Jack Hardcock: The Legend Continues (Part VII)

“I’m Dillon J Dudenburg. I’ve directed hardcore porn, I’ve directed softcore porn. I’ve studied under Stephen Sayadian AND Nick Millard. And I’ve also directed episodes of Grace Under Fire,” the famed filmmaker, recently fired from a major motion picture, informed us. He was puffing on his Black & Milds while we interviewed him in a U-Haul storage unit in El Segundo. We were using it as a “casting couch”. The three of us…Peter, Donovan McNabb,and myself…were all donning our fake mustaches while undercover as porn producers.

“That’s very interesting, Dillon,” Peter said. “Jack, do you have anything you’d like to ask?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “what does the ‘J’ stand for?”

Dillon took a drag off his cheap cigar. “Just ‘J’,” he said.

“Did you read the script?”

“Uhh, yeah,” Dillon said as he dabbed his cigar in the ashtray, “and I have a few ideas. First, I’d like to cast as our leading lady an actress I worked with on Pee On Me Vol. 9….Bella Bixby. I think she’s perfect for the role.”

“But part of the agreement was to cast a different actress that you worked with on Info Whores: Layla Huffington,” Donovan interrupted.

“Layla Huffington?! No way man!“

“May I ask why?” Donovan said. He was getting irate.

“She gave the entire cast and crew crabs man! We had to shut down production for a whole month!”

That was enough. Donovan McNabb leapt out of his seat and began to strangle Dillon. “I GAVE HER THOSE CRABS!” he kept shouting.

Peter and I wrangled Donovan while Dillon laid out on the floor trying to catch his breath. “Donovan, chill out,” I said, “that’s my responsibility!” I then kicked Dillon in the side and grabbed him by the lapels. “Where’s Layla?!” I kept asking.

“Last place I saw her was at a strip club in Riverside,” Dillon replied as he coughed up blood.

I stood up straight and ripped off my mustache. “Let’s get going,” I ordered.

“Wait a minute,” Peter said, “we have this place rented out until the 24th. So how are we gonna….”

While we were talking amongst ourselves, Dillon, still on the ground, pulled out a switch blade from his sock. As he charged towards Donovan, I drew the .38 and blasted a hole in the filmmaker’s face. His body fell to the ground as blood gushed out of every orifice.

“My god, Jack, what have you done?” Peter asked as he knelt beside the body. Then he began to weep.

“Peter, you’ve seen me kill hundreds of people,” I said, “why are you crying?”

“Don’t you get it?!” he yelled, “Dillon was the greatest artist of our time!”

“The Bible specifically prohibits the production and viewing of internet pornography,” I replied as I put my gun back in the holster. “I did the world a favor.”

Peter stood up and got in my face. “When you find Layla Huffington,” he said calmly, “you take her and get OUT of the state of California. Or else I will kill you myself.”

I lit up a cigarette and gave him a smirk. “Gladly,” I said.

Then we were off to Riverside.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Legend Continues (Part VI)

I threw Donovan McNabb against the wall in our room at the Cecil Hotel. Then I put a knife to his throat. “Did you bring an extra toothbrush?” I asked. “I forgot mine.”

His hand was shaking as I took the toothbrush from it. “Relax,” I told Donovan, “why are you so stressed out?”

Right then, Peter Tucker startled me as he came in through the door carrying a trey of coffees. I drew the .38 and blasted the trey. Piping hot latte got all over him.

“Goddamnit Jack!” Peter yelled. “That’s the fifth time I’ve had to go to Dunkin Donuts! Will you stop blasting every trey I carry in?!!”

“We’ve been in LA for two days!” I said as I put the .38 back into the holster. “We’ve got nothing! NOTHING! We need Layla Huffington before it’s too late!”

“Too late for what?” Donovan asked. “She’s already in the porno business.”

I then backhanded him across the face. “I know that,” I replied. “But maybe it’s not too late to save her.”

“Save her?” Donovan said as he rubbed his cheek. “I don’t think she’s in any danger. I just want to talk to her to get some closure!”

