walked over to the coffee machine and was about to pour herself a cup when a familiar voice boomed through the room. “Listen up, you little shitbags! This woman is Natalie Brock, a badass bitch who smashes the glass ceiling of this fucked up industry each and every day and you will give her the respect she deserves!”
All three interns dropped their phones and looked up. Natalie turned around to find a slender, well-built man in his early fifties, his hair dyed a dark brown, save for a gray spot around each temple. He wore a snazzy, designer suit, complete with a red pocket square.
“This woman is the alpha and the omega!” the man barked. “She is your goddess, your world, and your entire reason for being and if her cup is not regularly replenished with piping hot black coffee during every commercial break, then she will use all her power at her disposal to carve up every last person you ever loved or cared about with Poseidon’s Trident and I swear, by the edge of Excalibur, the sword once wielded by the legendary King Arthur himself, that all of the pieces will be scooped up into glass jars that you will be forced to carry for the rest of your lives to remind you of your incompetence!”
Spencer grabbed Natalie’s cup. “Coming right up, Miss Brock.”
“Thank you,” Natalie said to the intern before turning to the man. “Holy shit, Walter. Was that really necessary?”

“It was,” Walter said as he held out his arm.  “Lunch, my lady?”

Natalie accepted the gesture, locking her arm around Walter’s.  “I could eat.”

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Son of Toilet Gator – Nyetwork News One-ski – Transcript #1

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(Somber music plays as the camera fades in on a sparse studio, where a beautiful, large breasted woman sits behind the news desk. She wears a fur hat with a red star in the center and a red bikini featuring a hammer on one breast and a sickle on the other.)

ANCHORWOMAN:
Hello, comrades. Is I, your most trusted and revered anchorwoman, Katerina Dasheno, reporting for Nyetwork News One-ski, the most glorious and also only state approved television reporting service for the most wonderful Russian Federation, which, as we all know, is the greatest country on the face of the Earth and it will always make that vile cesspool known as America look like a pile of dog fecal matter crushed underneath the powerful boot heel of our most amazingly virile president, Anatoly Popov.

(Katerina shifts camera angles.)

KATERINA DASHENKO:
In today’s news, our most fantastic President Popov has been voted the sexiest man in all of Russia for the 3000th day in a row. President Popov also coasted to victory over all of his challengers for the presidency, and would most likely done so if they had all not been coincidentally thrown off of rooftops onto sharp spikes and fed to dogs in a totally legitimate and non-suspicious manner. Congratulations to you, Mr. President, for most deserved victory.

And now it is time for the weather with our meteorologist, Boris Sokolov. Boris, how is the weather in Siberia today?

(Cut to a chubby man in a brown coat and fur hat standing in the middle of a blizzard.)

BORIS SOKOLOV:

Is so fucking cold, Katerina.

KATERINA DASHENKO:

This is your official approximation of the weather in Siberia, Boris? That it is so fucking cold?

BORIS SOKOLOV:
Indeed, Katerina. Is so cold my dick froze off this morning. I am dick-less now.

KATERINA DASHENKO:
Tell me something I don’t know, comrade. So sorry to hear it is so fucking cold in Siberia. I pity all of the poor fools who have been sent to work their in the completely volunteer, non-forced labor camps because that’s what they wanted to do and not because they criticized our most glorious President Popov.
(KATERINA turns to another camera.)
KATERINA DASHENKO:
In sports news, President Popov is such a manly son of a bitch that he scored one thousand goals in today’s hockey match and further, in entertainment news, the one and only movie available at the box office is “The Road to Awesomeness: How Anatoly Popov Became the Best President of Russia Ever and Why All Vaginas in His General Vicinity Get Super Wet Whenever He Flexes His Muscles” has been made required viewing for all citizens.
In science news, are you aware that ten out of ten of our most highly intelligent Russian scientists have declared that waiting in line for toilet paper can strengthen your buttocks and slow the aging process? Send one of the fifty family members in your one room apartment to go stand in the toilet paper line and we’ll tell you more about this informative study after these state approved commercial messages.
ANNOUNCER: You’re watching Nyetwork News One-ski. The hottest babushkas! The biggest tatushkas! Oh da, and we always report the best news about most interesting and intelligent President Anatoly Popov.

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Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 1

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One Year Later

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

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

“Ow!” Smegma said as he rubbed his porcelain skin cheek. “What was that for?”

“You son of a bitch!” Muffy said as she hurled the X-Tab at Smegma. “How could you?”
Smegma raised his sunglasses to read the headline. “Seventeen of Dr. Malfeasor’s Top Henchmen Die on Can: International Fiend’s Criminal Network is Decimated.”

