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May 14 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 42

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“Man, this is going to be so amazing, Skippy.”

Buford sat in a cheap, musty room at the No-Tell Motel. Various stains of indeterminate origin were spread all over the walls, floors and bedspread. The overall decor was very disgusting, but Buford was willing to put up with it for fifty bucks a night.

“We’re gonna have to start pinching pennies now that Daddy is no longer subsidizing the lifestyle we’ve grown accustomed to, Skippy.”

Buford tapped the microphone attached to his headset. “Is this thing on? Skippy? Can you hear me.”

A few seconds passed before a low, guttural response poured into Buford’s headset. “Raarga, raarga.”

“That’s better, young man,” Buford said. “You better mind your manners and speak when spoken to, you understand?”

“Raarga.”

“Get your butt to the No-Tell Motel,” Buford said. “It’s going to be our home away from home until I can either get myself back into Daddy’s good graces or figure out a way to strike out on my own and become a wealthy, independent man.”

“Raarga? Raarga, raarga.”

“What?” Buford said. “Screw you and the horse you rode in on. I could too make it in the real world if I wanted to.”

“Raarga.”

“I’m not in the mood for your shit, Skip,” Buford said. “Just get over here.”

Buford stared at a series of computer screens. He’d managed to sneak into his room at his father’s mini-mansion and swipe all the computer equipment he could. Thus, his room at the motel was filled with all kinds of high-tech gear.

The high tech hayseed punched one button on his keyboard and boom! Nudey pictures filled every screen in the room.

“At last!” Buford said. “I’ve finally figured out how to hack every porno site on the web with the stroke of a button! ginormobutts.com! Asstasticfantasies.com! boobstravaganza.net! It’s mine! All mine!”

Buford wrang his hands as he bursted out into a fit of maniacal laughter. “Muah ha ha ha ha ha!”

Boom! A loud commotion broke out in the bathroom. The toilet exploded, as did the pipe underneath. Water sprayed out onto the rug as an enormous, twelve-foot long angry alligator waddled into room and emitted a loud, menacing, “ROAR!”

Buford stood up and put his hands on his hips in the style of a disappointed parent. “Damn it! Skipford J. Dufresne! Look at the mess you done made!”

The alligator lowered his head in shame. “Raarga.”

“You’re damn right, ‘raarga!” Buford said. “I put on a deposit down on this room. You think I’m gonna get that money back now?”

Skippy shook his scaly head back and forth. “Raarga.”

“And where am I supposed to shit now?” Buford asked. “Next time use the front door like a normal person!”

Skippy waddled over to the bed and climbed on top. The box spring crunched and dropped under his massive weight. Half of his gargantuan reptile body was still on the floor.

Buford sighed and climbed into bed next to his buddy. “Move over, ya big lummox!”

“Raarga,” Skippy said as he attempted to make some room. Alas, the effort was in vain, for he was one big ass prehistoric reptile.

Buford barely even fit on the bed and he even had to keep one leg firmly planted on the floor. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Skippy.”

“Raarga,” Skippy said.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Buford said. “I have been under a lot of stress but so have you. Hell, you’re the one who did all the dirty work.”

“Raarga.”

Buford tapped a microchip that had been implanted into Skippy’s ear hole. “This thing been working ok?”

“Raarga,” Skippy said.

“You can still hear me when you’re out and about?” Buford asked.

“Raarga,” Skippy said.

“That’s good,” Buford said.

The unlikely duo lied there in silence for awhile until Buford piped up again. “Skippy?”

“Raarga?”

“I’ve been having second thoughts,” Buford said.

“Raarga!” Skippy said. “Raarga raarga, raarga raarga!”

“What do you mean, ‘You always knew I’d pussy out?” Buford asked.

“Raarga, raarga!” Skippy shouted.

“Them’s fighting words, Skipford!” Buford shouted. “I have half a mind to wash your mouth out with soap!”

Skippy belted out another loud roar.

“Shh,” Buford said. “Come on now, the neighbors might hear you. Roll on over.”

“Raarga.”

“Go on.”

The box spring creaked as Skippy shifted to his side. Buford rolled over on his side and draped his arm over the mega lizard’s big belly. Alligator and man then proceeded to lie there for awhile, enjoying the peace and quiet.

“I’m gonna sing you your special song,” Buford said.

“Raarga,” Skippy replied.

“No,” Buford said. “I know you’re not a kid anymore but we all get upset and need to be calmed down now and again.”

Skippy closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling as Buford stroked his hand up and down the alligator’s scaly tummy. “Stank Daddy in the house, gonna smack a bitch…”

“Raarga,” Skippy said.

“Gonna bust off a switch and smack a bitch,” Buford sang.

Skippy looked as though he’d drifted off into a feeling of sheer ecstasy.

“Get in my way and you’ll get a stitch,” Buford sang. “Stank Daddy in the house, gonna smack a bitch…”

Buford patted the alligator’s head. “That better?”

“Raarga,” Skippy said.

“Good,” Buford said. “Now maybe you’ll hear me out.”

“Raarga.”
Buford kissed Skippy’s scaly head, the wiped the slimy residue from his lips.

“Look,” Buford said. “Last night was a lot of fun. Lord knows it was a long time coming, what with all the planning that went into it. But we pulled it off without a hitch and now I’m thinking we ought to quit while we’re ahead.”

“Raarga!” Skippy shouted.

“Come on, Skippy,” Buford said. “Every good poker player will tell you that you got to know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em. Just like that song by the immortal legend, Kenny Rogers, who was a triple threat when it came to signing, gambling, and mass chicken production.”

“Raarga,” Skippy said.

“Just think about any criminal that ever got caught,” Buford said. “They always get brought down whenever they get too greedy. It’s time to step away from the table while we still got a pocket full of chips.”

“Raarga!” Skippy said.

“I know,” Buford said. “My personal growth and development was stunted by three terrible people. And those people got what was coming to them last night. But you know what, Skip?”