I kneed Donovan in the ballsack then threw his head into the mirror, shattering the glass. “Goddamnit Donovan! Don’t you get it?” I said. “Layla is under the clutches of Satan! The Lord has made it MY quest to rescue her! MY QUEST! And when the Lord speaks, I answer the call! So you best not get in the way, or you will be the NEXT one to swallow a bullet.”

Peter stood back in quiet contemplation as he rubbed his hand across his face. “Donovan, will you step outside the room, please?” he requested.

Donovan granted his request as he wiped blood from his temple. Peter closed the door behind him. “I know what’s going on here, Jack,” he said. “I know you too well. You’ve been watching her videos, looking at her naked pictures constantly. That’s too much for a man that doesn’t masturbate.”

Then a dark revelation came to me. I looked down at the broken shards of mirror at my feet. “And I want her for myself, is that what you say?”

“It’s an obsession,” Peter replied, “an obsession that has gotten ahold of many men in your position. And as a man with 20 years of backed up semen running through him, it’s an obsession that will crush you.”

I nodded in agreement. “So what do you recommend?” I asked.

“Seeing as you are emotionally compromised in this case, I’ve had no choice but to utilize my massive FBI resources to track Layla Huffington down. So I posed as a porno producer and got in contact with a director that has worked with her many times before,” Peter said. “Plus, you should beat off every once in awhile.”

“Who’s your contact?”

“A very well respected man in the business,” Peter replied. “His name is Dillon J Dudenburg.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

Jack Hardcock: The Legend Continues (Part V)

“Don’t you have a whole FBI field office to run?” I asked Peter Tucker. Donavan McNabb, the guitarist I threatened to shoot on the streets of Oakland…and Layla’s ex-boyfriend…was packing his van before the two of us departed for LA.

“You know,” Peter explained, “the funny thing about San Francisco is that no one commits crimes there. What are the odds? So I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Well if you’re tagging along with us, you’re paying for gas,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” Donovan interrupted, “this is a 1994 GMC Vandura. It’s a marvel of modern engineering. So this thing DEFINITELY doesn’t suck up a lot of gas.”

“It’s all good,” Peter replied, “I’ll just use my credit card issued by the federal government to pay for the $15 per gallon gas here in the State of California for an investigation that has absolutely nothing to do with the government.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “Well hop on in! Let’s get this show on the road!”

***

We all got high driving down the SR 1. It didn’t help much. I couldn’t shake the half naked images of Layla from my mind; something was compelling me towards her. And it wasn’t just my erection either.

“I know I’m a federal agent and all,” Peter said to Donovan, who was driving the van, “but goddamn this is some good weed.”

“For Christ sake,” I said to Peter, “stop using the Lord’s name in vain!”

“Come off your high horse, Jack,” he replied.

“No, he’s right,” Donovan interrupted, “God is all around us. God is love. We should treat him with respect.”

“That’s an interesting perspective,” I replied.

“Shut the fuck up Donovan,” Peter said. “You’re just a dumbass California stoner. I shouldn’t even be letting you drive! It would have been much faster taking the interstate!”

“What’s the rush, man?” Donovan asked.

“A girl’s gone missing,” I said, “and her mother is paying $3500 per day to find her.”

“All Layla did was move to LA for work,” Donovan said as tears began to stream down his face. “I just wish she hadn’t had dumped me.”

“There there,” I said as I patted him on the back, “I completely understand why she left you.”

Donovan pulled off to a lone gas station overlooking the California coast. Peter went inside to ask for directions and take a shit while Donovan stood around with his thumb up his ass. Meanwhile, I continued to study Layla’s dossier.

Then some jackoff in a red Porsche convertible pulled up behind the van. “Hey, are you gonna pump any gas?!” the man yelled. “You’re holding up the line!”

“There are other pumps, sir,” Donovan replied. But the gentleman wasn’t having it.

I grew annoyed as he continued to lay on the horn. Finally, I walked up to the Porsche and pulled out the .38.

“Listen here, shitheel!” I said to the man, “we’re on a mission from God, GODDAMNIT! That means we don’t have to obey the laws of man. So I hope you’re right with the Lord, because if you keep laying on the horn, you might be meeting Him sooner than you think!”

The man began to piss himself as he wept and raised his hands in the air. “I’m so sorry mister,” he cried, “I just need some gas.”

