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May 03 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 32

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Once Moses was walking upright again, he soothed his pain with another beer while he watched the Network News One Coverage of the Countess Cucamonga murder.

“Round the clock with this shit,” Moses said. “On every damn channel too. I once saw a machine gun nest take out twenty of my brothers in a matter of seconds. No fancy pants hot blonde chick lady reporter with big fake titties ever uttered so much as a peep about that but some famous girl with a fat ass kicks the bucket and boo hoo, here comes the waterworks, America.”

“Yup,” Cole said.

“I didn’t think you’d even be in today what with that college kid that got killed on the shitter,” Moses said.

Cole didn’t feel like explaining why he wasn’t working on the case. Instead, he kept quiet and loaded a new bullet into his Angry Barracuda. Meanwhile, Network News One began replaying Sharon’s press conference from earlier in the morning.

“Whoa nelly,” Moses said as he stared at the screen. “Is that?”

“Yup,” Cole said.

“So she’s there?” Moses asked.

“Yup,” Cole said.

“And you’re here?” Moses asked.

“Yup,” Cole said.

“Lord Almighty, Cole,” Moses said. “You’re a stronger man than I am. I’d eat a bullet from that big ass heater if one of my ex-wives ever became my boss.”

“Tell me about it,” Cole said.

“You and her…”

“What?” Cole asked.

“You talk?” Moses asked. “Do a little fence mendin?’ Maybe a little bridge buildin’?”

“What the hell does everyone want to ask me about her?” Cole asked.

Moses sipped his beer. “Sorry, Mr. Sensitive Sally. I wasn’t tryin’ to pry.”

“She left,” Cole said. “Nothing I can do or say will change that. She’ll be here awhile for her job, then she’ll be gone. No used talking about things that can’t be fixed.”

Moses pointed at Cole. “Damn right. You ever say one thing that lets a woman think she’s still got her hooks in you and she’ll abuse that power. Guaranteed.”

Cole ignored Moses. Something came on the TV screen that was way more interesting. Natalie Brock, or, a “Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties” as her viewers had come to know her, was standing inside the Sitwell Mall next to Mayor Dufresne. They both stood in front of the Mayor’s red sports car.

“Kurt,” Natalie said. “I’m here at a run down, suburban mall in Sitwell, Florida, the town where the Toilet Killer’s third victim, Chad Becker, met with a gruesome end while he was emptying out his end. Here with me as Mayor Beaumont Dufresne, who informs me that he is very concerned about the course of the investigation.”

The Mayor grinned like a hyena as he spoke into the microphone. “Yes indeed, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties. Why, I’m here on the set of my latest commercial, one in which I’m about to notify the good people of Sitwell that if they stop on by Mayor Beaumont Dufresne’s Slightly Used Car Emporium, conveniently located off of Exit 33 off of Route 199, they can enter a drawing for a chance to win this fantastic Yarakazi Diablo, the finest product to ever come out of Japan outside the spicy tuna roll.”

“Yes,” Natalie said. “But Mayor, if we could turn our attention to the recent spate of murders…”

The Mayor phoned in his sad face. “Oh yes, Ma’am. Terrible business, that. If there’s one thing that my administration has stood for, it’s the God given right to take a shit without being murdered. I mean, what kind of animal murders someone on the toilet? Lord knows I don’t sanction murder in any way, shape or form but if you gotta kill someone, at least take a minute to allow the victim to wipe and pull up his drawers before you do the dirty deed. That’s just basic kindness.”

“Mayor,” Natalie said. “Do you think the people of Sitwell should be concerned?”

“Is that some kind of trick question, girly?” the Mayor asked. “Of course they should be concerned. I mean, Holy Burnt Cheese Biscuits, a Goddamn maniac is running around hacking people into pieces while they’re shitting. However, my wonderful, God fearing constituents should rest assured knowing that Mayor Dufresne is working hard on their behalf, doing everything he can and working his fingers to the bone, making sure that Sitwell gets back on track to being a place where it is safe to take a shit again.”

