Chapter 8 (Eight) - Jeffy Coitus Sleeps Soundly With New Caretakers
0. 1581 (Fifteen Eighty One)
1. 1657 (Sixteen Fifty Seven)
2. 2043 (Twenty Forty Three)
3. 2373 (Twenty Three Seventy Three)
4. 1891 (Eighteen Ninety One)
5. 1520 (Fifteen Twenty)
6. 2080 (Twenty Eighty)
7. 1996 (Nineteen Ninety Six)
If this story is
O
ne thing th
en it's certainly
Confusing.
And sometimes
The readers are confused.
But not today.
Today's chapter will be very straightforward.
To prove this, I began it with a list of numbers I'm not going to bother explaining.
It's not confusing! Figure it out! Seriously, how will I ever be considered a high caliber friend to you if all I do is hold your hand, and give you everything (even that which could be deduced with only a little bit of thinking!) straight up like I would serve you a poisoned muffin?
Precisely my point. You don't want poison muffin friendship do you?
Well, that's not the issue here.
What's the issue is the confusing state of affairs. And let's face it, sometimes, people get confused.
The paramedics who came in to carry Tony Kinter down to their ambulance were highly confused. As was the entire Espantosoville/Currantboraboratown broadcast area as to why "The Voice Of The Ville" was no longer reading their news, and instead some obnoxious guy from the noon show was.
He had a big nose. They didn't like that. Nobody does.
But sometimes, in my rather large opinion, a big nose doesn't make any difference.
You don't agree? Well fuck yourself then. It's my opinion, and that's the one that makes the world go round.
I took that line from a Golden Girls episode. I'm not even kidding.
One of the confused was Kiley Merona.
Brushing her red hair, which, since last you met her, had grown down to her ass (OK, so it was right above her ass), Kiley didn't know what happened to the newsguy.
"Tubs, what happened to that strange asshole who was reporting the news? Does he always disappear like that?"
"Oh..." her friend Devon "Tubs" Toddlebreath looked up from her chest, over to the television. "Not usually..."
Kiley, like most sane people, did not waste her time on television news. Thus, her uninitiation on the matter is not to be viewed as a sign of ignorance.
As you already know, Kiley Merona was quite clever.
Kiley Merona is the most dangerous person in this story. Write that down. Seriously, get a piece of paper and a pencil and mark it down.
K I L E Y M E R O N A
"You planning on staying long, Kay?" Devon asked, his dark skin covered in sweat. He had to shit (this was not the cause of his perspiration).
Hearing her old nickname made her shudder through the 86 (EIGHTY Six) degree heat. "Well, I think I might go back to that hotel in Chanbara. I mean, it's an hour drive though."
"I've offered to let you stay here about six (6) times now... you really don't have to hint anymore that you'd like to."
Scoffing half-heartedly, she smiled at him. Her lips were wet and red, Devon would note. "If I wanted to stay in your Turkish Prison Apartment Complex I'd say so. You know me."
"And I thought your recent stint of homelessness might have made you a more agreeable person. I'm gonna take a shit," his six and a half (six and a half) feet of lanky body with a side of personality rose and headed towards the toilet.
Kiley grimaced, then swung her thin, pale legs over the arm of her recliner. Her cell phone's battery fell out of the left pocket of her sort-of-too-small shorts. The phone lay safe on her right.
Aren't you confused?!
The battery had been out of her phone for a couple days. Since after she'd gone to Mollie's funeral. OK, so maybe a little after that too.
And everyday since then she'd been reconnecting with all the loose ends she left waiting when she walked out of Espantosoville. I don't mean she literally walked out, idiot. She drove.
For three days she'd been coming to Devon's apartment where they had been reconnecting. And by reconnecting I mean fucking. Except for the day he went to a housefire to play a show, or something like that.
Yesterday.
In the background, the news droned on, as she flipped the battery between fingers. Being against her hip all day, it was quite warm. Like everything else around her, within her, about her.
She wasn't sure she'd cooled down in seven (seven) days. And she wasn't sure why she'd come back, either.
No, that was for dramatic effect.
Kiley Merona knew exactly why she was back in town. And she knew exactly why she couldn't leave yet. She knew exactly why her phone battery was out. And she knew exactly why she wasn't putting it back in. She knew exactly why she was loitering around Tubs' apartment with no intention of sleeping there. And she knew exactly why tonight she would sleep in her car.
As you already know, Kiley Merona was quite clever.
The toilet flushed loudly, and she anticipated the door clicking open. But it didn't. Men.
She laid the battery on top of her phone, and slid them into her purse. Mollie's obituary lay crinkled just inside.
Everyone at Mollie's funeral was shocked at her presence.
It wasn't her first Norina funeral. Unfortonately, everyone laid the blame for the previous one on her. And they weren't wrong.
There were news cameras all around outside. Harried ushers tried to push back obnoxious 15 and 16 (FIFTEEN and SIXTEEN) reporters.
Kiley had left her home on bad terms with her parents, like everyone. Thus her wardrobe selection was somewhat pitiful. And her black skirt and sweater were under-dressing at best, and inappropriate at worst. To say the sweater was low cut would be a kindness undue.
To be blunt, she looked a little slutty.
Nastasya spotted her immediately as she walked through the front door, past a surly looking old man smoking what appeared to be a thin. Ha ha ha.
Kiley didn't immediately see Nastasya, or her mother Ellie. Nor did she see Mollie, but a lot of that was probably the closed-casket-so-as-not-to-reveal-the-bullet-wound.
Fortunately, when Derek Norina died, the drugs didn't do anything to his physique. The open casket was lovely (as an old crusty woman who smelled too strongly of perfume said later, unaware that the funeral's pariah was standing next to her- You know the kind, who always have a thin crust of dried skin across their face and refuse to wax the moustache).
The service was ho hum. Most funeral services are. Some nice things were said, none of the bad things were said.
Of course, there was that one interesting part... OK, I'll tell you what the guy said.
And no, I don't know who he was. Maybe a pastor. She didn't tell me.
"Perhaps the greatest mark of Mollie's kindness, being only 26 (twinty sicks) and recently single, she still decided to go through with adopting a small baby whose parents were unable to raise him. Young Jeffy Coitus, adopted by a wonderful, caring young lady, our Mollie Norina. Jeffy was in the car at the time of his mother's passing, and I thank God, as I'm sure we all do, that the young boy will have no memory of these events. Praise the lord for this small happiness, and for the wonderful sister who survives Mollie. I'm speaking of course of Nastasya, who agreed immediately to take in the young child and care for him.
"We all feel deeply for the Norina family. Mollie will be missed in a way that few women passing from this world are. But a small boy will be given a wonderful home, and a wonderful upbringing now, thanks to her love, thanks to God's love that shone from her bright, bright eyes. Now, let us pray for her soul, and for the soul of Jeffy, and Nastasya, and all the Norina family. Oh Lord..."
With a shocked expression, Kiley stared at the stoic and somber Nastasya, sitting next to her mother.
Something from her history with Derek clicked. Even though Nastasya had always hated her, she pitied her. She felt a sympathy she wasn't sure was sincere. Then she remembered all the cruelty of Nastasya.
Nastasya was a balanced girl until around Kiley Merona. Kiley Merona might not have been a balanced girl, but she was never so vengeful as when around Nastasya.
For obvious reasons!
After the service, as the pallbearers came in, Nastasya walked directly to Kiley. Her heeled step was quick and sharp, like bayonets into the flesh of church floors.
"I'm confused, Kiley. Why are you here?" she asked, her green eyes flared in barely-disguised fury.
"I... just thought I'd come to apologize for your loss. I knew Mollie pretty well, Nastasya," Kiley felt pushed back by the personality bearing down on her. Many claim they feel that way in Nastasya's presence.
Eyes rolling as she scoffed, Nastasya fired back, "Oh thank you so much for your sincerest condolences. I think you just like watching my family shrink, Kiley. God knows you've been all apologies for two years now!"
Hate spun in razor-edged, tight circles of fury behind her dark blue eyes. She wanted nothing more than to sink something sharp into the small-breasted chest of Nastasya Norina. Her tongue flicked angrily across her slightly uneven teeth.
"I think I'll go now..." she said, control coming at great effort. Until she realized the weapon in her hand.
"Nastasya!" she shouted as she turned back. Quickly, Nastasya's head jerked back. "It's so great of you to adopt that baby! Jeffy was it? Just thought I'd tell you."
If a smile could be sinister, evil, and extremely satisfying all at once, then Kiley Merona was wearing it as she walked out of the church, past a Home Exteriors table next to an open van.
"Cold. Cold. Cold. Kiley."
Turning slowly, KM saw someone she thought she should recognize, but couldn't think of her name. It's that confusing sort of situation where you talk to someone and say later "OH MAN I SO KNEW THAT PERSON BUT I COULDN'T THINK OF THEIR NAME!!!!!!!!"
"Oh, no, I was being sincere..."
What struck her most instantly was this woman's hair. It was short, light blonde, and swung back over her ears, without managing to cover her neck. It was complicated, but somehow attractive.
"Kiley, in all the time I've known you, I've never known you to be sincere," she smiled lightly, laying a cold, long-fingered hand on KM's arm.
Recognition still did not manage to even approach.
"My name is Caitlyn, did you forget me?"
7 (neveS) days, 4 (ruoF) fucks, 6 (xiS) blowjobs, spare moments of sleep, a phone without a battery, and 1 (enO) young man released from a box later, Devon "Tubs" Toddlebreath finished wiping his ass and walked out of his bathroom.
Unwashed hands. Interestingly enough, the strange poetry of the universe will cause him to die from an infection that could've been avoided had he just taken up good handwashing habits.
It's confusing how some people lose their lives for the silliest reasons.
Like Derek Norina.
He stepped back into the room, Kiley had switched off the TV and laid back in her chair. Eyes closed, he knew she wasn't sleeping. But he still took the chance to eye her rack anyways.
"Our last story of the night is truly a strange one. Police are reporting to us tonight that a strange 'Deviant's Brothel' has been discovered near the county line. They discovered it two nights ago, after responding to what neighbors described as 'Frightening shouts.' Dixie Lunsford is on site with details..."
Tubs giggled. "Hey, two nights ago, that's when you first came over and we fu-"
The look on Kiley Merona's face, fury, anger, what have you, cut him short. Not out of kindness for her feelings, of course.
9/10 men weigh all interpersonal reactionary options with the grand judge of the libido.
And I'm sure you find that the least confusing detail yet.
END CHAPTER 8 (EIGHT)
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Extravagance: Chapter 7 (Seven) - Jeffy Coitus And The Media
Chapter 7 (Seven) - Jeffy Coitus And The Media
Extravagance.
As a concept, hardly one to make mention of.
Extravagance is decadence that hasn't grown customary. Yet.