“Raarga?” Skippy asked.

“I always thought that when I turned you loose on my enemies, I’d feel a lot better,” Buford said. “But I don’t. If anything, I feel worse.”

“Raarga?” Skippy asked.

“Yes,” Buford replied. “Much worse. I’ve come to realize that humans are just imperfect. They do dumb things without realizing how it will mess a fella up. But as imperfect as life is, all life is important and well…I shouldn’t have asked you to eat all those people for me. That’s my bad and I’ll accept it.”

“Raarga,” Skippy said.

“I know you had a good time doing it,” Buford said. “You’re a damn alligator. Crunching living things between your jaws is what you were built for. I just think it’s time we put you back on your all goat diet.”

Skippy sprang off the bed and stared at his companion. “Raarga!”

Burford was on his feet now. “Oh come on! It won’t be so bad! I can even feed your more goats now because I found a guy who can provide me with cheap, discount goats.”

“Raarga!” Skippy said.

“That’s right,” Buford said. “I’ve got a goat guy.”

“Raarga,” Skippy said.

“What do you mean, you’ll never go back to goats?” Skippy asked.

“Raarga!” Skippy shouted.

“Now that you’ve developed a taste for human flesh you’ll never go back?!” Buford asked.

Skippy waddled toward the bathroom. “Raarga!”

“You can’t mean that, Skippy!” Buford shouted. “Come on. I know it’s hard but maybe we can come up with a program to get you off of human meat.”

“Raarga,” Skippy said.

“I’m a pussy for living in this motel?” Buford asked.

“Raarga,” Skippy said.

“If I won’t stand up to Momma and Daddy you will?!” Buford asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Buford stood outside the bathroom door as his massive pet disappeared into the bathroom.

“Skippy!” Buford shouted. “You get back here this instant!”

“Raarga!” Skippy shouted.

“Skipford J. Dufresne!” Buford said. “You will not lay a single scaly hand on Momma and Daddy, do you hear me?”

No response.

“You get back in here and go to bed and sleep this off,” Buford said. “Maybe you’ll come to your senses in the morning.”

More silence.

Ever so timidly, Buford slowly stepped into the bathroom. The toilet was shattered to pieces. Water chugged out of the broken pipe. Even worse, the gator was gone.

“Lord have mercy,” Buford said. “I’ve created a monster.”

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May 14 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 42

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FBI computer scientist Jeff Harvey labored over a computer screen at the Sitwell Police Department. While Sharon and Gordon watched his every move, the pencil neck geek played with a neon orange toy. He grabbed it by the center, gave it a spin, and then allowed the unsharpened blades to twirl around and around in a circular motion.

“What the hell is that thing?” Gordon asked.

“It’s my Stress Spin-a-ma-jig,” Jeff answered. “It calms me down in stressful situations.”

“What’s so stressful about this?” Sharon asked.

“I dunno,” Jeff said as he punched a few keys on the keyboard. “Maybe because I’m tracking the only viable clue in an internationally publicized, high profile serial murder case and the two investigating agents have nothing better to do than jerk off behind me as they watch my every move?”

“No one’s jerking off,” Sharon said.

“Figure of speech,” Jeff said as a worldwide map appeared on the screen.

Cole, Rusty, and Maude entered the station.

“It’s about time!” Sharon snapped at Cole.

“Yeah,” Cole said. “Listen, Sharon, I thought I was doing the right thing by getting out of the office, given our…”

Sharon threw up her hand in a “stop” motion. “Say no more. I understand.”

“But I thought about it,” Cole said. “And I really do want to help.”

“I’m glad you’re on board,” Sharon said.

“Also,” Rusty said. “We have doubts as to your ability to solve this case because of your vagina.”

“Shut up Rusty,” Cole said.

Sharon sighed. “Same old Rusty. Hasn’t changed in ten years.”

“Tell me about it,” Cole said.

Jeff stopped his spinning toy. “We’ve got a hit!”

“Where is he?” Sharon asked.

Jeff tapped his finger right into the heartland of America. “Wisconsin.”
“Why would he be in Wisconsin after everything that happened down here?” Sharon asked.

“Beats me,” Gordon said. “But we’d better get the Milwaukee field office on the line.”

“And now he’s in San Francisco,” Jeff said.

“What?” Sharon said.

“Shanghai,” Jeff said. “Mumbai. Amsterdam. Australia. Whoa, now he’s in Monte Carlo! I hear it’s lovely there this time of year.”

While Maude returned to her desk to sort through paperwork, the agents and cops watched Jeff’s computer screen as a little red dot traveled all over the world.

“How is this possible?” Sharon asked.

“Whoever this guy is, he’s good,” Jeff said. “Like, next level good. He’s masked his phone signal, making it appear as though it’s pinging off towers all over the world.”

“Who has the knowhow to do such a thing?” Sharon asked.

“Either an MIT scientist,” Jeff said as he twirled his Spin-a-ma-jig. “Or a random computer nerd with plenty of time on his hands.”

“Well shit,” Cole said. “He must be from out of town because I can’t think of a single person in Sitwell with a brain like that.”

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May 14 2017
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Toilet Gator

Thirteen Weeks of Toilet Gator Sundays

Happy Mother’s Day, 3.5 readers.

Just think.  By this time next year, you’ll be able to thank your mother for squirting you out of her nether regions by buying her her very own copy of “Toilet Gator.”

That’s all your mother ever wanted all along.  Just the other day I heard her say, “My ulterior motive in turning my vagina into the Holland Tunnel was to raise a kid who would buy me my very own copy of a book about an alligator that eats people while they are sitting on the toilet.”

So, stop disappointing your mother and be sure to make a note to buy “Toilet Gator” next year.  It will make up for the many, many ways in which you disappointed your mother, the list of which is long and voluminous.