“Do you think the investigation is going well?” Natalie asked.

“Oh Missy,” the Mayor said. “I’m not sure that’s a question in my wheelhouse. As Mayor, all I can do is make sure the various law enforcement officers involved are getting what they need to see that this madman is brought to justice.”

“So you have the utmost confidence in Agent Sharon Walker?” Natalie asked.
“Miss Walker was one of my constituents here in town quite a spell ago,” the Mayor said. “But to be honest, I don’t know her that well, darlin.’ I suppose she’ll do just fine.”

“What about Police Chief Cole Walker?” Natalie asked.

Back at the gun range, Cole watched the Mayor grin like the proverbial cat that had just caught the canary. “My dear, I thought you’d never ask.”

“Do you think Chief Walker is up for the challenge?” Natalie asked.

“Dear,” the Mayor said. “How many folks you reckon are watching this program?”

“Millions,” Natalie said. “All over the world.”

“That’s what I figured.” The Mayor looked directly into the camera. “I hate to say this, I truly do because you know, I’m nothing if not a good Christian and my Momma always told me that if I can’t say something nice about someone then I shouldn’t say anything at all. However, with the public safety at stake, I’m gonna have to disappoint my Momma. Cole Walker is by far one of the dumbest, most ignorant, most incompetent police officers I have ever laid eyes upon.”

“Really?” Natalie asked.

“Indeed,” the Mayor said. “In fact, I recently began looking into the possibility of allowing the Grover County Sheriff’s Office to absorb all of Sitwell Police Department’s law enforcement functions, simply to rid the town of Chief Walker’s bumbling idiocy once and for all.”

“Interesting,” Natalie said. “What do you think about the fact that Agent Walker is Chief Walker’s ex-wife? Will their relationship have any bearing on the outcome of the case?”

“Well, I don’t suppose it’s any good for a couple of exes to work together in any capacity,” the Mayor said. “Again, as you know, I’m a Christian so I hate to speak ill of others, but I can’t imagine Chief Walker feels very good about himself at the moment while his fancy Federal agent ex-wife has clipped off his balls and shoved him in a mason jar and is now turning Cole into her personal step and fetch bitch.”

Without thinking about it, Cole aimed his Angry Barracuda at Moses’ flat screen.

“Mr. Mayor,” Natalie said. “Why did Agent and Chief Walker break up? I’ve asked around town and have yet to get a straight answer out of anyone.”

“And I’m afraid you won’t get one out of me either, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties,” the Mayor said. “For as you know…”

“You’re a good Christian,” Natalie said.

“Indeed,” the Mayor said. “But between you, me, and your millions of worldwide viewers, I am almost certain the Walkers went their separate ways due to the size, or lack thereof, of Cole’s penis.”

“Pardon?” Natalie asked.

“Police Chief Walker has a minuscule, micro-donger, young lady,” the Mayor said. “I can only imagine the gut wrenching sadness when Miss Walker saw that scrawny little thimble on her wedding night. Probably looked like a sad half-stack of pennies between two of them tiny little meatballs, you know, the one you get at that Scandinavian furniture store?”

“And you have confirmation of this?” Natalie asked.

“I’m not about to give away my sources,” the Mayor said.

“But who told you this?” Natalie asked.

“People,” the Mayor said.

“People?” Natalie asked.

“What, am I on trial here, Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties?” the Mayor asked. “Yes, people! I can’t remember their names right now but many, many people have told me, Mayor Beaumont Dufresne of Mayor Beaumont Dufresne’s Slightly Used Car Emporium, that Police Chief Cole Walker has such a tiny pecker that it caused his wife to run as far and as fast as her feet would carry, most likely right into the arms of a man with a great, big…”

BOOM! Cole fired the hand cannon, putting a bullet right through the televised Mayor’s head. This caused Moses’ flat screen to explode into hundreds of tiny little pieces, all of which rained down over the interior of the gun range building.