Nothing is more extravagant than a local news station feud. Nothing.
Stop arguing with me, you asshole. And you were so quiet the past couple chapters...
So, as I was saying.
Maria Tunderro was an extravagant lady. She gave birth to a son named Kevin who would remain a closeted homosexual until he went to the university. Then, like all niche group members who go to college, he chose to become an extremist.
On campus, he formed a group of gay rights activists who took to near-terrorist actions to get attention. Unfortunately this group's cry for equal rights (to be clear, they already had them) was overshadowed by their typically whiny, never productive rally's that ended with damage totals in the low 1000s (Thousands) on a good day.
After that he decided to petition for equal rights in forums like the student government. Unfortunately, as Kevin would fail to realize, student governments never accomplish anything. So he would leave college with a bachelor's in Mass Media and a healthy lack of appreciation for his rights.
You see, it's the niche group mentality that makes members believe they are not special enough to be normal. I know, you don't have to tell me they're wrong, I just indicated it with the entire tone of the previous passage!
Goddamn! Shutup! You are really annoying me.
Kevin wouldn't be hired directly out of college. As a matter of fact, he would have a very hard time finding a job, because of his ties to extremist groups in college (Patriot Act).
His friend Tony, however, had no trouble. Tony was a member of the peaceful gay rights group that Kevin would eventually join. With a blemish free record (Patriot Act) he found getting work quite easy.
Hired by Channel 15 news, Espantosoville and Currantboraboratown broadcast, Tony landed (ironically) in the middle of a war. The two major Espantosoville/Currantboraboratown networks with local news were 15 and 16. And both spent massive amounts of cash to try to convince gullible housewives everywhere that they were the best.
Idiots who buy into local news I-Team reports ate the battle up, and took sides.
Channel 15 was the clear winner on the weather side of things.
It's worth noting that stupid people/rednecks judge a news station based on their weather reports.
They had dumped more than 55% (Extravagant) of their budget into pointless sattellites and scanners that gave them different colored readouts to display to people of the same weather systems. So, for example, anonymous Sea Storm D could be either pink red green, or blue, dark blue, teal.
Enthralling.
Then, as if this wasn't a cheap enough ploy, they labeled their weather reporting as High Definition because they had a computer program that showed the actual textures of clouds.
No, I'm not kidding.
"Coming up as we begin our newscast is our Alpha Omega Supreme Quad-Doppler XTREME Weather Report, so be sure to join us! Channel 15 news at 5 (Five) is up next." Cheesy newscaster smile.
"OK Tony, take a breather. You're good for a minute," a crewman next to him, behind a camera said. He had thinning hair, and was only 25.
Tony thought that was a damned shame.
"You look a bit tense tonight, something the matter?" the crewman, Dave, asked.
"Just worried about some things going down with my brother across town. He's stuck in jail for something until I get over there and bail him out. Not a good thought, eh?" he laughed, eyes fixed on the head of hair that appeared even more wispy and thin as Dave walked up to him. He felt a strange urge to laugh.
"Yeah? You mean Kelvin?" he asked, his hair glinting under the bright lights as if it were a tiny set of filaments.
Shaking his head, Tony replied "If you know about some other brother I have I guess now's the time to mention it."
"Well sheesh man, sorry, sorry" he said, adjusting some cable on the floor. OK, so I don't know if he really did that or not. I mean, it's a convincing detail isn't it? Forgive me for not asking about every tiny little thing that Tony More-Salt-Than-Pepper did! I know almost everything else but that tiny detail and-
OK fine! I'll stop!
...
...
...
Apology accepted.
"So what happened? He get in trouble for being a creepass?" he asked, adjusting some cable on the floor.
"Yeah, sorta. Apparently he tried to kidnap a baby. Or something," Tony said, reading over his notes for the next set of stories.
Shaking his head, Dave ducked behind the cameras again. "Why would that silly fucker do that? I mean, he's weird, but I always thought he was pretty level."
(The countdown behind the camera began)
"You'd think. He's always been a bit of a rapist candidate, you ask me," Tony said. Unfortunately, the last seven (7) words were aired to the entire Espantosoville / Currantboraboratown broadcast area.
Dave looked sick for a moment, then had to walk away as he began to crack up. He couldn't think of a nicer asshole for this misfortune to strike.
"Sorry about that folks! To begin our 5 (Five) PM broadcast here on 15 (Fifteen), we go to our weatherman Denny Spuzz who heads up our weather technology center which, as you know, is still #1 in the Espantosoville and Currantboraboraville... err, town, sorry, viewing area. Denny, how's that smog looking?" Underneath the desk, Tony was stabbing himself in the leg with a capped pen.
Straight face.
Grinning like all half-braindead weathermen are wont to do, Denny replied "So glad you asked, Tony! The smog is..."
And the audience falls asleep.
"Back to you at the newsdesk, Tony!"
"Thanks a lot Denny. Here's the top stories for the 5 o'clock hour folks. Police are investigating new developments in the local triple homicide/maiming and suicide/housefire that ravaged a small Espantosoville neighborhood a week and a half ago. Documents found in the rubble indicate to Police and Homeland Security that the murderer and suicide victim, Taylor Tungsten, was a member of several prominent terrorist groups online including "Chat 4 Free Singles" which has been a known front for Osama Bin Ladle and his terrorist band.
"Other evidence on site includes a stockpile of Home Exteriors products that might have been used in the production of a dirty bomb, or perhaps a full blown WMD. Police are continuing to investigate the items that didn't burn up in the housefire set by the murderer, presumably to hide his terrorist leanings.
"Friends and family of Lydia Tungsten plan to have another Home Exteriors party in a week and a half. It will be the second "In Memory of Lydia Tungsten" Home Exteriors sales party since Taylor Tungsten brutally disemembered a delivery boy, flayed open his wife and hung her intestines from a nearby tree, beheaded an innocent driver on the street in front of a baby, then went back into his home where he set a large fire with a military grade flamethrower before blowing his own body up with a brick of C4."
Not entirely sure why, Tony nearly giggled as he read the last bit.
"Last night during our broadcast, across town from the Tungsten slayings, another housefire, claiming three (3) lives was reported in the 2200 block of Floxy Street. That report is being complicated today by what police discovered after arriving at the fire."
Tony continued stabbing himself in the side of his leg with the pen to hold back the giggling. Perhaps, he thought, he should take some sick leave...
"As reported late last night exclusively on 15, the home of local court officer Jeffrey Tilling was burned nearly to the ground, claiming his life and the life of two other young women. Upon further investigation, police say the deadly fire was set by an arsonist.
"Local fire volunteers arrived at the blaze as quickly as possible, and managed to contain the fire quickly. Unfortunately, they arrived too late to save the three people inside the house. They were impeded by some confusion at the front gate of "Tricky Dick's Gated Community."
"Police say that the death toll could've been far more, because Mr. Tilling was hosting a retirement party at the time. Here's what some of them had to say about this tragic crime:"
Cut to a shady looking college dropout standing next to three other college dropouts-
"Yeah, we were just finishing up a song, and I thought I smelled a barbecue, but really I was smelling a housefire! Totally ruined our set. Nobody was even listening after that."
Cut to a man whose moustache vaguely made one think of bikers, or some breed of animal, or something-
"Oh dear. Oh dear. This signals terrible things for my retirement. I'm considering calling the whole retirement thing off!"
Cut to a disheveled looking man in a Sade shirt-
"Umm, it seems like, uhh, this was a really tragic happening... like, really bad."
Cut to a young lawyer with a distinctive giggle-
"And I was quite enjoying the snacks too. Only I don't know who'd do this to Fine Mr. Tilling! Hehehehehehehehehe."
Tony back on camera, the lights beginning to make him sweat. In fact, the whole studio was warm. Swamp ass approached, slowly and upleasantly.
"Police are still looking for suspects to charge with the crime. Funeral services have yet to be announced for either Nicky East or Jeffrey Tilling. There is no word yet on the identity of the third victim. An investigation is ongoing."
Shuffling his notes quickly, Tony began the next story about a gas station holdup on the edge of Espantosoville. Laughing fits shook his ribcage as he muffled them. Panic.
Panic.
Pain in the leg.
"Espantosoville police have a suspect in custody. The owner of the Jimmy Dong's station, surprisingly, has expressed no interest in pressing charges.
"When we return from the break, we go to our sports expert Danny Rampling and see just how well the Espantosoville Emigrants were able to swing against the pitching power of Porfy Lutz and the Groverfield Gaspers. Also, is your car able to run on water alone? Our special investigator Paul Oakenfold works with reporter Nicky Holloway to find out. Only on Channel 15 (Fifteen!) news. Stick around folks."
Monitors and televisions and screens of all sorts switched to commercial. Ted's Trucks, in Currantboraboratown.
Meanwhile, dropping his pen, Tony Kinter began to laugh. Laying his head on the newsdesk, nosegrease smearing the cheap glass top, his whole body convulsed with quiet, inexplicable laughter.
Eyes narrowed in confusion, the men behind the cameras turned to one another. Of course, no one understood.
"Hey, Tony? You OK man?" Dave laid his hand on the shaking back of TK. It was only when he heard the light squish under his foot that he realized he'd stepped in something wet.
Beneath his shoe, blood soaked the cheap newsroom floor. Uncapped pen, and a stained pantleg of an extravagantly expensive suit.
Frightened, Dave looked back at Tony whose laughter had grown only a small amount more audible.
Dave met Tony's eyes, and they stared intently into his own. Bloodshot, tearing up, and maniac. Dave had never felt so chilled.
It wouldn't be the biggest chill of his life, however. That would come some three (3) years later when he realized that he was bald at 28, and still without a wife. Still, close second (2nd) right?
And for one of those grand, strange, uknowable moments, two (2) brothers wept witout any idea why.
Everywhere across town, things were at peace. Jeffy Coitus slept soundly in the soft, hairy arms of Nastasya Norina.
END CHAPTER 7 (SEVEN)
Extravagance.
As a concept, hardly one to make mention of.
Extravagance is decadence that hasn't grown customary. Yet.
Nothing is more extravagant than a local news station feud. Nothing.
Stop arguing with me, you asshole. And you were so quiet the past couple chapters...
So, as I was saying.
Maria Tunderro was an extravagant lady. She gave birth to a son named Kevin who would remain a closeted homosexual until he went to the university. Then, like all niche group members who go to college, he chose to become an extremist.
On campus, he formed a group of gay rights activists who took to near-terrorist actions to get attention. Unfortunately this group's cry for equal rights (to be clear, they already had them) was overshadowed by their typically whiny, never productive rally's that ended with damage totals in the low 1000s (Thousands) on a good day.