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May 10 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 33.2

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While Maude fielded the freaks, Sharon and Gordon grilled Irving St. John. It was Sharon’s turn to hang back, while Gordon leered over Cole’s desk at the crooked agent. Irving had been allowed to put on a pair of sweat pants and a white T-shirt before the SWAT team hauled him up to Sitwell.

“Anything you want to say before I get started?” Gordon asked.

“I think you should be saying something,” Irving said as he struggled against the handcuffs that bound his wrists around his back. “A lot of things. How about, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. St. John” and “Please do sic all your high priced Jew lawyers on me for being an idiot?’”

“That’s very offensive,” Sharon said.

“And racist,” Gordon added.

“Why do people keep saying that?” Irving asked. “Do you know how long it takes to go to law school?”

“Three years,” Sharon said. “Four if you go at night like I did.”

Irving appeared shocked at that answer. Sharon continued. “We aren’t a couple of rubes that you can bark at until we give one of you no talent clients some air time. You wouldn’t be here without a good reason.”

“A very, very good reason,” Gordon said.

“Well,” Irving said. “I can’t imagine what that reason could possibly be.”

Sharon and Gordon traded knowing looks. Gordon opened up a file folder. “In total, how much money would you say you stole from your client, Miss Sally Ann Dubawitz, better known by her stage name, ‘Countess Cucamonga?’”

Irving laughed. “That’s a good one.”

The agents stared at the suspect long enough for him to realize they weren’t laughing. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Gordon said.

“I’m not saying another word until I can speak to my attorney,” Irving said.

Gordon looked at Sharon and shook his head. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah,” Sharon replied. “I really thought he’d want to help himself.”

“Apparently not,” Gordon said as he closed the folder. “OK. We’re done here.”

“Wait,” Irving said. “What’s this about helping myself?”

“You’ve invoked your right to counsel, Mr. St. John,” Sharon explained. “There’s little room left for us to discuss the matter with you now.”

“Discuss!” Irving shouted. “Discuss, discuss!”

“You’d have to wave your right to counsel,” Sharon said.

“Consider it waved!” Irving shouted.

“Mr. St. John,” Sharon said. “At this time, I have to advise you that you have the right to remain silent. If you wave that right, anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You also have a right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney…”

“Yeah, yeah, lady,” Irving said. “I watch Law and Order. Just tell me how to get out of this nightmare already!”

“Truthfully,” Sharon said. “I’m not sure how much help we can offer given the gravity of the crimes.”

“Best case scenario,” Gordon said. “We’re talking about multiple life sentences.”

“Life sentences?” Irving asked.

“At best,” Sharon said. “We might be able to talk about making the conditions of your lifetime confinement more comfortable.”

“Lifetime confinement?” Irving said. “Just for skimming a little cream off the top?!”

“For the murders of Miss Dubawitz, Mr. Hogan, and Mr. Becker,” Irving said.

“Who the hell are Mr. Hogan and Mr. Becker?” Irving asked.

“Interesting,” Gordon said.

“Yes,” Sharon said. “He’s copping to Dubawitz but wants to keep playing dumb on Hogan and Becker.”

“Playing dumb will get you nowhere,” Gordon said.

“I’m not playing dumb!” Irving shouted. “I am dumb!”

“We’ve got the goods on you, St. John,” Gordon said. “Countless files and bank statements weaving the cheap and tawdry tale of how robbed Countess Cucamonga blind.”

“Impossible,” Irving said. “You’ve got nothing.”

Gordon spread out several documents across Cole’s desk. Irving read them and frowned. “How did you…but…these have to be fakes. I wiped the Countess’ computer after she…”

Sharon’s eyes widened. Gordon pounded his fist down on the desk. “After you killed her!”

“What?” Irving asked. “No!”

“Stop jerking us around, dildo boy,” Gordon said. “The Countess figured you out. You somehow caught wind of that and you put her on ice.”

“And as you just freely admitted,” Sharon said. “You covered your tracks by erasing material evidence.”

“I’m not admitting anything,” Irving said. “I just know for a fact that those printouts cant be real.”

“Unless they represent files printed off of a device that was turned over to us by a concerned citizen,” Gordon said.

“One with a freshly inked immunity in exchange for testimony deal,” Sharon said.

Irving’s mind raced. He sat up. “That nerdy little stalker!”

“We can’t confirm or deny that,” Gordon said.

“I…I…I…” Irving stammered. “I can fight this. Those transactions are debatable. Justifiable, even. A good lawyer will be able to argue that they were owed to me based on a reasonable interpretation of the various contracts held between the Countess and myself. At best, they were legal payments to myself and at worst, they were accidental withdrawals based on a misunderstanding, one I’m truly remorseful for and I’ll gladly reimburse the late Countess’ estate immediately.”

Sharon and Gordon were silent.

“I went to law school at night too,” Irving said.

“The theft beef is the least of your worries,” Gordon said. “We get why you whacked the Countess. We just want to know why you killed Hogan and Becker. Give us the skinny so their families can have some closure.”

Irving looked at the agents with stone faced defiance. “I didn’t kill anyone. I kill with my charm, my good looks, my business savvy but with my hands? No. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Do we?” Gordon asked.

“Why would I kill the Countess?” Irving asked. “She was the proverbial goose that laid the golden egg and she laid a ton of ‘em, right out of that big gluteus maximus of hers. You think I ever wanted that gravy train to stop?”

“You strike me as the kind of pussy that would kill a woman because you know you’re too delicate to last five minutes behind bars,” Gordon said.

“What about Hogan and Becker?” Sharon asked.

“What about them?” Irving asked. “Who are they?”

“Your victims,” Gordon said. “If you’re going to go around and around with stupid questions you know the answer to…”

“Wait,” Irving said. “Are you talking about the other two people who died on the can the same night as the Countess?”

Gordon leaned back in Cole’s chair. “For a guy who says he doesn’t know much about it, you seem to know a lot.”