“Oh,” Smegma said as he put the X-Tab down. He picked up a bottle of suntan oil and rubbed it into his muscular chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” Smegma said.

“And what happened to them?” Muffy asked.
“They all died,” Dirk said.

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

“Baby,” Dirk said. “Come on. Look, I always try my best to protect the strumpets I snooker but you know how villains are. Once they get pissed off at an ex that done them wrong, there’s no stopping them.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Beats me,” Dirk remodeled.

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

“Telephone call, Mr. Smegma.”

The secret agent looked up to find one of the private resort’s waiters standing over him.

The servant wore a crisply pressed uniform and held a cell phone on a silver platter.

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

“Apologies, sir,” the waiter said in a French accent. “I only carry out orders. I don’t investigate them.”

Dirk took the phone and appeared aghast when the waiter held out his hand. “You want a high five?”

“No,” the waiter scoffed. “A tip is customary, sir.”

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

The waiter sighed. “What? That’s the best tip my old man gave me.”

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

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

Exasperated, the waiter stomped off in a huff. “Lousy American.”

The spy spoke into the phone. “Go for Smegma.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not,” the doctor said.

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

“That fat ass pop star and the South Floridian hayseeds who were devoured by a toilet gator last year learned it was very possible,” Dr. Malfeasor said. “Leave it to Uncle Sam to devise a way to militarize such a bizarre phenomenon. You sweet talked my main squeeze into telling you when my men can usually be found cutting a brown log, shared this information with your handler, Ms. McKenna, and your big green pet did the dirty work.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Smega said.

“I understand,” the doctor said. “You could never admit the existence of such a program publicly. The press, as usual, is filled with moronic schmendricks who can’t see the forest through the trees. They assume my underlings simply exploded while relieving themselves but I know better.”

“Sounds like you should have advised your goons to get more fiber in their diet, doctor,” Smegma said. “You can only get backed up so far until it all goes kablooey.”

“There’s that sense of humor I’ve missed, Agent Smegma,” Dr. Malfeasor said. “It’s been so long since we engaged in our witty banter.”

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

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

“I don’t follow,” Smegma said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As we speak, the Chinese are building their own answer to your toilet gator,” Dr. Malfeasor said. “A toilet octopus of immense size, one capable of pushing its tentacles up through a toilet in order to inject its victim with poisoned ink.”

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

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

“Death by embrace?” Smegma asked.

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

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

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

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

The doctor chuckled. “Indeed, I’m not known for that whatsoever, though as you are aware, my weakness has always been in my lack of humility.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My new girlfriend?” Smegma asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The agent held the phone up to his ear. “I win, Mr. Smegma. Game, set…match.”

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

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

Smegma felt his spirit shatter as he watched the drop of blood roll off of Muffy’s lip and onto the floor. “I have no idea.”

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

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

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

“Subtlety,” Smegma said. “Another trait you’ve never been known for.”

“Yes,” Dr. Malfeasor said. “But, what can I say? I’ve grown. I’m maturing. Therapy really helps.”

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

“What in God’s name….”

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

The toilet beetle hissed.

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

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

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

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

The beetle flew closer to Smegma.

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

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

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

BLAM! Smegma exploded the bug with a single shot.

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

“What?” Smegma asked. “I shot it.”

“Why did you shoot it?” Dr. Malfeasor asked.

“Because it was going to spit deadly acidic venom in my face,” Dr. Malfeasor said. “I can’t have my moneymaker wrecked. It’s my bread and butter, baby.”

“That was my only one!” Dr. Malfeasor said.

“Seriously?” Smegma asked.

“Yes!” Dr. Malfeasor said. “Oh, I knew it was stupid to said my one and only prototype but I was so mad at that bitch and…screw it.”

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

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

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

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

“No,” Dr. Malfeasor said. “Ungh.”

“Are you sure?” Smegma asked.

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

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

“Ungh,” Dr. Malfeasor said. “What of it?”

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Dr. Malfeasor said. “Ungh, I would but it was Taco Tuesday here and…ungh…I love all that extra salsa on my taco but boy, oh boy, do I pay for it later…ungh…oh no. Smegma, what have you done? No, please…”

Smegma smiled. “Game…”

Another rumble.

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

Yet another rumble.

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

“…set…” Smegma said.

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

“RAARGA!”

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

“…match,” Smegma said.

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

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

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

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

“Go for Smegma.”

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

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

“He called you personally?” Kendra asked.

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

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

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

“Such as?” Kendra replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My stars, Pierre,” Smegma said. “You’re a jack of all trades around here, aren’t you?”
“I do what needs to be done sir,” Pierre replied.

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

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

“Mr. Smegma,” Pierre said.

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

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

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

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

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

Pierre scoffed when he looked at the single. “I’ll try not to spend it all in one place.”
“See that you don’t,” Smegma said as he closed the car door.