After that he decided to petition for equal rights in forums like the student government. Unfortunately, as Kevin would fail to realize, student governments never accomplish anything. So he would leave college with a bachelor's in Mass Media and a healthy lack of appreciation for his rights.
You see, it's the niche group mentality that makes members believe they are not special enough to be normal. I know, you don't have to tell me they're wrong, I just indicated it with the entire tone of the previous passage!
Goddamn! Shutup! You are really annoying me.
Kevin wouldn't be hired directly out of college. As a matter of fact, he would have a very hard time finding a job, because of his ties to extremist groups in college (Patriot Act).
His friend Tony, however, had no trouble. Tony was a member of the peaceful gay rights group that Kevin would eventually join. With a blemish free record (Patriot Act) he found getting work quite easy.
Hired by Channel 15 news, Espantosoville and Currantboraboratown broadcast, Tony landed (ironically) in the middle of a war. The two major Espantosoville/Currantboraboratown networks with local news were 15 and 16. And both spent massive amounts of cash to try to convince gullible housewives everywhere that they were the best.
Idiots who buy into local news I-Team reports ate the battle up, and took sides.
Channel 15 was the clear winner on the weather side of things.
It's worth noting that stupid people/rednecks judge a news station based on their weather reports.
They had dumped more than 55% (Extravagant) of their budget into pointless sattellites and scanners that gave them different colored readouts to display to people of the same weather systems. So, for example, anonymous Sea Storm D could be either pink red green, or blue, dark blue, teal.
Enthralling.
Then, as if this wasn't a cheap enough ploy, they labeled their weather reporting as High Definition because they had a computer program that showed the actual textures of clouds.
No, I'm not kidding.
"Coming up as we begin our newscast is our Alpha Omega Supreme Quad-Doppler XTREME Weather Report, so be sure to join us! Channel 15 news at 5 (Five) is up next." Cheesy newscaster smile.
"OK Tony, take a breather. You're good for a minute," a crewman next to him, behind a camera said. He had thinning hair, and was only 25.
Tony thought that was a damned shame.
"You look a bit tense tonight, something the matter?" the crewman, Dave, asked.
"Just worried about some things going down with my brother across town. He's stuck in jail for something until I get over there and bail him out. Not a good thought, eh?" he laughed, eyes fixed on the head of hair that appeared even more wispy and thin as Dave walked up to him. He felt a strange urge to laugh.
"Yeah? You mean Kelvin?" he asked, his hair glinting under the bright lights as if it were a tiny set of filaments.
Shaking his head, Tony replied "If you know about some other brother I have I guess now's the time to mention it."
"Well sheesh man, sorry, sorry" he said, adjusting some cable on the floor. OK, so I don't know if he really did that or not. I mean, it's a convincing detail isn't it? Forgive me for not asking about every tiny little thing that Tony More-Salt-Than-Pepper did! I know almost everything else but that tiny detail and-
OK fine! I'll stop!
...
...
...
Apology accepted.
"So what happened? He get in trouble for being a creepass?" he asked, adjusting some cable on the floor.
"Yeah, sorta. Apparently he tried to kidnap a baby. Or something," Tony said, reading over his notes for the next set of stories.
Shaking his head, Dave ducked behind the cameras again. "Why would that silly fucker do that? I mean, he's weird, but I always thought he was pretty level."
(The countdown behind the camera began)
"You'd think. He's always been a bit of a rapist candidate, you ask me," Tony said. Unfortunately, the last seven (7) words were aired to the entire Espantosoville / Currantboraboratown broadcast area.
Dave looked sick for a moment, then had to walk away as he began to crack up. He couldn't think of a nicer asshole for this misfortune to strike.
"Sorry about that folks! To begin our 5 (Five) PM broadcast here on 15 (Fifteen), we go to our weatherman Denny Spuzz who heads up our weather technology center which, as you know, is still #1 in the Espantosoville and Currantboraboraville... err, town, sorry, viewing area. Denny, how's that smog looking?" Underneath the desk, Tony was stabbing himself in the leg with a capped pen.
Straight face.
Grinning like all half-braindead weathermen are wont to do, Denny replied "So glad you asked, Tony! The smog is..."
And the audience falls asleep.
"Back to you at the newsdesk, Tony!"
"Thanks a lot Denny. Here's the top stories for the 5 o'clock hour folks. Police are investigating new developments in the local triple homicide/maiming and suicide/housefire that ravaged a small Espantosoville neighborhood a week and a half ago. Documents found in the rubble indicate to Police and Homeland Security that the murderer and suicide victim, Taylor Tungsten, was a member of several prominent terrorist groups online including "Chat 4 Free Singles" which has been a known front for Osama Bin Ladle and his terrorist band.
"Other evidence on site includes a stockpile of Home Exteriors products that might have been used in the production of a dirty bomb, or perhaps a full blown WMD. Police are continuing to investigate the items that didn't burn up in the housefire set by the murderer, presumably to hide his terrorist leanings.
"Friends and family of Lydia Tungsten plan to have another Home Exteriors party in a week and a half. It will be the second "In Memory of Lydia Tungsten" Home Exteriors sales party since Taylor Tungsten brutally disemembered a delivery boy, flayed open his wife and hung her intestines from a nearby tree, beheaded an innocent driver on the street in front of a baby, then went back into his home where he set a large fire with a military grade flamethrower before blowing his own body up with a brick of C4."
Not entirely sure why, Tony nearly giggled as he read the last bit.
"Last night during our broadcast, across town from the Tungsten slayings, another housefire, claiming three (3) lives was reported in the 2200 block of Floxy Street. That report is being complicated today by what police discovered after arriving at the fire."
Tony continued stabbing himself in the side of his leg with the pen to hold back the giggling. Perhaps, he thought, he should take some sick leave...
"As reported late last night exclusively on 15, the home of local court officer Jeffrey Tilling was burned nearly to the ground, claiming his life and the life of two other young women. Upon further investigation, police say the deadly fire was set by an arsonist.
"Local fire volunteers arrived at the blaze as quickly as possible, and managed to contain the fire quickly. Unfortunately, they arrived too late to save the three people inside the house. They were impeded by some confusion at the front gate of "Tricky Dick's Gated Community."
"Police say that the death toll could've been far more, because Mr. Tilling was hosting a retirement party at the time. Here's what some of them had to say about this tragic crime:"
Cut to a shady looking college dropout standing next to three other college dropouts-
"Yeah, we were just finishing up a song, and I thought I smelled a barbecue, but really I was smelling a housefire! Totally ruined our set. Nobody was even listening after that."
Cut to a man whose moustache vaguely made one think of bikers, or some breed of animal, or something-
"Oh dear. Oh dear. This signals terrible things for my retirement. I'm considering calling the whole retirement thing off!"
Cut to a disheveled looking man in a Sade shirt-
"Umm, it seems like, uhh, this was a really tragic happening... like, really bad."
Cut to a young lawyer with a distinctive giggle-
"And I was quite enjoying the snacks too. Only I don't know who'd do this to Fine Mr. Tilling! Hehehehehehehehehe."
Tony back on camera, the lights beginning to make him sweat. In fact, the whole studio was warm. Swamp ass approached, slowly and upleasantly.
"Police are still looking for suspects to charge with the crime. Funeral services have yet to be announced for either Nicky East or Jeffrey Tilling. There is no word yet on the identity of the third victim. An investigation is ongoing."
Shuffling his notes quickly, Tony began the next story about a gas station holdup on the edge of Espantosoville. Laughing fits shook his ribcage as he muffled them. Panic.
Panic.
Pain in the leg.
"Espantosoville police have a suspect in custody. The owner of the Jimmy Dong's station, surprisingly, has expressed no interest in pressing charges.
"When we return from the break, we go to our sports expert Danny Rampling and see just how well the Espantosoville Emigrants were able to swing against the pitching power of Porfy Lutz and the Groverfield Gaspers. Also, is your car able to run on water alone? Our special investigator Paul Oakenfold works with reporter Nicky Holloway to find out. Only on Channel 15 (Fifteen!) news. Stick around folks."
Monitors and televisions and screens of all sorts switched to commercial. Ted's Trucks, in Currantboraboratown.
Meanwhile, dropping his pen, Tony Kinter began to laugh. Laying his head on the newsdesk, nosegrease smearing the cheap glass top, his whole body convulsed with quiet, inexplicable laughter.
Eyes narrowed in confusion, the men behind the cameras turned to one another. Of course, no one understood.
"Hey, Tony? You OK man?" Dave laid his hand on the shaking back of TK. It was only when he heard the light squish under his foot that he realized he'd stepped in something wet.
Beneath his shoe, blood soaked the cheap newsroom floor. Uncapped pen, and a stained pantleg of an extravagantly expensive suit.
Frightened, Dave looked back at Tony whose laughter had grown only a small amount more audible.
Dave met Tony's eyes, and they stared intently into his own. Bloodshot, tearing up, and maniac. Dave had never felt so chilled.
It wouldn't be the biggest chill of his life, however. That would come some three (3) years later when he realized that he was bald at 28, and still without a wife. Still, close second (2nd) right?
And for one of those grand, strange, uknowable moments, two (2) brothers wept witout any idea why.
Everywhere across town, things were at peace. Jeffy Coitus slept soundly in the soft, hairy arms of Nastasya Norina.
END CHAPTER 7 (SEVEN)
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Mediocrity: Chapter 6 (Six) - Jeffy Coitus Propels Into The Future... Slowly
Chapter 6 (SIX) - Jeffy Coitus Propels Into The Future... Slowly
If the blogosphere were a person, it would be a boring one.
Some professions beg for mediocrity. They throw themselves at the feet of Greatness and say "Oh please, dear masters, let us live in thy shadow! Only let us lick the dirt from thy steel-toed boots!" and Greatness, being obliging to all those below it, extends its foot for the wet, soon to be muddy, tongues.
Greatness steps in a lot of shit along the way. The ladder to the top is covered with the excrement of those thousands (1000s) who reached the top before, and took a celebratory shit down the very rungs that led them there.
Not realizing, of course, that soon enough, they'd be climbing it all over again, after landing on all the mediocre wishful-thinkers below. TB (as some have come to know this disease) is not a story of greatness.
Not today at least.
Maybe tomorrow.
Indeed, some people are so mediocre, and so happy with their state, that they would lick the shit of ages from the rungs of Greatness's ladder.
Crashing Titanics was a band that fit this description.
Also, The Killers, and The Strokes. Only today isn't about them, nor do I feel they warrant more than the sentence they just shared. Minus their names, the sentence had only 2 (TWO) other words. I apologize for wasting so much language in that sentence on bands that already waste quite a few CDs and quite a lot of plastic.
And time.
Headed up by Chessie "Fingerbum" Holloway, and backed by people so obviously destined for mediocrity their mothers didn't even name them (just kidding), Crashing Titanics had traveled the Espantosoville circuit of Bat Mitzvahs and graduation (high school) parties for 8 (eight) years.