“Holy shit!” Moses said.

“Sorry,” Cole said. “It’s just…you have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to shoot that asshole.”

“Understood,” Moses said.

“Send me a bill for a new TV,” Cole said.

Cole and Moses stepped forward to inspect a giant hole in the wall where the TV had once been mounted.

“Bill me for that too,” Cole said.

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May 02 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 31

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“Look at that beauty,” Moses said as he admired Cole’s hand cannon. “Foot long barrel. Point five hundred caliber rounds. Chrome shinier than a nun’s beaver during Lent. You gotta let me shoot it.”

“How many years have you been asking that?” Cole asked.

“Shit, I dunno,” Moses said. “Decade at least.”

“And how many times have I said, ‘No?’” Cole asked.

“Every time,” Moses said. “And frankly Cole, I’m painfully offended that you don’t think a marksman with a resume of confirmed enemy kills as long as my arm wouldn’t be able to handle such a splendiferous piece.”

“It’s nothing personal, Mo,” Cole said. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Me, get hurt?” Moses asked. “Please.”

“Hell,” Cole said. “First time I fired this thing it knocked me on my ass.”

“That’s ‘cuz you cops only know how to handle those little baby service weapons they give you,” Moses said. “You gotta be a real swingin’ dick to handle the big shit. Come on, give it here.”

“No,” Cole said.

“I need to fire that metal masterpiece Cole,” Moses said. “Shit, ever since you brought that bad boy in here I’ve been obsessed with it. Do you know there’s a video on the inter webs where a dude shoots a charging bull elephant in the face at fifty paces and drops the sucker like its nothing?”

“I don’t do the Internet,” Cole said.

“You should,” Moses said. “Lot of top notch stuff on there. Did you know that the UN is conspiring to give us all ball cancer so that we’ll be too sick to fight their new world order shock troops?”

“I did not,” Cole said.

“Yup,” Moses said. “Read it on the inter webs and you know, if it’s on the inter webs, it must be true. Give it here.”

“Nope,” Cole said.

“Anything, Cole” Moses said. “I know. Asking to touch another man’s gun is the virtual equivalent of asking that man to let you stick three fingers up his wife’s heiney hole but seriously…I’ll do anything.”
“No,” Cole said.

“I’ll suck your dick,” Moses said.

Cole recoiled with revulsion. “What?”

Moses laughed and lightly punched Cole in the shoulder. “Ha! Got you, ya’ dumb shit! You really think I’d suck your dick?”

Cole expelled a deep breath and laughed. “Yeah, you got me.”

Moses slapped his knee. “Yeah, I sure did.”

The shooting instructor straightened up his face and looked at Cole. “But seriously, is that not on the table?”

“Of course it’s not on the table,” Cole said.

Moses laughed again. “Bah ha, got you again, dip shit!”

“Yeah well,” Cole said. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Free shootin,’” Moses said.

“What?” Cole asked.

“Your gun range fees?” Moses said. “Free. On me. For the rest of your life. Just let me squeeze one off on that sexy son of a bitch.”

Cole was still concerned for Moses’ well-being, but he was no dummy. Free gun range fees meant he’d be able to shoot his massive revolver for free whenever he wanted. That was important to him, seeing as how it was the one activity that ever de-stressed him.

“Deal,” Cole said as he handed the butt of the big gun over to Moses.

Moses marveled at the weapon. “Shit. It’s got some weight to it, huh?”

“Sure does,” Cole said.

“It’s heavier than my dick,” Moses said.

“Nah,” Cole said. “Nothing’s that light.”

“Well, look at you,” Moses said. “Mr. Serious making a funny.”

“Happens maybe once a year,” Cole said. “I’m good now until January.”