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

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Son of Toilet Gator – The Ballad of Dirk Smegma

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The Ballad of Dirk Smegma
Smegma! Dirk Smegma is his name!
Smegma! Crushing pussy is his game!
Of course, he does so in a consensual way!
For this dude is so handsome he can barely keep the ladies at bay!
Hey! Dirk Smegma! All the men want to be you.
Dirk Smegma! All the women want you too.
Isn’t it sad, you’re a CIA agent and thus a loner?
You can never get too close to the ladies who get your boner!
Oh! Dirk Smegma! The women you’ll seduce.
And in doing so, you’ll pull the world out of evil’s noose!
When the girlfriends of evil men succumb to your charms,
It’s game over for them, for you’ve put them into the path of harm.
Alarm! Dirk Smegma! Bad men you will erode.
You’ll get the girl and the nuclear launch codes.
That’s why so many average men want to be Dirk!
For in real life, most men are treated like jerks!
Smegma! How the babes you’ll wine and dine.
Get the crucial info and save the day before deadline.
Most men are henpecked, their lives wrecked,
Their wives will keep them in check!
But Smegma oh, Smegma there’s no telling what dame you’ll get in your bed next!
Smegma! This ballad is almost done.
And now, before the war is won.
It’s time, for silhouettes of hot naked women to swim across the screen!
While average men at home cry into their ice cream!

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Son of Toilet Gator – Prologue

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wing me, please,” Professor Lambert said.

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

“So when am I going to get my toilet gator?” the President asked.

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” Professor Lambert said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Son of Toilet Gator – From the Desk of Bookshelf Q. Battler

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Good day to you, noble reader.

You came back for more?  Jumpin’ Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, seek psychiatric counseling, will you?

Look, the first book was called “Toilet Gator” and it was about an alligator who ate people while they were sitting on the toilet.  I get it.  We can chalk your initial interest up to morbid curiosity.  Most people realize it’s wrong to gawk at an accident along the side of the road, but they can’t help it.  They spotted it, so now they feel an innate need to find out what happened, what it the carnage looks like, who lived, who died.

But it’s one thing to rubberneck at a car accident while you’re driving past it and a completely different thing to make a U-turn, head back the way you came, then turn around and come back again just so you can take a second look at the mayhem.  That’s sick, noble reader, and that is essentially what you are doing here.  Be ashamed.  Be very ashamed!

Will more people be eaten by an alligator while they are sitting on the toilet in this book?  Yes.  That’s a no brainer.  You know this.  If you read the first book, don’t pretend like you don’t know what lies in store for you.  People will sit down to poop and as they are doing so, they will become a massive lizard monster’s lunch.

Did I mention that I’ve upped the ante and now there is a shark who eats people while they are sitting on the toilet in this installment of the ongoing Toilet Gator series? Yes.  Sequels must always up the ante and this one is no different.  Now, if people aren’t being eaten by an alligator while they’re sitting on the toilet,  they’re being eaten by a shark while they’re sitting on the toilet.  Basically, if you are a character in this book and you feel the urge to drop a deuce, there’s a fifty percent chance you will be eaten by an alligator and a fifty percent chance you will be eaten by a shark.  Even the most carefree Vegas oddsmakers wouldn’t take a bet on the continued existence of a character in this novel who needs to pinch a brick.

Do you have any idea how precious life is?  The best thinkers, scientists, philosophers, theologians and others have tried their best to explain how tenuous our grasp on our own mortality is but suffice it to say, you’re born, you do some stuff and then before you know it, you’re dead.  Every single moment of your life is precious and you have now made the conscious decision to take your very limited time and use it to read not one but two novels involving people being devoured by an alligator while they are squeezing the cheese.  For shame, noble reader, for shame.

Oh, what?  You think I should feel worse for writing a book about people being eaten by an alligator (and/or a shark) while they are sitting on a toilet?  Why would I?  Someone has to warn the public at large about the dangers of being eaten by toilet animals while sitting on a toilet and that someone might as well be me.  Is it my fault that all of the high falutin’ book award people refuse to give an award to a book about people being eaten by an alligator while they are sitting on the toilet?  No, it is not.

In short, while it is a very worthwhile endeavor for me to write a novel about people being eaten by an alligator while they are sitting on the toilet, it is conversely, and some might say an ironically, useless waste of time for you to read a book about people getting eaten by an alligator while they are sitting on the toilet.  After all, at the end of this, I can at least say I wrote a novel (and stop there without any need for further description whilst promoting myself at the various super fancy writer parties I am still waiting for my invitations to), whereas all you can say is you read a novel…about an alligator…who eats people…while they are sitting…on the toilet.