College dropouts.
Currently, they were playing their standard lineup of cover songs at a retirement party. Fortunately for them, things were pretty cool in Espantosoville that day. 83 (Eighty Three) in the shade, humidity 90%, and not a cloud to be found in the whole world.
Seriously.
This strangely overheating weather was the result of a natural weather disaster called "Global Cooling" that scientists had been watching for years. Many had even begun wearing shirts that said "We Told You So."
In the early 90's, scientists (who are all quite intelligent) noticed that the ozone was depleting. Humans were, of course, blamed. But thankfully, being a responsible species, they cleaned up their act.
Emissions that destroyed the ozone were taken down to as little as was feasible, and economical, and ergonomical, so that scientists had nothing to bitch about anymore.
Unfortunately, this sudden change in human activity caused the ozone to become replete too quickly, meaning that by some freak action of humanity, the world was suffering from "Global Cooling." Icebergs would freeze up too much, the world would dry up, and everyone was bound to burn to death in the glaring sun refracted and made more powerful by a too-thick ozone and a hell of a lot of ice.
Makes sense, right?
But this was not the topic at hand during the show, taking place behind Jeffrey Tilling's home in a gated community called "Tricky Dick's Gated Community."
"I'm telling you, Devon, Super El Nino is gonna kill us all! Scientists are saying it!" Tilling said, half-drunk. It was his own party, leave him alone you judgmental fuck.
"No way, man. No way. You're just buying into all that fear marketing, and shit," replied Devon, tuning his bass. For the record, he was quite mediocre at playing it.
"FEAR MARKETING!" spluttered Tilling through his expensive Belgian beer, Grey Moon. "What are you, a LIBERTARIAN?!"
Everyone around laughed. No, I'm not sure why either.
Frank Moishe wandered over to the band, still gearing up for their second set. "That was quite a show you four put on earlier!" he smiled through a large moustache that made one think of Walruses.
"Ah! Moishey! How're you liking the retirement party? Pretty nice huh?" Tilling said, beaming at the old man as Grey Moon spilled down his Espantosoville Emigrant Baseball shirt.
"It's good, Jeffrey, it's good," he laughed. "Only, who invited that one?" Frank said, indicating Torrence "Rinse" Clamwater who had just walked through the back door of Tilling's house into the rather lively party, clearly shaking.
With a slosh that stained Moishe's rather cheap suit, Tilling pushed the Grey Moon into the retiree's hand as he began a half-stumble charge across the grass to Rinse. "What're ya doin' here, Mr. Clamwater?!" he exclaimed in fake cheer.
"I, uhh, heard from Mindy, uhh, that you, umm, had invited me, Mr. Tilling," Rinse tapped his index finger nervously against his thigh inside his pocket. Looking around, he realized the party was quite casual, but he still felt under-dressed in cut-off sweatpants and a faded Sade shirt.
How do I write this shit down? I really should start lying about stuff, because the truth is kind of embarassing.
"Mindy..." muttered Tilling. The last person he wanted to see at Moishe's retirement party. Unconsciously, he eyed the young, busty front desk girl who was seated in shade on a green plastic chair near his wife, out by his backyard pool deck. She had been filling in for "The Frizz" whose dad had decapitated a lady in a car and then fed the blood to a baby who'd just left his courtroom.
This, of course, after he had finished killing his wife with a hacksaw, and running over a delivery boy 16 times with his riding lawnmower, and directly before kill himself. It was natural that "The Frizz" should need a few days off to recover from this kind of thing. He only wondered why Fox News had revealed all these gory details.
Logging it in his mind to try to seduce the Fill In (whose name from here on out will be Fill In, a play on words in reference to her once B Now D silicones) later- 16 years old- Tilling looked back up at Rinse.
"Well, yer sure invited! Grab yerself a dogie from that there grill and chow down, partner!" boomed Tilling.
"Thanks, sir," replied Rinse, nervously. His head pounded from withdrawal symptoms, fingers twitching in his pockets. An acrid taste coated his tongue, like bitterness from the words he uttered that were complete lies. Hate was very real.
"Hey, we're Crashing Titanics! Whatsup guys!"
As the band began to play, only three (3) out of 60 (sixty) people really paying attention to them, Tilling wound his way over to his wife, whom he had not fucked in 4 (FOUR) years.
"Enjoying the band, honey?" he asked, kissing her on the forehead, and obviously turning his eyes to look down Fill In's shirt. She pulled her top down further.
"Oh, you know what..." Mrs. Tillings face was red, like her hair used to be before she'd had it dyed one (1) too many times in a vain attempt to get him to stop fucking young girls. He, of course, missed all the obvious signs that she knew. Like the small mentions of it. The notes saying "I know you're sleeping with young girls." The intervention she staged with his family, and hers, where he ignored them for a handheld Yahtzee game.
Tilling laughed on the inside, knowing his wife too proper to cause a public scene. "Go get more snacks for the table. Cheez-It. And bring out those little weiners too. I like those."
A young man next to him giggled a bit, and it was quite a distinctive giggle too, "Oh yes, we've heard Mr. Tilling." He continued to laugh as he walked off.
Fucking lawyers, thought Tilling. In Tilling's defense, this lawyer was quite mediocre.
But even small weiners would not bring JT any solace. He knew, looking over at Rinse, shaking his styrofoam plate in a drug-less stupor, that Mindy would arrive soon.
Mindy was his employer. Espantosoville had two private security firms, before Mindy bought them both and used some sort of leverage to get his corps installed in the courthouses as official security. But the blackmail deal had a stipulation.
Since only the best of rent-a-cops got to work in the courthouse, most of Tilling's friends had been shipped off to work in the mall Mindy owned. Others, less fortunate, were now working at the Steak and Smack or one of his other businesses. Mindy only hired young hispanic men to work at his dry cleaners, however.
Not really sure why. No, I don't know. Stop asking.
Nobody knew how Rinse, the man who was so awkward in public he almost shit himself constantly, got a job as a rent-a-cop in the courthouse.
Nobody liked him.
Knowing this visit was impending made Tilling's hands shake too, ironically.
And Crashing Titanics played over and over again in the background, terrible covers that had been done 1,000s (Thousands) of times.
"Alright, so whatsup Espantosoville? I'm Fingerbum, and this is my crew... nah, who cares! This next song is called 'More Than Words'!"
Immediately, all the women at the party turned to one another.
"Oh, we played this at our wedding!" squealed one.
"Oh, my, we played this at our wedding!" squealed another.
"Oh dear, I haven't heard this song since my wedding!" giggled yet another.
I'll just save you the trouble. Every married woman said something to this effect, except for Fill In who turned to Mrs. Tilling (back with small weiners) and said "I had sex to this song last night" before giggling uncontrollably with her fake rack that just wouldn't bounce, no matter how hard she tried.
Seconds passed.
Moishe trundled over to Tilling, who had begun to eat a plate of small pen... uhh, weiners his wfie had given him. Yes, it is poisoned. No, he doesn't know.
"Hey, pal, thanks for the party. It was mighty white of you, old friend!" he said, his great Racist Walrus Moustache wet with barbecue sauce.
For the record, the Walrus is racist, not the moustache.
Smiling, but beginning to feel a bit unsettled in his stomach, JT replied "Anything for you, Moishe! You've been good to me over the years, even through that whole" he mouthed the words Minor Fucking "incident. You've been great to me!"
They both laughed. "Well, it's OK to take a dip in the shallow end, so long as you don't leave your booties, am I right?!"
Have you ever seen anyone guffaw?
Moishe slapped Tilling on the arm before walking over to a recently empty chair next to Mrs. Tilling, who was glaring into her husband's back, waiting for the expensive poison she'd bought illegally to drop him.
Looking over, JT saw Mindy Mashtatoor at the snack table.
He also saw Fill In walk into the house, skirt riding up, low cut top hanging down.
Being a man who had never faced his problems head on (not even once (1-nce... sorry)) he followed her in.
When they arrived at the bathroom, she fiddled with the doorhandle before turning to him, tugging on her skirt. "Mr. Tile, I can't get this door to close, can you help me?" Her face was quite obviously a fake innocent, but Tilling didn't notice. Nor did he notice that she got his name wrong. Or register the Myanmar Earthquake level tackiness she had just unleashed.
Stepping into the bathroom, he closed the door for her.
Slowly, the closet door next to the bathroom slid aside, and a 17 (SEVENTEEN) year old girl stepped out, holding a gun. Breathing heavily with nervousness, eyes puffed from tears, she waited.
Jeffrey Tilling would not leave the bathroom alive. Nor would Fill In (see why I didn't bother telling your her name was Nicky East?).
But it wasn't the poison that would kill JT. Or the gun that would kill either of them.
You see, the slight, crying brunette with messy, tangled brown hair that had been somewhere between coarse and poorly-cared-for, would also die.
No. All three would be the victims of a secret vow.
"You guys smell that barbecue?! Mmmm! Here's a tune called 'I Love Rock & Roll'! YEAH!"
Fingerbum, mediocre vocalist that he was, would be the last to notice the housefire.
END CHAPTER 6 (SIX)
If the blogosphere were a person, it would be a boring one.
Some professions beg for mediocrity. They throw themselves at the feet of Greatness and say "Oh please, dear masters, let us live in thy shadow! Only let us lick the dirt from thy steel-toed boots!" and Greatness, being obliging to all those below it, extends its foot for the wet, soon to be muddy, tongues.
Greatness steps in a lot of shit along the way. The ladder to the top is covered with the excrement of those thousands (1000s) who reached the top before, and took a celebratory shit down the very rungs that led them there.
Not realizing, of course, that soon enough, they'd be climbing it all over again, after landing on all the mediocre wishful-thinkers below. TB (as some have come to know this disease) is not a story of greatness.
Not today at least.
Maybe tomorrow.
Indeed, some people are so mediocre, and so happy with their state, that they would lick the shit of ages from the rungs of Greatness's ladder.
Crashing Titanics was a band that fit this description.
Also, The Killers, and The Strokes. Only today isn't about them, nor do I feel they warrant more than the sentence they just shared. Minus their names, the sentence had only 2 (TWO) other words. I apologize for wasting so much language in that sentence on bands that already waste quite a few CDs and quite a lot of plastic.
And time.
Headed up by Chessie "Fingerbum" Holloway, and backed by people so obviously destined for mediocrity their mothers didn't even name them (just kidding), Crashing Titanics had traveled the Espantosoville circuit of Bat Mitzvahs and graduation (high school) parties for 8 (eight) years.
College dropouts.
Currently, they were playing their standard lineup of cover songs at a retirement party. Fortunately for them, things were pretty cool in Espantosoville that day. 83 (Eighty Three) in the shade, humidity 90%, and not a cloud to be found in the whole world.