Moses aimed the gun at the target and closed one eye. “Damn it. I’ve been looking all over for an Angry Barracuda. Every dealer I know says this puppy is hard to find on account of it was discontinued after that big lawsuit where that kid blew his Daddy’s nuts off. Cryin’ shame that more parents don’t educate their younguns on the ins and outs of proper gun safety protocol if you ask me. You could make a pretty penny if you sell it. Shit, I’d give you nuts and Felix’s nuts for it.”

“Not for sale,” Cole said.

“No,” Moses said. “Shit, I don’t blame you.”

Moses cocked the hammer and hovered his finger over the trigger.

“Careful,” Cole said. “It’s got a kick to it.”

“I’m sure it does, Cole,” Moses said. “What, you think I’m some geek off the street that’s never fired a gun before? I was in the shit.”

“I know,” Cole said.

“Were you in the shit?” Moses asked.

“Just some local shit,” Cole said.

Moses sighed. “Yeah, I know and you’re going to milk that shit forever, Cole. ‘Boo hoo freakin’ hoo! My name is Cole and I got no damn leg so now I’m depressed and moodier than a teenage girl all the time.”

A moment of silence passed.

“Cole, I’m sorry,” Moses said. “That felt like too much. Was that too much?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Cole walked six feet to the left. “I’m just going to stand over here.”

“Don’t blame you,” Moses said. “I wouldn’t want to see another man handle my gun better than I ever…”

BOOM! The paper target disintegrated as Moses flew ten feet backward through the air until he crashed into the wall. Cole sauntered over and offered the marksman a hand. “I tried to warn you.”

Moses looked happier than he’d ever been before. He grinned like an idiot and sniffed the smoking barrel. “Hooo-wee! Smells better than pussy!”

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May 02 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 30

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Freedom Firepower. It was Sitwell’s top gun store/shooting range. On any given day, many a Sitwell resident could be found plugging paper cutouts of bad hombres full of red hot lead.

The owner was used to it. He loved the sounds of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder. Although he wore a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, a trucker’s cap and a sleeveless T-shirt, he walked with perfect posture. He took a sip of beer, then enjoyed the cool feeling of a frosty can in his hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the owner said. “I am Gunnery Sergeant Moses T. Malone, United States Marine Corps, Retired. In my day, I took many a pile of cow shit dropped off on my doorstep by Uncle Sam and turned them into bloodthirsty killing machines. I’m talking trained killers who devour their enemies in one bite and then laugh in the glow of the moonlight as they shit out their bones.”

Moses looked to the clerk standing behind the counter near the door to the gun range. “Felix!”

Felix was half the size of Moses. His hair was brown and bushy, completely untamed. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in months and wore a black patch over his right eye. He was a man of few words. “Hmm?”

“Have you collected the requisite entry fee of eight-hundred and seventy-five dollars from each and every one of these pupils?” Moses asked.

“Affirmative,” Felix replied.

“Excellent!” Moses said. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced back and forth in front of his class.

“You unsavory ass maggots are in the gun range section of my humble establishment,” Moses said. “Here, you will learn how to fire with great precision and acute accuracy, for a true shot is, more often than not, the only thing standing between the protection of your life and the lives of those who love and a gruesome death at the hands of a crack pipe hitting lunatic criminal, the kind of which all those commie pinko hippies will gladly fill the streets with if they get their way. Isn’t that right, Felix?”

Felix nodded. “Mmm hmm.”

“Felix, my hetero, non-gay life mate and I saw a whole heap of shit in the war,” Moses said. “And God knows I’d be lying if I said we didn’t bring some of that pain back with us. I don’t know how Felix deals with his doldrums because he doesn’t talk much and frankly, that’s why we get along.”

Moses took another sip of beer, then drew a pistol from a holster on his belt. He walked over to an empty booth on the range, pointed his weapon at the paper target down range, then fired over and over again until the target’s head was blown completely off. “As for me, I get my kicks taking little sissy fairies like yourselves and turning you into stone cold killers.”