“Everyone knows about it!” Irving said. “It’s been all over Network News One!”

“How do they fit into your twisted little game?” Sharon asked.

“Bullshit!” Gordon shouted.

“I have no idea who they are!” Irving said. “I’ve never met them. But I’ve been glued to the coverage like everyone else. Look idiots, do you really think I could have killed the Countess, even though her guards where with me the entire time, then spoke to you two that night in her dressing room and then, what? I magically transported myself with lightning speed to a nursing home in Boca Raton and then to a college in Sitwell? Only the Flash could move that fast.”

“You’re a wealthy man, Mr. St. John,” Sharon said.

“You’ve got pull,” Gordon said. “Connections. Power. Combine that with money and I’m sure you could have found a way to have others do your dirty work for you.”

“First, a cover up murder,” Sharon said. “Then two random murders committed by hired goons under similar circumstances in order to make the Countess’ death appear as though it was one part of a mysterious serial killer’s bizarre master plan.”

“OK,” Irving said. “You two have gone gonzo. Batshit bonkers. I’m not saying another word until I can speak to my lawyers. I want my Jews.”

“Mr. St. John,” Sharon said. “If you…”

“I want my Jews!” Irving said. “And I shall have my Jews! No more questions.”

Gordon stood up, walked around the desk, and helped Irving to his feet. He then grabbed the perp by the arm and led him out of Cole’s office. Sharon followed.

While Gordon led Irving to a holding cell, Sharon looked around the room, her mouth agape at the sheer number of loonies who had shown up with something to say about the Toilet Killer.

“Wow Maude,” Sharon said. “Looks like your hands are full.”

“Yes,” Maude replied. “Anytime you want to spare some of those agents you’ve got running around, installing this and that and tearing up the place, and put them on nutcase detail, I’d appreciate it.”

Natalie Brock, who had been sitting next to Maude’s desk, stood up. “Agent Walker?”

“Oh, right,” Maude said. “Sharon, this woman claims she’s a Hot Ass Blonde Chick with Big Titties from Network News One with some important information for you.”

Sharon squinted at Natalie and moved in for a closer look. “That can’t be right.”

“Why do you say that?” Natalie asked.

Sharon struggled to find the right words. “Because you aren’t…and you don’t have…”presentation01

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May 07 2017
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Toilet Gator

Twelve Weeks of Toilet Gator Sundays

No turning back now.  So much of my life devoted to writing a book about a toilet gator.

I question my life choices.

toilet-gator-book-1

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May 06 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 40

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A month later, Cole and Rusty found themselves sitting in the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall. Broken windows. Cracked paint. Run down shops that were once hustling and bustling with customers, now gone the way of the dodo thanks to a burgeoning Internet economy.

“How do you this guy won’t just shoot you and take your money?” Rusty asked.

“He won’t,” Cole said.

“OK,” Rusty said. “How do I know he won’t shoot me?”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Minutes later, a rusty old van pulled into the parking lot. A gruff looking man wearing a skull cap stepped out, holding a bright orange lock box. A hissing snake was tattooed on his neck.

“How do I know I’m not going to get man raped?” Rusty asked.

“Again,” Cole said. “A risk…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rusty said. “A risk you’re willing to take. Jay Leno’s got nothing on you.”

The duo stepped out of the car. “Are you Mr. Sagittarius?”

“Maybe,” the man said. “Maybe not. Who’s asking?”

“Mr. Pisces,” Cole replied.

“Hmm,” the man said. “That fits. Yes, I am Mr. Sagittarius.”

“Good,” Cole said. “Now let’s…”

“Whoa, hold the phone, Cochise,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “What’s the password?”

Cole pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and read the words on it out loud. “Crank That Soulja Boy.”

Mr. Sagittarius stared at Cole blankly, as though he was waiting for something.

“Oh,” Cole said. “Crank That Soulja Boy…69.”

“And?” Mr. Sagittarius said.

“Oh,” Cole said as he looked at the paper. “And the ‘C’ in Crank is a capital ‘C.’”

“That’s more like it,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “All passwords must contain a number and a capital letter. Mr. Sagittarius doesn’t mess around.”

“Can I see the piece?” Cole asked.

“Depends,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “Can I see the cash?”

Cole pulled three thousand dollars’ worth of crisp, one-hundred bills out of a manilla envelope and fanned it out. He waved the money around, then put it back in the envelope.

“Alright,” Mr. Sagittarius said as he unlocked the orange box. “Mr. Sagittarius can see you don’t mess around either.”

Cole looked inside and stared at the magnificently shiny hand cannon inside.

“Behold,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “The Angry Barracuda 500.”

“Umm,” Rusty said. “I think I’m going to go get a fro-yo with some extra gummy bears.”

Mr. Sagittarius looked at Cole, but pointed at Rusty. “What’s his problem?”

“Nothing,” Cole said. “He’s cool.”

“He doesn’t seem cool,” Mr. Sagittarius said.

“I’m cool,” Rusty said. “I just like that fro-yo place across the street. They have great gummy bears.”

“Defeats the purpose,” Mr. Sagittarius said.

“What?” Rusty asked.

“You’re going to get a frozen yogurt because it’s less calories than ice cream,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “But then you’re going to cover it with gummy bears and shit until it has as much or even more calories than ice cream. That defeats the purpose of getting frozen yogurt in the first place. You might as well not be a little bitch and just get a full blown ice cream.”

“Thank you for the nutritional tip, Mr. Sagittarius,” Rusty said.

“No problem,” Mr. Sagittarius. “Mr. Sagittarius used to be a lot bigger, but he lost a hundred pounds over the past three years.”

“Wow,” Cole said.

“That takes a lot of commitment, Mr. Sagittarius,” Rusty said.

“It’s all about taking it day by day and making the best possible health choices you can,” Mr. Sagittarius said.

“You’re an inspiration to us all, Mr. Sagittarius,” Rusty said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, that frozen yogurt calls…”

“Knock it off,” Cole said.