Seriously.
This strangely overheating weather was the result of a natural weather disaster called "Global Cooling" that scientists had been watching for years. Many had even begun wearing shirts that said "We Told You So."
In the early 90's, scientists (who are all quite intelligent) noticed that the ozone was depleting. Humans were, of course, blamed. But thankfully, being a responsible species, they cleaned up their act.
Emissions that destroyed the ozone were taken down to as little as was feasible, and economical, and ergonomical, so that scientists had nothing to bitch about anymore.
Unfortunately, this sudden change in human activity caused the ozone to become replete too quickly, meaning that by some freak action of humanity, the world was suffering from "Global Cooling." Icebergs would freeze up too much, the world would dry up, and everyone was bound to burn to death in the glaring sun refracted and made more powerful by a too-thick ozone and a hell of a lot of ice.
Makes sense, right?
But this was not the topic at hand during the show, taking place behind Jeffrey Tilling's home in a gated community called "Tricky Dick's Gated Community."
"I'm telling you, Devon, Super El Nino is gonna kill us all! Scientists are saying it!" Tilling said, half-drunk. It was his own party, leave him alone you judgmental fuck.
"No way, man. No way. You're just buying into all that fear marketing, and shit," replied Devon, tuning his bass. For the record, he was quite mediocre at playing it.
"FEAR MARKETING!" spluttered Tilling through his expensive Belgian beer, Grey Moon. "What are you, a LIBERTARIAN?!"
Everyone around laughed. No, I'm not sure why either.
Frank Moishe wandered over to the band, still gearing up for their second set. "That was quite a show you four put on earlier!" he smiled through a large moustache that made one think of Walruses.
"Ah! Moishey! How're you liking the retirement party? Pretty nice huh?" Tilling said, beaming at the old man as Grey Moon spilled down his Espantosoville Emigrant Baseball shirt.
"It's good, Jeffrey, it's good," he laughed. "Only, who invited that one?" Frank said, indicating Torrence "Rinse" Clamwater who had just walked through the back door of Tilling's house into the rather lively party, clearly shaking.
With a slosh that stained Moishe's rather cheap suit, Tilling pushed the Grey Moon into the retiree's hand as he began a half-stumble charge across the grass to Rinse. "What're ya doin' here, Mr. Clamwater?!" he exclaimed in fake cheer.
"I, uhh, heard from Mindy, uhh, that you, umm, had invited me, Mr. Tilling," Rinse tapped his index finger nervously against his thigh inside his pocket. Looking around, he realized the party was quite casual, but he still felt under-dressed in cut-off sweatpants and a faded Sade shirt.
How do I write this shit down? I really should start lying about stuff, because the truth is kind of embarassing.
"Mindy..." muttered Tilling. The last person he wanted to see at Moishe's retirement party. Unconsciously, he eyed the young, busty front desk girl who was seated in shade on a green plastic chair near his wife, out by his backyard pool deck. She had been filling in for "The Frizz" whose dad had decapitated a lady in a car and then fed the blood to a baby who'd just left his courtroom.
This, of course, after he had finished killing his wife with a hacksaw, and running over a delivery boy 16 times with his riding lawnmower, and directly before kill himself. It was natural that "The Frizz" should need a few days off to recover from this kind of thing. He only wondered why Fox News had revealed all these gory details.
Logging it in his mind to try to seduce the Fill In (whose name from here on out will be Fill In, a play on words in reference to her once B Now D silicones) later- 16 years old- Tilling looked back up at Rinse.
"Well, yer sure invited! Grab yerself a dogie from that there grill and chow down, partner!" boomed Tilling.
"Thanks, sir," replied Rinse, nervously. His head pounded from withdrawal symptoms, fingers twitching in his pockets. An acrid taste coated his tongue, like bitterness from the words he uttered that were complete lies. Hate was very real.
"Hey, we're Crashing Titanics! Whatsup guys!"
As the band began to play, only three (3) out of 60 (sixty) people really paying attention to them, Tilling wound his way over to his wife, whom he had not fucked in 4 (FOUR) years.
"Enjoying the band, honey?" he asked, kissing her on the forehead, and obviously turning his eyes to look down Fill In's shirt. She pulled her top down further.
"Oh, you know what..." Mrs. Tillings face was red, like her hair used to be before she'd had it dyed one (1) too many times in a vain attempt to get him to stop fucking young girls. He, of course, missed all the obvious signs that she knew. Like the small mentions of it. The notes saying "I know you're sleeping with young girls." The intervention she staged with his family, and hers, where he ignored them for a handheld Yahtzee game.
Tilling laughed on the inside, knowing his wife too proper to cause a public scene. "Go get more snacks for the table. Cheez-It. And bring out those little weiners too. I like those."
A young man next to him giggled a bit, and it was quite a distinctive giggle too, "Oh yes, we've heard Mr. Tilling." He continued to laugh as he walked off.
Fucking lawyers, thought Tilling. In Tilling's defense, this lawyer was quite mediocre.
But even small weiners would not bring JT any solace. He knew, looking over at Rinse, shaking his styrofoam plate in a drug-less stupor, that Mindy would arrive soon.
Mindy was his employer. Espantosoville had two private security firms, before Mindy bought them both and used some sort of leverage to get his corps installed in the courthouses as official security. But the blackmail deal had a stipulation.
Since only the best of rent-a-cops got to work in the courthouse, most of Tilling's friends had been shipped off to work in the mall Mindy owned. Others, less fortunate, were now working at the Steak and Smack or one of his other businesses. Mindy only hired young hispanic men to work at his dry cleaners, however.
Not really sure why. No, I don't know. Stop asking.
Nobody knew how Rinse, the man who was so awkward in public he almost shit himself constantly, got a job as a rent-a-cop in the courthouse.
Nobody liked him.
Knowing this visit was impending made Tilling's hands shake too, ironically.
And Crashing Titanics played over and over again in the background, terrible covers that had been done 1,000s (Thousands) of times.
"Alright, so whatsup Espantosoville? I'm Fingerbum, and this is my crew... nah, who cares! This next song is called 'More Than Words'!"
Immediately, all the women at the party turned to one another.
"Oh, we played this at our wedding!" squealed one.
"Oh, my, we played this at our wedding!" squealed another.
"Oh dear, I haven't heard this song since my wedding!" giggled yet another.
I'll just save you the trouble. Every married woman said something to this effect, except for Fill In who turned to Mrs. Tilling (back with small weiners) and said "I had sex to this song last night" before giggling uncontrollably with her fake rack that just wouldn't bounce, no matter how hard she tried.
Seconds passed.
Moishe trundled over to Tilling, who had begun to eat a plate of small pen... uhh, weiners his wfie had given him. Yes, it is poisoned. No, he doesn't know.
"Hey, pal, thanks for the party. It was mighty white of you, old friend!" he said, his great Racist Walrus Moustache wet with barbecue sauce.
For the record, the Walrus is racist, not the moustache.
Smiling, but beginning to feel a bit unsettled in his stomach, JT replied "Anything for you, Moishe! You've been good to me over the years, even through that whole" he mouthed the words Minor Fucking "incident. You've been great to me!"
They both laughed. "Well, it's OK to take a dip in the shallow end, so long as you don't leave your booties, am I right?!"
Have you ever seen anyone guffaw?
Moishe slapped Tilling on the arm before walking over to a recently empty chair next to Mrs. Tilling, who was glaring into her husband's back, waiting for the expensive poison she'd bought illegally to drop him.
Looking over, JT saw Mindy Mashtatoor at the snack table.
He also saw Fill In walk into the house, skirt riding up, low cut top hanging down.
Being a man who had never faced his problems head on (not even once (1-nce... sorry)) he followed her in.
When they arrived at the bathroom, she fiddled with the doorhandle before turning to him, tugging on her skirt. "Mr. Tile, I can't get this door to close, can you help me?" Her face was quite obviously a fake innocent, but Tilling didn't notice. Nor did he notice that she got his name wrong. Or register the Myanmar Earthquake level tackiness she had just unleashed.
Stepping into the bathroom, he closed the door for her.
Slowly, the closet door next to the bathroom slid aside, and a 17 (SEVENTEEN) year old girl stepped out, holding a gun. Breathing heavily with nervousness, eyes puffed from tears, she waited.
Jeffrey Tilling would not leave the bathroom alive. Nor would Fill In (see why I didn't bother telling your her name was Nicky East?).
But it wasn't the poison that would kill JT. Or the gun that would kill either of them.
You see, the slight, crying brunette with messy, tangled brown hair that had been somewhere between coarse and poorly-cared-for, would also die.
No. All three would be the victims of a secret vow.
"You guys smell that barbecue?! Mmmm! Here's a tune called 'I Love Rock & Roll'! YEAH!"
Fingerbum, mediocre vocalist that he was, would be the last to notice the housefire.
END CHAPTER 6 (SIX)
Friday, June 13, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Frustration: Chapter 5 (Five) - Progenitors And Jeffy Coitus
Chapter 5 (FIVE) - Progenitors And Jeffy Coitus
A story
F
R
U
S
T
R
A
T
I
N
G.
Like Post-Modernism.
Only this is frustrating because it makes too much sense, whereas Post-Modernism is just dog shit dressed up as a cat that is actually a mouse in disguise as a wolf.
Doesn't make a whole lot of sense why you'd wanna dress up dog shit as a cat that is actually a mouse in disguise as a wolf.
What does that have to do with this story, intriguing, you might ask?
Not a whole lot.
But neither does anything else we've talked about.
Now the original Grushevsky plan was thought out by a young man named Lionel Joseph, who was shot in the head in the early 80's for talking too loud during a screening of the Eddie Murphy/Dan Akroyd classic "Trading Places" which spawned 10,000 terrible Rich White Guy Meets Street Savvy Black Guy movies. That aside, it's a pretty fantastic film.
Anyways, Lionel Joseph was frustrating a young German named Derek Jetarro who had recently changed his name from Hans Mannschaft after viewing several movies at the predecessor to the Cannes Film Festival, The Camel Newsreel Theater, about Japanese strike breakers. He also was a great fan of Vaudeville, so he...
Anyways.
After being frustrated with Lionel's pointless blatherings for more than half the movie, including missing Jamie Lee Curtis's somewhat-overrated but still enjoyable breasts due to Lionel standing up and performing a rather dramatic "yawn" for attention (he farted during this), Derek pulled out his Glock and put one through Lionel's head.
This, ironically, after he had resolved to stop talking, realizing that nobody had listened to him anyways.
Unfortunately, this turn of events frustrated the Grushevsky plan.
To be plain, it was shot with a single round from a Glock .17. For Lionel Joseph was a careful man, and shared his plans with no one.