The instructor holstered his women. “Any questions?”

Multiple tiny hands shot up into the air.

“Yes,” Moses said as he pointed to a little girl with pigtails. “What is it,
Chloe?”

“My Momma said she’s gonna divorce my Daddy for signing me up for Gun Scouts ‘cuz she says guns are bad,” Chloe said.

Moses laughed. “Young lady, no offense, but your mother sounds like a radical left-wing lesbian who daydreams all day about crawling inside Hillary Clinton’s vagina and taking a nap. If she’s really going to divorce your father for enrolling you in a fine organization like Gun Scouts, then he should thank his lucky stars that he won’t be wasting another day of his precious life with such a contemptible shrew.”

A little boy raised his hand.

“Yes,” Moses said. “Kevin.”

“What was the war like?” Kevin asked.

Moses chuckled. He looked to Felix. “You hear this kid? ‘What was the war like?’”

Felix smiled, then picked up a remote off the counter. He pointed it at the big flat screen TV mounted on the wall to the left of his work area and turned on NN1. Countess Cucamonga coverage, as usual.

Moses put his hand on the little boy’s arm. “Son, if there’s one universal truth of life, it’s this. It is impossible to explain what something ‘is like’ to someone who has never experienced it. An astronaut can’t adequately describe to me what it is like to be shot up into this space because I’ve never been there. Therefore, it stands to reason that I can’t tell you what it’s like to gut a man with a rusty razer blade, then pull his rotting carcass on top of my body in order to hide from a roving enemy patrol. No, young man, I could never explain to you what it was like to stare into the cold, motionless eyes of a dead man for three days while being scared out of my mind that I was about to be just like him. I can’t tell you what sorrow I felt as I stared into that man’s eyes and thought about that man and what he must have once been as a human being – how he once had a family, probably a wife, children, how he had hopes and dreams and with one quick flick of a sharp piece of steel, I took that all away from him and turned him into a human shaped pile of trash for me to burrow under like some kind of two-bit junkyard dog.”

“Oh,” Kevin said. “OK.”

“Any other questions?” Moses asked.

Billy, a chubby lad, raised his hand.
“God damn it,” Moses said. “I’m gonna have to make you do some push ups, boy. What the hell do you want?”

“Mister Moses, sir,” Billy said.

“That’s Sergeant to you, pork rind,” Moses said.

“When do we get to shoot the guns?” Billy asked.

Moses guffawed. He looked towards his hetero life mate. “You hear this kid?”

Felix smiled. Moses looked at Billy and mimicked the boy’s squeaky voice. “‘When do we get to shoot the guns?’ That’s you. That’s what you sound like.”

“Well,” Billy said. “When?”

“Son, your Momma must have ingested a heaping helping of crystal meth while she was cooking you up in her baby maker because you sound like a meth baby to me,” Moses said. “Are you a meth baby?”

“No sir,” Billy said.

“You think I’d just hand you a gun on your first day, when you don’t know Jack Shit about anything?” Moses asked.

Billy shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah?”

Moses shot the boy a sour look, then smiled. “You’re Goddamn right I would!”

The instructor turned to the clerk. “Felix!”

“Hmm?” Felix asked.

“Take these little patriots out around back to the kids’ gun range,” Moses said. “Give ‘em each a man stopper and show ‘em what to do.”

“Hooray!” the kids shouted in unison. They all swarmed around Felix’s ankles as the quiet man ushered the students out the door.

“You kids listen to Felix, now!” Moses shouted. “I have deputized him with all my powers and authority as a licensed gun safety instructor! Just be sure to stay on the side of his good eye so he knows what the hell all you little shits are up to!”

As soon as his class was gone, Moses smiled. “Aww, kids. They grow up so fast.”

The instructor paced the length of the gun range, critiquing the stance and technique of each customer all the way.

Blam! Blam! Blam! A little old lady pumped multiple rounds into her target’s chest.
“Worst grouping I have ever seen in my life, Ethel,” Moses said.