Still not convinced I’m better for writing this dreck than you are for reading it, noble reader?  Consider this scenario:

SCENE: A FANCY WRITERS’ COCKTAIL PARTY

PARTY GOER: Hi, what have you two done recently?

ME: I wrote a novel and that’s all you need to know about that.

NOBLE READER:  I read a novel about people who are eaten alive by an alligator while they are sitting on the toilet.

PARTY GOER:  Yikes, noble reader!  You sicken me so you must leave now!  BQB you can stay though and have sex with my wife if you want because you’re an awesome person who has written a novel.

And there you have it.  What’s that, noble reader?  You could just tell people that you “read a novel and it’s none of their damn business what the novel was about?”  True.  You got me there.  Plus, if you wanted to go the extra mile, you could say you read a novel about geopolitical intrigue and leave out the part about the epic battle for the fate of the free world between an American toilet gator and a Russian toilet shark.

Also, if you want to, you could just close this book and go expand your mind by reading a classic like “War and Peace” or “The Count of Monte Cristo.”  Both are very long masterworks of fiction that will enrich your lives, expand your minds, open your hearts and broaden your horizons.

However, neither book features a scene that involves a person being eaten by an alligator while they’re sitting on the toilet.  Ha!  You actually thought I was serious before when I told you that you needed psychological counseling for reading this book?  Well, I was…and you do.  But that’s OK.  Disturbed people need reading material too and I’m happy to provide it to you…and also to take your money.

I guess what I’m trying to say is…thank you for the money.  And now, without further ado, please enjoy this second book about people who are eaten by an alligator while they are sitting on a toilet.

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Son of Toilet Gator Sundays

Happy Easter, 3.5 readers!

I’ve decided that Toilet Gator Sundays (where I wrote a new excerpt of Toilet Gator every Sunday last year) worked so well, that I’m now going to give you, “Son of Toilet Gator Sundays.  Yes, now each week you will get a new chapter in the sequel, “Son of Toilet Gator.”

This will allow me to keep fresh but still devote most of my time to getting the draft of Toilet Gator itself together, which I truly hope will be published by the end of the year.

Let’s keep our fingers crossed.  Anyway, I’m not paying this lady to do a new video for “Son of Toilet Gator” though she’s excellent so seek her out on Fiverr if you need a lady in a doctor outfit to read your copy:

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Son of Toilet Gator – Chapter 5

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A set of twin jet engines propelled the metal container downward. Once the box was 20,000 feet above the surface of the earth, it broke apart, leaving the gigantic alligator inside free to twist in the wind.

“You need to roll fifteen feet to the right,” Kendra advised through the earpiece in Skippy Jr.’s ear.

“Raarga,” Skippy replied as he obeyed the command.

“I’m worried about Dirk, Skippy Jr.,” Kendra said.

“Raarga.”

“I know, I shouldn’t,” Kendra said. “But it’s like he refuses to grow up. Sure, he’s having a good time chasing tail now but if he never grows up and finds a stable relationship, he’ll eventually grow old and die alone.”

“Raarga, raarga,” Skippy Jr. said as he zoomed downward, scaring the crap out of a flock of birds with his hideous face.

“Well, that’s awfully presumptuous of you, Skippy Jr.,” Kendra said. “No, I’m not saying I want to be the woman who fixes him. I prefer my men to not be broken when I find them, thank you very much.”

“Raarga.”

“You see the way I look at him?” Kendra asked. “You are imagining things.”

“Raarga?”

“Of course I might stare at him once in awhile while he’s not looking,” Kendra said. “He’s a very good looking man but that doesn’t mean I want to hook up with a serial philanderer. Do you know how many women he’s been with?”

“Raarga.”

“Add a hundred to that and you’re in the ballpark.”

“Raarga, raarga.”

“I’m sure he is compensating for something,” Kendra said. “But I hardly need a man whose genitalia is a walking petri dish of disaster in my life. You missed the point.”

“Raarga?”

“The point is someday there will be a brave woman who doesn’t care how much strange has touched Dirk’s junk and I fear he’ll be so obsessed with finding his next female conquest that he won’t see what he has right in front of him until it’s too late.”

“Raarga.”

“Will you stop it? I’m not talking about me. At all. That will never happen.”

“Raarga.”

“OK good talk, but time to get your head in the game. Assume the position.”

Skippy moved his head downward.

“Brace for impact in 3…2…1…touchdown!”

Splash! A wave of dirty poop water poured up out of the Imperial Honcho’s septic tank as Skippy Jr. landed deep within his intended target.

“You OK buddy?”

“Raarga.”

“OK. Hang tight. As soon as Dirk comes up for air, I’ll let you know.”

“Raarga.”

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