There's a lesson to be learned, in this, I'm sure. I'm just not entirely certain what it is.
Directly in front of Lionel was a young girl named Gorina Hollon. She was a gorgeous young girl, even if she was a bit loose from excessive self-insertion. After all, it was the 80's and there wasn't much else to do.
Blonde
Hair
With
Slight
Streaks
Of
Brownish
Tannish
Dirty
Blonde.
Sorry, typing like that must be frustrating for you to read.
Her rack was decent, her stomach flat, and her legs quite thin. As follows, she had no ass. Tragically.
Blood sprayed out of Lionel's head onto the the young 20 year old girl. This immediately sent her into labor, due to shock.
"Oh snap!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be hip.
"Oh shizzy!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be cool.
"Oh shazam!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be jive.
"I'm going into labor, ya'll!" Gorina shouted, attempting to sound panicked.
No, I lied, she was basically panicked.
The first urbanite, named Charles, rushed to Gorina's side and laid her onto the floor of the theater. Her hair stuck to the stickiness of concrete that had seen more handjobs than it had films.
"Fa sho bitch, just lay back whilst I fetch a medic!" Charles said calmly before fleeing towards the exit.
It seems worth noting that everyone else had fled, screaming, except for the handful of characters mentioned, these being:
-Derek Jetarro, psychotic German killer and appreciator of Japanese films about strike breakers.
-Lionel Joseph, recently deceased Russian whose alcohol level upon death was suprisingly 0 (ZERO).
-Gorina Hollon, single mother impregnated by a hoodlum during a rape, also sprayed with Lionel's brain matter which shocked her into labor. Her daughter's name is going to be Shannon, if you cared to know. Personally, I find myself partial to that name.
-Carl Jung, no relation, a young hoodie from Espantosoville mall. And by that I mean he was homeless and was taking up residence behind a mall dust bin.
-Charles Whig, a young richman dressed as a hoodie from Espantosoville mall. Recently left the theater in search of a medic.
-Devin "Horehound" Homeeker, no lines.
In the background, the movie played. Jame Lee Curtis's tits bounced out of her bra, only to be quickly covered up by her hands. "You sleep on the couch!"
"I don't sleep on the couch!" shouted Jetarro at the screen. He was quite furious. Raising his glock, he emptied the whole clip into the speechless Dan Akroyd. This did little to stop the film, however.
Feeling tortured by good cinema (much like most modern German's do by good music- see their Rammstein obsession for further proof) and frustrated by life, he pulled out a six inch blade and sunk it into his heart.
That's the end of that.
"Bitch, jes hold on to ya azz!" shouted Carl as he spread Gorina's legs.
"What?" she asked, pain creeping into her broken-water vaginal orifice.
"Umm, sorry, I meant to say..."
But you don't care about the rest of this story do you. Why should you care about Shannon Hollon?
Shannon was to grow up to be a beautiful young woman, that's why.
She'd have solid Double D's, I'm not even shitting you.
And in 2005, she'd give birth to a... well, you already know that part of the story don't you.
What you don't know is what happened next. After the birth of Jeffy Coitus.
If I had to tabulate your big questions, the big things that are frustrating you right now, it would be easy to summarize it as follows:
1. What the fuck is going on with this story?
2. Is this a soap opera?
3. What's with the silly story breaking up?
4. Do you own a television, or a crab?
5. What the fuck is going on with this story?
6. Just why is this story about Jeffy Coitus?
7. Does it have a happy ending?
8. Does this story have as much boring sex description as Harlequin Romance Novels, which stop working after a woman has had an honest-to-God sexual experience since they're so patently dull and decidedly fake?
9. Can every July 28th be free Ice Cream day?
10. Why should we care about Shannon Hollon?
I shall answer these questions now:
1. Don't ask me.
2. Don't ask me.
3. To keep you interested and confused.
4. No.
5. Cubans.
6. Because he's the main character, you fucking moron. You're really frustrating me.
7. Yes, Unfortunately.
8. Only if you send naked pictures, you inexperienced, ugly, bitch.
9. Vote Barack for free Ice Cream, McCain for free Ice Cream Sandwiches. How can you go wrong? Get out and vote! Republicans, Democrats, it doesn't matter! Show the world how not stupid you fucking Americans are! VOTE GODDAMNIT.
10. Well, one, because she's got a beautiful name. And two, because she... well, lemme just tell you.
Creaking on a chain that swung due to wind from a nearby basement window, the light above her head shown through long pillars of dust. It reminded her of when she was a child and would wake up from naps in her room, the light from the window reminding her that she was trapped inside a home with a neurotic mother who constantly babbled about nature VS nurture.
"You finally up, whore?" a gruff, but somewhat high voice from her left said.
"What the... what the fuck?" she asked, leaning up slowly. Her head felt quite heavy. Drugs.
"If you have anybody terribly important to say goodbye to, you'd better do it soon. Your kidneys will make a great selling item... goodbye, Shannon."
Marcus, she thought angrily, leaning up as much as she could through the pain in her abdomen. She knew something was missing inside. It's impossible to not know that it's gone. It was as though a piece of padding always present under her shirt was suddenly no more.
Pain ran through her, and blood began to seep through the half-assed stiches, into her shirt.
Slowly, she closed the phone, realizing that its ringing had woken her up. Although, she didn't remember answering it.
She did remember being raped, vaguely.
Things were slowly piecing together in her head, and the more they did the worse her head hurt. She knew all of the pain was going to frustrate her efforts, but it was clear to her that she had to accomplish something before dying.
And she knew she would surely die.
"Jeffy..." she said quietly as she began to rise up. "I have to find my son..."
Tumbling over her own (rather sexy) feet, she fell to her knees and began to crawl to the basement stairs.
Her cat's shit, left on the floor where she fell, smeared across her knee.
Didn't matter.
All that mattered was getting to her son before she died.
Even whores have feelings of matriarchal loyalty in the end...
END CHAPTER 5 (FIVE)
A story
F
R
U
S
T
R
A
T
I
N
G.
Like Post-Modernism.
Only this is frustrating because it makes too much sense, whereas Post-Modernism is just dog shit dressed up as a cat that is actually a mouse in disguise as a wolf.
Doesn't make a whole lot of sense why you'd wanna dress up dog shit as a cat that is actually a mouse in disguise as a wolf.
What does that have to do with this story, intriguing, you might ask?
Not a whole lot.
But neither does anything else we've talked about.
Now the original Grushevsky plan was thought out by a young man named Lionel Joseph, who was shot in the head in the early 80's for talking too loud during a screening of the Eddie Murphy/Dan Akroyd classic "Trading Places" which spawned 10,000 terrible Rich White Guy Meets Street Savvy Black Guy movies. That aside, it's a pretty fantastic film.
Anyways, Lionel Joseph was frustrating a young German named Derek Jetarro who had recently changed his name from Hans Mannschaft after viewing several movies at the predecessor to the Cannes Film Festival, The Camel Newsreel Theater, about Japanese strike breakers. He also was a great fan of Vaudeville, so he...
Anyways.
After being frustrated with Lionel's pointless blatherings for more than half the movie, including missing Jamie Lee Curtis's somewhat-overrated but still enjoyable breasts due to Lionel standing up and performing a rather dramatic "yawn" for attention (he farted during this), Derek pulled out his Glock and put one through Lionel's head.
This, ironically, after he had resolved to stop talking, realizing that nobody had listened to him anyways.
Unfortunately, this turn of events frustrated the Grushevsky plan.
To be plain, it was shot with a single round from a Glock .17. For Lionel Joseph was a careful man, and shared his plans with no one.
There's a lesson to be learned, in this, I'm sure. I'm just not entirely certain what it is.
Directly in front of Lionel was a young girl named Gorina Hollon. She was a gorgeous young girl, even if she was a bit loose from excessive self-insertion. After all, it was the 80's and there wasn't much else to do.
Blonde
Hair
With
Slight
Streaks
Of
Brownish
Tannish
Dirty
Blonde.
Sorry, typing like that must be frustrating for you to read.
Her rack was decent, her stomach flat, and her legs quite thin. As follows, she had no ass. Tragically.
Blood sprayed out of Lionel's head onto the the young 20 year old girl. This immediately sent her into labor, due to shock.
"Oh snap!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be hip.
"Oh shizzy!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be cool.
"Oh shazam!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be jive.
"I'm going into labor, ya'll!" Gorina shouted, attempting to sound panicked.
No, I lied, she was basically panicked.
The first urbanite, named Charles, rushed to Gorina's side and laid her onto the floor of the theater. Her hair stuck to the stickiness of concrete that had seen more handjobs than it had films.
"Fa sho bitch, just lay back whilst I fetch a medic!" Charles said calmly before fleeing towards the exit.
It seems worth noting that everyone else had fled, screaming, except for the handful of characters mentioned, these being:
-Derek Jetarro, psychotic German killer and appreciator of Japanese films about strike breakers.
-Lionel Joseph, recently deceased Russian whose alcohol level upon death was suprisingly 0 (ZERO).
-Gorina Hollon, single mother impregnated by a hoodlum during a rape, also sprayed with Lionel's brain matter which shocked her into labor. Her daughter's name is going to be Shannon, if you cared to know. Personally, I find myself partial to that name.
-Carl Jung, no relation, a young hoodie from Espantosoville mall. And by that I mean he was homeless and was taking up residence behind a mall dust bin.
-Charles Whig, a young richman dressed as a hoodie from Espantosoville mall. Recently left the theater in search of a medic.
-Devin "Horehound" Homeeker, no lines.
In the background, the movie played. Jame Lee Curtis's tits bounced out of her bra, only to be quickly covered up by her hands. "You sleep on the couch!"
"I don't sleep on the couch!" shouted Jetarro at the screen. He was quite furious. Raising his glock, he emptied the whole clip into the speechless Dan Akroyd. This did little to stop the film, however.
Feeling tortured by good cinema (much like most modern German's do by good music- see their Rammstein obsession for further proof) and frustrated by life, he pulled out a six inch blade and sunk it into his heart.
That's the end of that.
"Bitch, jes hold on to ya azz!" shouted Carl as he spread Gorina's legs.
"What?" she asked, pain creeping into her broken-water vaginal orifice.
"Umm, sorry, I meant to say..."
But you don't care about the rest of this story do you. Why should you care about Shannon Hollon?
Shannon was to grow up to be a beautiful young woman, that's why.
She'd have solid Double D's, I'm not even shitting you.
And in 2005, she'd give birth to a... well, you already know that part of the story don't you.
What you don't know is what happened next. After the birth of Jeffy Coitus.