“I’m trying, Sonny,” Ethel said.

“Yeah,” Moses said. “You know who else is trying? The gangbanger whose soul purpose in life is to break into your house and have his way with every one of your orifices! Are you going to let him get away with that shit?”

Ethel got mad. She pointed at the target and squinted. Blam! She put one right in the target’s head.

“Atta girl, Ethel,” Moses said. “No one’s touching your old lady parts without your say so, that’s for damn sure.”

Moses moved on. A bespectacled geek in a polo shirt was aiming his gun with his hand tilted to the left, gangster style. He squeezed off a few rounds, but his bullets flew past the target.

“Son of a bitch, Clyde!” Moses said. “What in Sam Hill are you doing?”

“I…I don’t know, Moses,” Clyde said.

“Why don’t you just do yourself a favor and go back to your restaurant, take all your money out of the cash register and wave it around in the air and shout, ‘Come and get it, lowlives! I’m a failure as a man and I’m literally powerless to stop you from depriving me of my livelihood!’”

Clyde hanged his head low. “I’m sorry.”

“Shit,” Moses said as he grabbed Clyde’s wrist and turned his hand straight. “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to yourself. What is this shit you’re doing?”

“It’s gangster style,” Clyde said. “It’s how Tupac and Biggie used to shit.”

Moses scoffed. “Oh, you want to shoot just like Biggie and Tupac?”

“Yeah,” Clyde said.

“Yeah, well, don’t,” Moses said. “Maybe if Biggie and Tupac had held their guns straight they’d of iced the punks who capped them and then they’d still be out there putting out albums today? Ever think of that?”

“No,” Clyde said.

“That’s the problem,” Moses said. “None of you young people ever think at all.”

Moses pointed Clyde’s hand directly at the target. Blam! A hole opened up in the target’s shoulder. Clyde smiled. “I hit it! I actually hit it!”

“That’s a shitty hit,” Moses said. “Your perp could still steal your cash with his other hand and if he were so inclined, could probably still have the strength to push you down and have his way with your man hole but…at least it’s progress. Keep it up kid, and you’re be popping heads like ripe casaba melons in no time.”

Clyde threw his arms around Moses. “Thank you, Moses! Thank you!”

Moses extracted himself from the hug. “Whoa, whoa, hold the phone, Jack. What do you think this is, some kind of homosexual love shack?”

“Huh?” Clyde asked. “No. No, I was just so happy that I…”

Moses walked away. “Keep it in your pants, compadre. The only thing that will ever go near my butt is the colonoscope of a trained medical doctor and even then I’ll have my reservations.”

Blam! Blam! Blam! As Moses reached the last booth on the rang, the “blams!” grew deafeningly loud. “Well holy shit, if it isn’t Cole Walker!”

Cole pulled off his protective ear phones and nodded at Moses.

“I knew I heard the sweet siren song of an Angry Barracuda,” Moses said.

Cole flipped open the chamber and dumped his spent casings all over the counter in his booth. Moses held his hand out. “May I?”

The chief handed over his massive hand cannon. Moses hovered his nostrils over the barrel and sniffed away. “Mmm…mmm…oh how I love the smell of an Angry Barracuda in the morning!”

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Apr 30 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 27

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roxy frowned. “Oh son.”

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

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

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

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

“Well, what?” Buford asked.

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

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

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

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

“Oh baby…”

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

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

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

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

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

“Then don’t say no,” Buford said.

“But I gotta say no,” Roxy said.

“Why?” Buford whined.

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

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

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

“What?” Buford asked.

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

“No,” Buford said.

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

“I can’t believe this,” Buford said.

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

“But Momma!” Buford said.

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

“I know,” Buford said.

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

Buford looked sullen, defeated. “I hear.”

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

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

The Stank Daddy beats continued.

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

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

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

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

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Apr 30 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 26

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three students remained silent.