“Look,” Rusty said. “You guys do your thing, but I don’t want to be a party to an illegal transaction.”

“What illegal transaction?” Mr. Sagittarius said. “I’m a fully licensed and insured gun dealer, compliant with all aspects of state and federal law.”

“Bullshit,” Rusty said.

Mr. Sagittarius opened up the door to his van.

“Shit,” Rusty said. “He’s going for a gun.”

“Will you get your vagina under control?” Cole asked.

Mr. Sagittarius returned with a folder he handed to Rusty. “Here you go.”

Rusty inspected the folder. It was filled with documents, permits, and licenses, all bearing the name of…

“Sidney Weimariner?” Rusty asked. “What’s with all this ‘Mr. Sagittarius’ bullshit then?”

“Mr. Sagittarius prefers to go on the down low as much as possible,” the gun dealer said. “There are many reprobates out there who want what Mr. Sagittarius has.”

Rusty pointed at Cole. “Then why is he, ‘Mr. Pisces?’”

“Because I like fish,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “I know who he really is. Who are you?”

Rusty gulped. “Mr. Blonde.”

“Mr. Blonde?” Mr. Sagittarius asked.

“We’re doing astrological signs,” Cole explained. “Not colors.”

“Oh,” Rusty said. “Sorry. I just really like Tarantino.”

Mr. Sagittarius took the folder back from Rusty. He pulled out some paperwork and handed it to Cole. “There you go, all fully registered, nice and legal like, to one Mr. Cole Walker.”

“Wait a minute,” Rusty said. “Isn’t there a waiting period?”

“You’re right,” Mr. Sagittarius said. He looked down at his watched and hummed a few bars of a catchy tune. “28…29…30 seconds. Enough waiting.”
“Har dee har, har,” Rusty said. “What about a background check?”

“Rusty, why are you trying to screw this up for me?” Cole asked.

“There’s just something off about this,” Rusty said.

“Mr. Pisces,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “Are you going to kill a bunch of people with this gun?”

“No,” Cole replied.

“That checks out,” Mr. Sagittarius said.

Rusty slapped his forehead in disbelief.

“Look,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “I don’t need to perform a back ground check because technically, this is a gun show.”

“It is?” Rusty asked.

Mr. Sagittarius wiggled his hips and swayed from side to side. “Best dance show ever.”

“You call that a show?” Rusty asked.

“You want me to sing too?” Mr. Sagittarius asked. “What do want to hear? Marvin Gaye? Maybe a little Gladys Knight and the Pips?”

“Please,” Cole said. “Ignore my friend. He’s a ginger.”

“That explains it,” Mr. Sagittarius said.

Cole handed over the money. Mr. Sagittarius handed over the gun.

“It’s a magnificent weapon,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “I put a lot of work into finding it.”

“Appreciated,” Cole said.

Mr. Sagittarius handed Cole the key to the lock box. Cole locked it up.

“Only owned by one previous owner,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “He only used it one time to shoot a rhinoceros in the face in self-defense.”

“Come on,” Rusty said. “How do you shoot a rhinoceros in self-defense?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Sagittarius said. “I wasn’t there. I don’t judge. Good day, gentlemen. I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but you made me drive into Redneck country and well, I’ve had nightmares ever since I saw Deliverance.”

“Damn,” Rusty said. “That movie sure did give the south a black eye.”

Mr. Sagittarius hopped into his van and drove away. Rusty and Cole returned to their car.

“Well,” Rusty said. “You got two more weeks of leave left. What are you going to do know?”

“Get drunk and shoot a shit ton of animals,” Cole replied.

“That sounds healthy,” Rusty said.

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May 05 2017
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Toilet Gator

A Note on Toilet Gator – Chapter 39

I’m really proud of it.  I think it has a lot of heart.  Let me know what you think, 3.5 readers.

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May 05 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 39

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Cole unwrapped his burger and winced as he saw two big pickle slices sticking out from underneath the bun.

“You know I hate pickles,” Cole said.

“Really?” Rusty asked with a fake lisp. “I thought you loved pickles, big boy.”

“Rusty,” Cole said. “Seriously, man. I need you to dial it back.”

“OK,” Rusty said.

“They’ve been weening me off the painkillers and I’m on edgy and moody as fuck,” Cole said.

Rusty chomped on an onion ring. “Well, a big ass dog did turn your leg into a Happy Meal so, I suppose those feelings are normal.”

Cole glared at Rusty.

“What?” Rusty asked. “That wasn’t even a joke! I’m just saying, it’s normal for you to feel like shit. I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t feel that way in your situation. Just let it all out, man.”

“No,” Cole said. “Fuck that noise. Everyone wants to talk about their feelings. ‘Waah, waah, boo hoo hoo, I have so many feelings.’ Like that helps anything.”

Rusty picked the bun off of Cole’s burger and flicked off the two pickles. “Look here, this is a real easy fix. There. No more pickles.”

“Damn it!” Cole said.

“What?” Rusty asked.

“Well now your hand’s been on it…”

“I wash my hands, Cole,” Rusty said.

Cole picked up the burger.

“Although, come to think of it,” Rusty said. “I did take a big shit this morning and for the life of me I can’t remember if I washed my hands after.”

“Enough with the jokes!” Cole said.

“Not a joke,” Rusty said. “I truly can’t remember. That burger may very well be crawling with fecal coliform bacteria.”

Cole shrugged his shoulders. “Fuck it.” He bit into the burger, then moaned happily. “Oh God. Three months of jello.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Rusty said. “And I did tell that girl at the drive through to not put pickles on yours but you know those damn kids never listen.”

Cole and Rusty munched on their food for awhile as they watched Network News One on the TV in the lounge.