If I had to tabulate your big questions, the big things that are frustrating you right now, it would be easy to summarize it as follows:
1. What the fuck is going on with this story?
2. Is this a soap opera?
3. What's with the silly story breaking up?
4. Do you own a television, or a crab?
5. What the fuck is going on with this story?
6. Just why is this story about Jeffy Coitus?
7. Does it have a happy ending?
8. Does this story have as much boring sex description as Harlequin Romance Novels, which stop working after a woman has had an honest-to-God sexual experience since they're so patently dull and decidedly fake?
9. Can every July 28th be free Ice Cream day?
10. Why should we care about Shannon Hollon?
I shall answer these questions now:
1. Don't ask me.
2. Don't ask me.
3. To keep you interested and confused.
4. No.
5. Cubans.
6. Because he's the main character, you fucking moron. You're really frustrating me.
7. Yes, Unfortunately.
8. Only if you send naked pictures, you inexperienced, ugly, bitch.
9. Vote Barack for free Ice Cream, McCain for free Ice Cream Sandwiches. How can you go wrong? Get out and vote! Republicans, Democrats, it doesn't matter! Show the world how not stupid you fucking Americans are! VOTE GODDAMNIT.
10. Well, one, because she's got a beautiful name. And two, because she... well, lemme just tell you.
Creaking on a chain that swung due to wind from a nearby basement window, the light above her head shown through long pillars of dust. It reminded her of when she was a child and would wake up from naps in her room, the light from the window reminding her that she was trapped inside a home with a neurotic mother who constantly babbled about nature VS nurture.
"You finally up, whore?" a gruff, but somewhat high voice from her left said.
"What the... what the fuck?" she asked, leaning up slowly. Her head felt quite heavy. Drugs.
"If you have anybody terribly important to say goodbye to, you'd better do it soon. Your kidneys will make a great selling item... goodbye, Shannon."
Marcus, she thought angrily, leaning up as much as she could through the pain in her abdomen. She knew something was missing inside. It's impossible to not know that it's gone. It was as though a piece of padding always present under her shirt was suddenly no more.
Pain ran through her, and blood began to seep through the half-assed stiches, into her shirt.
Slowly, she closed the phone, realizing that its ringing had woken her up. Although, she didn't remember answering it.
She did remember being raped, vaguely.
Things were slowly piecing together in her head, and the more they did the worse her head hurt. She knew all of the pain was going to frustrate her efforts, but it was clear to her that she had to accomplish something before dying.
And she knew she would surely die.
"Jeffy..." she said quietly as she began to rise up. "I have to find my son..."
Tumbling over her own (rather sexy) feet, she fell to her knees and began to crawl to the basement stairs.
Her cat's shit, left on the floor where she fell, smeared across her knee.
Didn't matter.
All that mattered was getting to her son before she died.
Even whores have feelings of matriarchal loyalty in the end...
END CHAPTER 5 (FIVE)
Monday, June 2, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Passion: Chapter 4 (Four) - Jeffy Coitus Has Nothing To Say
CHAPTER 4 (FOUR) - Jeffy Coitus Has Nothing To Say
Would you believe I finally found a comfortable place for us to talk about this, irreverent reader? I don't care.
Passion is something many couples can't attain. Mostly because 9/10 of America is hideous. Let's be honest with ourselves for a moment.
Only a moment.
If half of America was as fit as they wanted, then fit people would become as normal as the fat hag in front of you at MacDoormold's. You know the kind. With her unbrushed hair that she hasn't attempted to keep looking nice in years since she gained 60 (SIXTY) pounds after college. Her face still has acne even though she's
37
And she's in line at MacDoormold's bitching that her child got the same Happy Meal toy yesterday, and the day before, and even the day before that. She fails to realize that the fault lies in her bad parenting for taking her kid to MacDoormold's every single day and...
Well, where was I.
Children of these kinds of mothers always turn out to be self-entitled and worthless. There's no two ways about it.
Joy Frontero was not one of these children.
Yes, I know you're tired of me telling you about people who are not the things I've been describing. Today, you get your wish. Oh, sure, you're happy now, aren't you. Asshat.
Della "The Corn" Tonnik was one of these children. The Corn would do only one thing of note in her life regarding this story I'm telling you. If you want to hear more stories about self-entitled wastes of life, I suggest you head down to your local buffet, or TMZ.
"Permanently?!" The Corn shouted angrily into the speaker of the Steak & Smack drive-thru.
"No ma'am, not permanently. Just for tonight!" flustered, the young woman inside the store was beginning to hyperventilate in anger.
It's true, my gender is prone to overreaction. We're just passionate about everything.
So anyways.
"What the hell?! I wanted a damn milkshake!" And she wasn't lying. She was in desperate need of a milkshake, as she only had A Cups.
Pity.
"Miss I'm sorry, there's a Wandy's down the street, I'm sure a nice Frusty would work just as well..." Monica "Swamp Ass" Moreni was beginning to lose her patience, and silently put a Wiccan hex on her boss Chester for breaking the ice cream machine.
Don't worry, Chester was fine. Wiccans don't really have any power to curse.
Now, if she'd have been a Christian, they've got some real curse power. That, or a distinct lack of guilt for burning innocent people alive. Either way I think you still win.
The Corn was not in a good mood. "You do know that a Frusty is made with lard don't you? You want me to add fat to my figure, is that it?"
Swamp Ass sighed, then replied, "Ma'am, I don't think Frustys have lard in them. That's just an internet rumor."
"Oh!" a shitstorm of overreaction ensued. "So, so, so now you're calling me a liar! A liar! All the people behind me in line heard this! I'm gonna come in there and report you to your manager!"
This threat rang somehow hollow, as Chester was under Swamp Ass's sweaty thumb unless he wanted her to press sexual harassment charges.
Then an idea hit her. No, she didn't literally get hit by anything. Sorry to get your hopes up like that.
"Talking to the manager sounds like a great idea! Here he is!" she shouted into the mic headset before smacking it into Chester's... chest.
"What the hell is this, Moreni?" he asked, looking down her shirt.
"I'm going on break. Take care of this bitchy customer. She's only bitchy because you broke it," she said, pointing to the ice cream machine that had what appeared to be a large amount of shotgun damage to its front.
"Hey!..." Chester couldn't think of anything clever to say. To be honest, he wasn't a very good boss. And in his own, cowardly sort of way, he felt bad for breaking the ice cream machine.
The conversation between Chester and The Corn went as you would expect it to, culminating in Della leaving Steak & Smack permanently. Unlike the milkshakes, which would return the next day.
More interestingly, if I can inject my own opinion here, is what happened with Monica "Swamp Ass" Moreni.
Walking up to the restaurant's bar and taking a seat (squishy, sweaty, cotton) Monica lowered her head.
Below her, the floor was terribly dusty and dirty. The tiny white and black tiles were grouted with fries, burger remnants, ketchup, dried semen, and what appeared to be a smashed crayon. It was red, and confused her. Sunlight dripping in from the window to her left lit up her sweaty arms and made her feel even worse.
"It's almost as hot out here as it is in front of that damn grill..." she muttered to herself, quite grumpy.
"It's kind of warm, isn't it?" replied a man with a high, slightly obnoxious voice.
Surprised only marginally, because like most people Monica always behaved as if there was someone listening whenever she spoke, she looked over at the man who had taken the bar stool next to her. It was not in her, however, to tell him that he had sat in what appeared to be a wad of grisly, half-chewed beef.
"It's been a long day," she stated flatly, glad of someone to complain to. She had two passions in life. One was complaining. The other was sweating. Just kidding, she found that unpleasant, and it aided the strange forces of misfortunate that made her panties ride up her various southern orifices whenever she sat down.
"Oh I understand. I think everybody's having a tough one today. One of my tenants' sisters got murdered, and her mother's making her adopt the baby. Isn't that awful?" Mindy Mashtatoor grinned as a Lurch-like young man with a Green Day shirt on sat down a glass of sweaty ice water.
I'm glad you too think Green Day sucks ass.
Reaching for the water with a palm that was quite dry, the condensation felt somewhat good, if not a little obnoxious, on Mindy's hands.
"Wait, is what awful? The murder or that she's being forced to adopt the kid?"
"Huh?" Mindy replied, setting down the glass. "Oh, I forget what we're talking about..."
"Oh."
"Say, where's Chester, fella?" Mindy asked the young, braindead waiter.
"Who?" he replied.
"Chester."
"I don't know any fuckin' Chesters man. Are you fuckin' hittin' on me?" the waiter glared at Mindy, taking what appeared to be a defensive stance.
Looking over at Swampers, Mindy said, "Is everybody in Espantosoville insane? Or is it just Cousin Eddy here?"
Monica giggled, shaking her thin, sweaty frame. "I'm not sure he's cool enough to be Cousin Eddy."
"I'm not sure he's old enough to know who he is, either. Judging by the shirt, nope." Mindy's high voice trailed off as he watched a young biker in leather walk across the S&S dining room.
That was kind of cliche, but it seriously happened. At least, that's what I was told. Look, you've been really good about interruptions this time around (asshat reader) so could you please take it easy?
After his moment of passion had passed, Mindy looked back to the waiter, who will be known henceforth as "Frankenstein's Monster" for brevity's sake. I know that sort of moniker is slightly unnecessary since I told you he was wearing a Green Day shirt, but just bear with me.
"So, Franky, you don't know your own boss's name?" Mindy asked, slightly amused.
"Huh? I thought his name was Chet..." the slow-witted monster's mind seemed to be turning the gears in overdrive today. Secretly, Monica was ashamed to have sucked his dick.
"What the hell kind of a name is Chet?" Mashtatoor asked, calmly, as he picked up his glass to drink again.
In a fury, the monster shouted, "My dad's name is Chet!"
Giggling slightly with Moreni, he replied "That explains a thing or two then doesn't it. Go get your boss before I shitcan you."
"You can't fire me! I'm an employee, you're a customer!"
"That might've been an astute observation," Mindy said, his voice nearly cracking from the excitement of getting to put someone down, "unfortunately I'm not just a customer. I'm the owner of this place. Now go get your boss or else I will shitcan you." Mindy made a vague attempt to look gruff, and stern. It wasn't quite as good as he'd hoped, however, and he ended up looking as though he had some slight gas.
While the beast lumbered away, Monica rose to her sweaty feet.
If I haven't emphasized this enough, Monica was a really, really sweaty person. "I gotta get back to the drive-thru if you wanna talk to Chester. Thanks for the laugh, I needed one today."
"You mean you laughed at the kid getting adopted, or the murder?" Mindy replied in a rather simple attempt at a joke that left them both feeling a bit awkward.
"Uhh, my name's Monica by the way. Monica Moreni," she said, trying to seem relatable, or sweet. She was neither.
"Right then, Monica. I'm Mindy Mashtatoor."
Before she realized what she was doing, Monica let out a squeaky giggle. The person who had just sat down on the end of the bar farthest from where they had been sitting was frightened by it, and considered leaving.
