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)