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

“You don’t know?” Declan asked.

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

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

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

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

“The Bookshelf Battle Blog?” Mackenzie asked.

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

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

“Deader than disco,” Mackenzie said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Big Toilet?” Kate asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Apr 30 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 25

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

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

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

“Plus five what now?” Sharon asked.

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

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

“Cut the bull-what?” Freddie asked.

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

“What?” Freddie asked.

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

“But I didn’t…”

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

“Is this even legal?” Freddie asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I knew that,” Sharon said.

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

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

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

Gordon growled like an angry Rotweiller.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!” Freddie said.

“Just admit it!” Sharon said.

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

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

“Who?” Freddie asked.

Sharon looked to Gordon. “Do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why should I?” Sharon asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Give you something?” Freddie asked.

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

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

“Spill it,” Sharon said.

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

“No surprise there, weirdo,” Sharon said.

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

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

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

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

“Stop beating around the bush,” Sharon said.

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

“Troubling files?” Sharon asked.

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

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

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

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

Freddie blushed. “In theory.”

“Jesus,” Sharon said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want my lawyer!” Freddie cried.

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

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

“Oh Cole,” Sharon said.

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Apr 30 2017
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Toilet Gator

Eleven Weeks of Toilet Gator Sundays!

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

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Apr 29 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 24

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yup,” Maude said. “Sure has.”

“How have you been?” Sharon asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very good,” Sharon said.

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

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

“You got an interrogation room?” Maude asked.

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

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

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

“He seems charming,” Maude said.

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

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

“Yeah?”

“How is Cole?” Sharon asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was very diplomatic,” Sharon said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Apr 27 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 23

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

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

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

“Burt?” Maude asked.

Burt snored.

“Hey!” Maude shouted. “Burt!”

Burt snored some more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nipples?” Burt said.

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

“Close enough,” Burt said.

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

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

Maude’s phone rang.

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

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

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

“Calm down,” Henrietta said.

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

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

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

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

“She’s bluffing,” Burt said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” Henrietta said.

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

“I know,” Henrietta said.

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

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

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

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

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

Henrietta sniffed. “We will.”

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

“Yeah,” Henrietta said.

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

“He did,” Henrietta said.

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

“OK,” Henrietta said.

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

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

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

“That’s classified,” Maude said.

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

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

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

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

“OK,” Henrietta said.

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

“OK,” Henrietta said. “Bye.”

“Goodbye,” Maude said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” the man said.

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

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

“Pardon me?” Maude asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Prairie dogging?” Maude asked.

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

“Sorry I asked,” Maude said.

“OK,” the man said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Maude said.

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

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

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

“I have no idea, sir,” Maude said.

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

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

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

“Huh?” Maude asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah Michaels – is it safe to shit?

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

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

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

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

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

Burt snored.

“Burt!” Maude shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

“What in the…”

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

“Aw shit,” Maude said.

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Apr 26 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 22

toilet-gator-book-1
Natalie sat on a bench just outside the sorority house, checking Lifeboat for updates about the Countess Cucamonga case. Every media outlet was all over the story, and many were applauding Natalie’s crackerjack reporting skills. Unfortunately, these accolades were not directed at “Natalie Brock” but rather, “that Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties on Network News One.” Such was the plight of all female NN1 reporters – no one remembers their names. They just remember the blonde hair and the big titties.

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

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

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

“Like your men?” Walter asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“THAT WILL BE ALL FOR NOW.”

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

“For now?”

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

Natalie showed the phone to Walter. He nodded again.

“You hope?”

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

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

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

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

“Duh,” Natalie said. “You think?”

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

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Natalie said.

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

“I do?” Natalie asked.

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

“This sucks,” Natalie said.

“Not necessarily,” Walter said.

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

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

“I will?” Natalie asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” Natalie said.

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

“Yes,” Natalie said.

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

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

Walter stood up. “Way ahead of you.”

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