"Something funny?" Mindy asked, not at all un-used to people reacting to his first name (or existence) like this.
Scrambling for something to say, Monica's hands especially sweaty (and the rest of her too- she could feel sweat running down the inside of her thighs as she stood up, and it was still rolling down her legs, into her sweaty socks) she finally found something after about 4 (FOUR) seconds of thought. "I just realized, Franky isn't wearing a uniform and he's been clocked in almost 4 (FOUR) hours."
This seemed almost genius to Monica. In this way she could kill two birds with one greasy gay man. Ever since the fellatio behind the stainless steel fridge, Swamp Ass had slowly been realizing how disgusting Franky was.
"Well how about that, he's not," Mindy said with a slight chuckle. "I'll let Chester know to fire him."
"Thats great!" Monica said, sweat dripping down her hairy arms. Then they both felt awkard again.
Quickly thereafter, she walked away and found Chester for Mindy (Franky, of course, could not remember what his boss looked like, so he'd wandered into the freezer and stood there to collect his thoughts).
"Mindy's here? Shit," Chester pushed the mic headset back into Swamp Ass's... chest. He was so distracted by his worry, that he did not even notice the pleasant bounce he'd caused.
It wouldn't be until much later that Chester would realize what a passion he'd had for Monica Moreni, sweat and all.
But she would be long gone by then, and it would be only a few days before he would be killed defending Jeffy Coitus.
END CHAPTER 4 (FOUR)
Would you believe I finally found a comfortable place for us to talk about this, irreverent reader? I don't care.
Passion is something many couples can't attain. Mostly because 9/10 of America is hideous. Let's be honest with ourselves for a moment.
Only a moment.
If half of America was as fit as they wanted, then fit people would become as normal as the fat hag in front of you at MacDoormold's. You know the kind. With her unbrushed hair that she hasn't attempted to keep looking nice in years since she gained 60 (SIXTY) pounds after college. Her face still has acne even though she's
37
And she's in line at MacDoormold's bitching that her child got the same Happy Meal toy yesterday, and the day before, and even the day before that. She fails to realize that the fault lies in her bad parenting for taking her kid to MacDoormold's every single day and...
Well, where was I.
Children of these kinds of mothers always turn out to be self-entitled and worthless. There's no two ways about it.
Joy Frontero was not one of these children.
Yes, I know you're tired of me telling you about people who are not the things I've been describing. Today, you get your wish. Oh, sure, you're happy now, aren't you. Asshat.
Della "The Corn" Tonnik was one of these children. The Corn would do only one thing of note in her life regarding this story I'm telling you. If you want to hear more stories about self-entitled wastes of life, I suggest you head down to your local buffet, or TMZ.
"Permanently?!" The Corn shouted angrily into the speaker of the Steak & Smack drive-thru.
"No ma'am, not permanently. Just for tonight!" flustered, the young woman inside the store was beginning to hyperventilate in anger.
It's true, my gender is prone to overreaction. We're just passionate about everything.
So anyways.
"What the hell?! I wanted a damn milkshake!" And she wasn't lying. She was in desperate need of a milkshake, as she only had A Cups.
Pity.
"Miss I'm sorry, there's a Wandy's down the street, I'm sure a nice Frusty would work just as well..." Monica "Swamp Ass" Moreni was beginning to lose her patience, and silently put a Wiccan hex on her boss Chester for breaking the ice cream machine.
Don't worry, Chester was fine. Wiccans don't really have any power to curse.
Now, if she'd have been a Christian, they've got some real curse power. That, or a distinct lack of guilt for burning innocent people alive. Either way I think you still win.
The Corn was not in a good mood. "You do know that a Frusty is made with lard don't you? You want me to add fat to my figure, is that it?"
Swamp Ass sighed, then replied, "Ma'am, I don't think Frustys have lard in them. That's just an internet rumor."
"Oh!" a shitstorm of overreaction ensued. "So, so, so now you're calling me a liar! A liar! All the people behind me in line heard this! I'm gonna come in there and report you to your manager!"
This threat rang somehow hollow, as Chester was under Swamp Ass's sweaty thumb unless he wanted her to press sexual harassment charges.
Then an idea hit her. No, she didn't literally get hit by anything. Sorry to get your hopes up like that.
"Talking to the manager sounds like a great idea! Here he is!" she shouted into the mic headset before smacking it into Chester's... chest.
"What the hell is this, Moreni?" he asked, looking down her shirt.
"I'm going on break. Take care of this bitchy customer. She's only bitchy because you broke it," she said, pointing to the ice cream machine that had what appeared to be a large amount of shotgun damage to its front.
"Hey!..." Chester couldn't think of anything clever to say. To be honest, he wasn't a very good boss. And in his own, cowardly sort of way, he felt bad for breaking the ice cream machine.
The conversation between Chester and The Corn went as you would expect it to, culminating in Della leaving Steak & Smack permanently. Unlike the milkshakes, which would return the next day.
More interestingly, if I can inject my own opinion here, is what happened with Monica "Swamp Ass" Moreni.
Walking up to the restaurant's bar and taking a seat (squishy, sweaty, cotton) Monica lowered her head.
Below her, the floor was terribly dusty and dirty. The tiny white and black tiles were grouted with fries, burger remnants, ketchup, dried semen, and what appeared to be a smashed crayon. It was red, and confused her. Sunlight dripping in from the window to her left lit up her sweaty arms and made her feel even worse.
"It's almost as hot out here as it is in front of that damn grill..." she muttered to herself, quite grumpy.
"It's kind of warm, isn't it?" replied a man with a high, slightly obnoxious voice.
Surprised only marginally, because like most people Monica always behaved as if there was someone listening whenever she spoke, she looked over at the man who had taken the bar stool next to her. It was not in her, however, to tell him that he had sat in what appeared to be a wad of grisly, half-chewed beef.
"It's been a long day," she stated flatly, glad of someone to complain to. She had two passions in life. One was complaining. The other was sweating. Just kidding, she found that unpleasant, and it aided the strange forces of misfortunate that made her panties ride up her various southern orifices whenever she sat down.
"Oh I understand. I think everybody's having a tough one today. One of my tenants' sisters got murdered, and her mother's making her adopt the baby. Isn't that awful?" Mindy Mashtatoor grinned as a Lurch-like young man with a Green Day shirt on sat down a glass of sweaty ice water.
I'm glad you too think Green Day sucks ass.
Reaching for the water with a palm that was quite dry, the condensation felt somewhat good, if not a little obnoxious, on Mindy's hands.
"Wait, is what awful? The murder or that she's being forced to adopt the kid?"
"Huh?" Mindy replied, setting down the glass. "Oh, I forget what we're talking about..."
"Oh."
"Say, where's Chester, fella?" Mindy asked the young, braindead waiter.
"Who?" he replied.
"Chester."
"I don't know any fuckin' Chesters man. Are you fuckin' hittin' on me?" the waiter glared at Mindy, taking what appeared to be a defensive stance.
Looking over at Swampers, Mindy said, "Is everybody in Espantosoville insane? Or is it just Cousin Eddy here?"
Monica giggled, shaking her thin, sweaty frame. "I'm not sure he's cool enough to be Cousin Eddy."
"I'm not sure he's old enough to know who he is, either. Judging by the shirt, nope." Mindy's high voice trailed off as he watched a young biker in leather walk across the S&S dining room.
That was kind of cliche, but it seriously happened. At least, that's what I was told. Look, you've been really good about interruptions this time around (asshat reader) so could you please take it easy?
After his moment of passion had passed, Mindy looked back to the waiter, who will be known henceforth as "Frankenstein's Monster" for brevity's sake. I know that sort of moniker is slightly unnecessary since I told you he was wearing a Green Day shirt, but just bear with me.
"So, Franky, you don't know your own boss's name?" Mindy asked, slightly amused.
"Huh? I thought his name was Chet..." the slow-witted monster's mind seemed to be turning the gears in overdrive today. Secretly, Monica was ashamed to have sucked his dick.
"What the hell kind of a name is Chet?" Mashtatoor asked, calmly, as he picked up his glass to drink again.
In a fury, the monster shouted, "My dad's name is Chet!"
Giggling slightly with Moreni, he replied "That explains a thing or two then doesn't it. Go get your boss before I shitcan you."
"You can't fire me! I'm an employee, you're a customer!"
"That might've been an astute observation," Mindy said, his voice nearly cracking from the excitement of getting to put someone down, "unfortunately I'm not just a customer. I'm the owner of this place. Now go get your boss or else I will shitcan you." Mindy made a vague attempt to look gruff, and stern. It wasn't quite as good as he'd hoped, however, and he ended up looking as though he had some slight gas.
While the beast lumbered away, Monica rose to her sweaty feet.
If I haven't emphasized this enough, Monica was a really, really sweaty person. "I gotta get back to the drive-thru if you wanna talk to Chester. Thanks for the laugh, I needed one today."
"You mean you laughed at the kid getting adopted, or the murder?" Mindy replied in a rather simple attempt at a joke that left them both feeling a bit awkward.
"Uhh, my name's Monica by the way. Monica Moreni," she said, trying to seem relatable, or sweet. She was neither.
"Right then, Monica. I'm Mindy Mashtatoor."
Before she realized what she was doing, Monica let out a squeaky giggle. The person who had just sat down on the end of the bar farthest from where they had been sitting was frightened by it, and considered leaving.
"Something funny?" Mindy asked, not at all un-used to people reacting to his first name (or existence) like this.
Scrambling for something to say, Monica's hands especially sweaty (and the rest of her too- she could feel sweat running down the inside of her thighs as she stood up, and it was still rolling down her legs, into her sweaty socks) she finally found something after about 4 (FOUR) seconds of thought. "I just realized, Franky isn't wearing a uniform and he's been clocked in almost 4 (FOUR) hours."
This seemed almost genius to Monica. In this way she could kill two birds with one greasy gay man. Ever since the fellatio behind the stainless steel fridge, Swamp Ass had slowly been realizing how disgusting Franky was.
"Well how about that, he's not," Mindy said with a slight chuckle. "I'll let Chester know to fire him."
"Thats great!" Monica said, sweat dripping down her hairy arms. Then they both felt awkard again.
Quickly thereafter, she walked away and found Chester for Mindy (Franky, of course, could not remember what his boss looked like, so he'd wandered into the freezer and stood there to collect his thoughts).
"Mindy's here? Shit," Chester pushed the mic headset back into Swamp Ass's... chest. He was so distracted by his worry, that he did not even notice the pleasant bounce he'd caused.
It wouldn't be until much later that Chester would realize what a passion he'd had for Monica Moreni, sweat and all.
But she would be long gone by then, and it would be only a few days before he would be killed defending Jeffy Coitus.
END CHAPTER 4 (FOUR)
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