“In recent news Vice-President Cheney has announced that he will try really, really hard to not shoot any of his friends in the face ever again,” Kurt Manley said. “The VP added, ‘That was totally my bad, people. Totally my bad. In other news, Senator Barack Obama spoke to supporters on the campaign trail today…”

Senator Obama appeared on screen at a podium. “For when we have faced down impossible odds, when we’ve been told we’re not ready or that we shouldn’t try or that we can’t, generations of Americans have responded with a simple creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can. Yes, we can. Yes, we can!”

“Will you get a load of this guy?” Rusty said. “‘Barack Obama.’ Why don’t they just run a guy named Jihadi Al-I’ll-bomb-ya?”

Cole sipped his soda. “I don’t know. He’s a real slick talker. I’ll give him that.”

“What you like him?” Rusty asked.

“I don’t like any politicians,” Cole said. “Republican. Democrat. All the same. When they walk in the room, grab your wallet and hold on tight.”

“Shit,” Rusty said. “You got that right.”

Obama continued. “It was a creed written into the founding documents that declared the destiny of a nation: Yes, we can. It was whispered by slaves and abolitionists as they blazed a trail towards freedom through the darkest of nights: Yes, we can!”

“‘Yes, we can,’” Rusty said. “‘Hope and change.’ Bunch of bull.”

“He’s got it locked up,” Cole said.

“You think?” Rusty said.

“Yeah,” Cole said. “The man can talk the paint off a barn door.”

Rusty took a bite of his burger and swallowed. “I dunno. I heard McCain just picked this Sarah Palin lady to be his vice-president.”

“Sarah who?” Cole said.

“Palin,” Rusty said. “Governor of Alaska. Supposed to be a real smart cookie though I dunno, I haven’t heard her talk yet.”

Cole stole one of Rusty’s onion rings. “Really, who gives a shit?”

“Indeed, brother,” Rusty said. “Indeed.”

Rusty wiped the crumbs off his mouth with a napkin, then stood up.

“Got a hot date tonight, dude,” Rusty said. “How do I look?”

“Like you should be a supporting cast member on The Sopranos,” Cole said.

“Oh God,” Rusty said. “Don’t even get me started on that show, Cole. I whacked my TV set for a good thirty-five minutes after that finale because friggin’ HBO made me think it was on the fritz.”

“Where’d you meet this one?” Cole asked.

“Online,” Rusty said. “Internet dating, Cole. It’s amazing. You just log on and it’s like your own catalog of poon.”

Cole bit off a hunk off his burger and chewed. “She’s probably a man.”

“I will hear no insults about the lovely Layla,” Rusty said.

Cole washed down his bite with another sip of soda. “Layla’s dick is probably bigger than yours.”

“Blasphemy, sir!” Rusty said. “You have besmirched my honor!”

“You don’t have any honor,” Cole said.

“Oh, right,” Rusty replied. “Check this out.”

Rusty grabbed the sides of his pants, which were secured by dozens of snap-on buttons. The redhead yanked, the pants broke free and there he stood in the middle of the lounge in his polka-dot boxer shorts.

“What the hell?” Cole asked.

“Breakaway pants!” Rusty said. “You like ‘em?”

“No,” Cole said.

“Check it,” Rusty said. “I put these bad boys on. I take Layla out to the club. We’re drinking. We’re dancing. We’re grinding all over each other. We’re in the mood and…splatow! Off come my pants! No muss, no fuss!”

Dr. Kragen walked into the lounge with a parfait cup in her hand. She spotted a pants-less Rusty and instantly turned around and walked away. “Nope. Don’t even want to know.”

“You really need to put your pants back on,” Cole said.

“Oh,” Rusty said as he looked down at his hairy legs. “Right.”

After Rusty was fully clothed again, the duo continued their meal in silence for awhile. Finally, Cole speak.

“Where is she?” Cole asked.

“Where’s who?” Rusty replied.

Cole slapped the remaining half of his burger down on the paper. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Rusty asked.

“Play dumb,” Cole said. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Who’s playing?” Rusty asked. “I’m very dumb.”

“Where’s Sharon?”

“I don’t know, man,” Rusty said. “She didn’t call you?”

“No,” Cole said.

“That’s weird,” Rusty said.

“Stop it,” Cole said.

“Thought she said she was going to call you,” Rusty said. “She probably got busy with something.”

“Knock it off,” Cole said.

“You know how women are,” Rusty said. “They’d forget their heads if they weren’t attached.

Cole pounded his fist down on the table. “Where’s Sharon?!”

A few patients and their families turned around to stare. Rusty waved them off.

“OK,” Rusty said as he put down his burger. “I’ve been dreading this…”

“What?” Cole said. “Come on, man, out with already. Be straight with me!”

“I’ve been straight with you,” Rusty said.
“No you haven’t,” Cole said. “Every time I see you, you got some excuse for her. She’s really busy, she’s sick, she’s visiting her mother, her sister’s got the flu…I was too high to figure it out but now that the doctor cut my dosage I’m getting the distinct fucking feeling that you have been very far from straight with me.”

“Cole,” Rusty said. “I didn’t want to…”

“I lost my leg and my wife hasn’t come to see me once,” Cole said. “I’m not an idiot, Rusty.”

“I know,” Rusty said.

Rusty pulled a piece of paper out of his folder out of his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Cole. As soon as Cole looked at it, he felt his entire world collapse. Two words were written on it in Sharon’s handwriting. “I’m sorry.”

Cole crumpled up the paper and threw it against the wall. He pounded his fist on the table over and over. “Fuck!”

The patients and families looked over again. Cole let them have it. “The fuck are you looking at?! Mind your business!”

“That night,” Rusty said. “When the doctors told me you were stable, I swung by your house to tell Sharon and she wasn’t there.”

Cole cocked his head back and stared up at the ceiling in a daze.

“I let myself in,” Cole said. “Found that on the kitchen table. All her stuff was gone.”

Cole remained silent.

“I’m sorry,” Rusty said. “You’ve been through so much. I didn’t want to upset you. I figured it might mess up your chances of getting better. Kept hoping maybe she’d come back or something and it’d all be fine but…that never happened.”

“You call her?” Cole asked.

“Yeah,” Rusty said. “Left a bunch of messages. Just went right to voicemail.”

A few silent minutes passed. Cole kept staring at the ceiling. Rusty kept eating dinner.

“Shit,” Rusty said. “Now I feel bad for telling you about my date.”

“She probably has a dick,” Cole said.

“She most definitely has a dick,” Rusty replied.

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May 04 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 35

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Sitwell, Florida

May, 2007 – 1:00 p.m.

Cole was thirty. A younger man and as Rusty would later note in a phone message ten years later, a much happier man. There was no gray in his hair and plenty of pep in his step.

He wasn’t the chief at the time. That job went to the surly, walrus-mustached Jerome Haskell. Chief Haskell was a dour man with a perpetually sour expression on his face, but on the particular afternoon, he’d missed lunch, which made him exceptionally cranky.

“Wade Randolph!” Chief Haskell bellowed into a bullhorn pointed at a rundown shack on the outskirts of town. “There’s no use fighting this! We’ve got you surrounded!”

A faint voice emanated out of a broken window in the house. “Suck my balls!”

Chief Haskell looked to his back-up officers, young Cole and young Rusty. “Did he just tell me to suck his balls?”

“He did, Chief,” Cole said.

“The nerve of some people,” Rusty said. “If you ask me, it’s all these filthy DVD movies people are renting nowadays. They ought to just close down Blockbuster but hell, that place will probably be around until the end of time.”

“True,” Cole said. “People do like a good movie.”

Chief Haskell got on the bullhorn again. “Wade, you sack of refried donkey shit! Don’t you tell me to suck your balls! I got a warrant for your arrest and it’s gonna be served one way or the other, even if my boys and I have to come on in there and drag your scrawny, dope-dealing ass out ourselves.”

Wade broke onto into song. “Suck my balls, oh suck my balls! Suck, suck, suck suck, oh suck on my balls!”

“God damn it,” Chief Haskell said.

The Chief leaned up against his police cruiser.

“You ok, boss?” Cole asked. “You look a little wobbly.”

“Yeah,” Chief Haskell said. “My blood sugar’s just a little low. I was about to bite into a ham sandwich when this bullshit started.”

“Your Missus still pack your lunches, Chief?” Rusty asked.

“She sure does,” Chief Haskell replied. “Woman’s a saint. Handles all the household chores, does all the laundry, shopping, cooking, cleaning. Takes care of everything so I can just focus on my job. Hell, she even handles all the bills and finances. She’s a real smart cookie.”

“That’s awesome, Chief,” Rusty said. “I hope I find a woman like Mrs. Haskell one day.”

“I bet you will, Rusty,” Chief Haskell said as he slapped the redhead on the back. “There are plenty of women out there who want nothing more than to take care of a husband and tend to all his needs.”

“Yeah,” Rusty said. “But I’m just going to take my time. I figure there’s no need to rush. Women will still want to take care of their men in ten years.”

“Oh, no doubt there,” Chief Haskell said. “Just get yourself a smart one, like my Hazel. You know, the other day, she was saying something that made a lot of sense. Something about investing a bunch of money in Apple Computer stock.”

“Apple computers?” Rusty said.

“Yeah,” Chief Haskell said. “Something about a new fangled phone they made. Lets you look at the Internet anywhere.”

“No one could possibly make an invention like that work, Boss,” Rusty said. “Put the Internet in a phone? That’d be like harnessing a hurricane into a bottle. I mean, I’d be all over that shit if they could do it, but it’s impossible.”

“What do you think, Cole?” the Chief asked.

“I dunno, boss,” Cole said. “Beats me as to why anyone needs to be on the Internet while they’re out and about.”

“Hazel said something about social media,” the Chief said. “Whatever the hell that is.”

Cole smiled. “That’s that stupid ass thing the kids do where they post a picture of what they had for lunch…then they write about what they had for lunch, then all their friends write about what they had for lunch. It’s dumb.”

“That actually sounds like it’d be a lot of fun,” Cole said. “But as fads go, it’ll be a flash in the pan with no real long lasting potential. Plus, if Apple is ever able to put the Internet into a damn phone, then that must mean they got some kind of crazy magic scientists working there. I’ll eat my hat if they do it.”

Chief Haskell nodded. “You guys are right. I’ll just tell her to put it all in Borders.”

“Can’t go wrong there, Chief,” Rusty said. “People will always love the feel of a printed book in their hands.”

The Chief looked at his watch, then barked into the bullhorn. “Wade! You pulling your pud in there or what? Let’s go!”

“Chief!” Wade shouted. “I’ll have you know it’s illegal for you all to be here on my property!”

“It’s not illegal for us to be here, dipshit!” the Chief shouted into the bullhorn. “It’s illegal for you to cook up crystal meth and sell it to high school kids. How’d you think you were gonna get away with that one?”

Wade went silent. A few minutes passed.

“Hey Boss,” Cole said. “You know, Sharon just graduated from law school…”

“Oh sure,” Chief Haskell said. “Rub it in all our faces, why don’t you, Cole? All that big time fancy lawyer money your wife is going to be making?”

“Sharon will probably rake in so much dough that Cole will be able to quit the force and become her stay at home gigolo,” Rusty said.

The Chief laughed. “Sounds like the good life to me!”

“Yeah,” Cole said. “Anyway, we’re having a little party for her this weekend. We’d love to have you and Hazel over. You too, Rusty.”

“Count us in,” Chief Haskell said.

“What about you, Rusty?” Cole asked.

“Can I wear my Ed Hardy shirt?” Rusty asked.

“If you have to,” Cole replied.

“Then I’m in,” Rusty said.

Chief Haskell held up his bullhorn. “Peckerwood! You got until the count of three! Three…two…”

The front door of the shack swung open. “I’m coming out!”

“You got a gun on you?” Chief Haskell asked.

“Hell no,” Wade answered. “You think I’m some kinda idiot?”

Chief Haskell sighed. “You don’t want me to answer that. Just know you come out armed, we’ll put you down!”

An angry growl filled the air. The Chief squinted at the sight that was unfolding before his eyes, just to make sure he was really seeing what he was seeing. “What in the…”
Wade had walked out the door while holding the leash of one very large, very angry pit bull. It had giant, pointy teeth and big gobs of white foam plopped out of its mouth. It stared at the officers with a hungry look in his eyes.

“What the hell are you trying to pull, Wade?” Chief Haskell asked.

Wade was skinny to the point of emaciation. His body was like a tall skeleton with skin hanging off of it, with a pair of sunken eyes. He wore a pair of dirty jeans and a wife-beater style T-shirt.

“You piggies scoot, now!” Wade shouted. “Go on back to the bacon factory before I sic Ole Mongo on you!”

All three officers pulled their sidearms and aimed at the dog. Old Mongo was one rough looking pooch. He only had one eye. There were burn marks, scratches, and scars all over his body. One could only assume that he’d suffered a great deal of abuse at the hands of his owner over the years, the kind of abuse that can turn an animal from a friendly pet to an insane killing machine.

“I will shoot you and your ugly dog, Wade!” the Chief shouted. “Chain that mutt up and lie down on the ground!”

Old Mongo barked and growled some more. Then he started pulling on the leash, harder and harder. Wade struggled to hold on. It was obvious that the dog was much stronger than his owner.

“I can’t hold on forever!” Wade said. “You piggies better run!”

A little girl’s voice broke the tension. There, standing in the doorway, was Wade’s eight-year old daughter. “Daddy, what’s going on?”

The beast dog spotted the girl and growled.

“Why’s Mongo so mad?” the girl asked.

“Go back inside, Molly,” Wade said. “Daddy’s just having a little chat with these officers about a dumb old mistake they made.”

The Chief noticed how intently Old Mongo was staring at Molly. “Wade,” the Chief said. “Look, you better…”

And the dog was off. Old Mongo charged for the girl, yanking the leash right out of Wade’s hands. Molly screeched as she ran into the house with the pit bull in hot pursuit.

“Molly!” Wade shouted.

The drug pusher ran over to the officers. “Chief! You gotta save my little girl.”

The Chief’s face turned red with rage. He took off his hat and beat Wade over the head with it repeatedly. “Idiot!”

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May 03 2017
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Toilet Gator

Toilet Gator – Chapter 34

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The dead college student on his watch. The return of his ex-wife. The threat from the Mayor to do away with the Sitwell Police Department and now, the Mayor publicly accusing him on live, international television, of having a small penis. Cole couldn’t take it anymore.

In the parking lot of Freedom Firepower, Cole lost control and threw a massive temper tantrum. He screamed. He yelled. He hurled various obscenities. He pounded his fist into the passenger’s seat over a hundred times.

Finally, Cole wore himself out. He closed his eyes and tried to take a a nap, right there in his police cruiser. Unprofessional? Sure. Did he care? Absolutely not. He had reached his breaking point.

His slumber was cut short when his phone beeped. He flipped open the phone and learned that he had seven messages in total. Six were from Sharon:

9:00 a.m – Cole, it’s Sharon. Thought you’d be in the office by now. I’d like to run some things by you. Call me.

10:17 a.m. – Hey Cole? Sharon. Just…you know…I hope you don’t think what Rusty said last night was true. I’m not trying to run you off this investigation or anything. I could use your brains on this. We’ll talk more when you stop by the station.

11:45 p.m. – Real mature, Cole. Real mature. Fine. Be that way.

1:42 p.m. – Cole. Just saw that report on NN1. That was horrible. I hope you’re ok. We need to talk because I do not want you thinking that they got that information about your penis from me. OK. Bye.

1:47 p.m. – Cole, Sharon again. I just ran what I said on that last message in my head and I think I could have said that better. I’m not saying you have a small penis. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t think I ran around telling people that you had a small penis or something.

1:51 p.m. – Cole, Sharon. Just to explain further, I would not run around telling people that you have a small penis because you don’t have a small penis. But I mean, even if you did, which you don’t, I wouldn’t run around telling people that because I’m not that kind of person. In conclusion, I am trying to establish that a) I never said anything about your penis to anyone, b) I wouldn’t tell people your penis is small because it’s a perfectly fine penis and c) even if it were small, which it isn’t, I don’t go around talking about people behind their backs like that.

The seventh message was from Rusty:

2:03 p.m. – Cole. The Cole-ster. Cole-o-rama. Coca-Cole-a. Cole-miner. Nat King Cole. It’s Rusty. Look man, we have got to get a tag team together and knock that bitch ex-wife of yours off this case. This is our case. Not her case. She should haul her ass back to Miami and investigate Countess Cucamonga and you and I should be all over this Chad Becker situation. You know she assigned me, a twenty-year veteran police officer, to stand guard over the crime scene? All day I’ve been holed up in this bathroom, Cole. All day. My talents are going to waste. And look, I’m sorry I called Sharon a bitch. I know you still love her and shit even though you won’t admit it but I knew what you were like before and after the divorce and what you are like now and there’s no question you were a much happier person before that bitch did what she did to you. Go on. Call her a bitch. You’ll feel better. Say it with me, Cole-Slaw, “Sharon is a bitch! Bitch, bitch, a-bitchitty bitch bitch ba bing bong bitchitty boo!”

Cole flipped his phone shut, then closed his eyes again. As he drifted off to sleep, the thought that Sharon was a bitch did cross his mind, as it had for many years, but in the decade since the divorce, he was never able to bring himself to say a nasty word about his beloved. Not a single one.

Meanwhile, the memories he had of the events that lead up to her departure were always on his mind.

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