I lifted the .38 and pulled back the hammer. “Have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your Savior?” I asked.

The man bawled as he accepted Jesus into his life. Then I shot him in the kneecap for the inconvenience

Peter ran out of the gas station after he heard the gunshot and patted me on the back. “I’m really proud of you Jack,” he said, “you’ve shown a lot of restraint these last few days.”

I nodded as put the .38 in my holster. “You know, it’s just never occurred to me to NOT kill everyone I come across. I don’t what it is. I guess California has really gotten to me.”

We both laughed then continued on our journey to LA.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Legend Continues (Part IV)

“Please take the barrel of your .38 out of my nose!” the manager of the porn theater cried. “I don’t recognize the girl!”

“I know you know something!” I replied. “If you like having a nose, you better spit it out!”

“I know nothing! I swear!”

“You’re a liar. And you know what the Lord does to liars and pornographers? There’s no forgiveness! The Book of Isaiah says so,” I said. “But you will live to die another day. So get right with the Lord, for hell is in your not too distant future!”

I pulled the trigger and his nose splattered against the wall. The manager screamed on the floor while blood streamed through his fingers as he held his hands over his face.

Meanwhile, Peter Tucker was waiting outside of the manager’s office. “I’m proud of you, Jack,” he said. “You didn’t put a bullet in the suspect’s brain this time. You’re really maturing as a person.”

“Thanks Peter,” I replied as I put the .38 back in its holster. “Gosh though, this Layla Huffington girl is really hard to find. I mean, millions of men beat off to her picture everyday! You’d think SOMEONE would recognize her.”

“People go missing all of the time. I think you’ve done enough work for the day. C’mon, let’s get drunk and forget about it.”

I nodded then Peter and me left the theater and began walking past skid row. I couldn’t shake the image of Layla from my mind. There was something about her face that was haunting me.

As we were about to enter the bar, a street performer was playing a familiar tune on his guitar. “Do you hear that song?” I asked Peter.

“Yeah, it’s a shitty acoustic version to that Eric Clapton song. What of it?”

“Layla,” I said.

I walked up to the street performer and handed him a $20 bill. “You better take the money,” I told him, “cuz if you don’t give the answers I want, you’ll get a bullet instead.”

“Fuck off copper!”

I slapped him across the face with the butt of my .38. As he laid on the ground, I pointed the gun at his skull. “I ain’t no cop,” I said. “I’m Jack Hardcock and I don’t play by the rules. So tell me about Layla or else you’ll be my next victim of the day.”

“It’s just a song, man!”

I cocked the .38.

“Alright alright!” the performer cried. “She’s my ex-girlfriend! She dumped my ass and fucked off to Los Angeles!”

“Layla WHO?!!”

“Layla HUFFINGTON!”

TO BE CONTINUED….

Jack Hardcock: The Legend Continues (Part III)

“Don’t forget your Winchester ammo, Uncle Jack,”Klyde reminded me before I boarded the Greyhound bus.

I chuckled a bit. “You must mistake me for some stupid moron, Klyde,” I replied, “I never forget that!”

Thankfully he did remind me because I forgot.

“Well Brother Jack,” Pete said as he slapped me on the back, “don’t you be enjoying California too much. If you come back as a Democrat, I’ll strangle you with my bare hands and hang your corpse in the front yard.”

“Heh, good luck getting passed my .38,” I said as I pulled out my gun.

We laughed and exchanged hugs before I took my seat on the bus bound for Oakland, CA. When I arrived 12 days later, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. So I grabbed my bags and checked in at the La Quinta Inn in Alameda.

“Name please?” the clerk asked.

“Hardcock. Jack Hardcock.”

“ID?”

I laid the .38 out on the desk.

“Ah yes, Mr. Hardcock. Welcome to Alameda,” the clerk said. “Room 213 is ready for you.”

I went up to the room, threw my bags on the bed and began checking for bugs and wiretaps. I found nothing. Then there was a knock on the door.

“Room service,” the voice said.

I drew my weapon and cracked open the door. “What do you want?” I asked.

“I’m here to bring you more toiletries, Mr. Hardcock,” the housekeeper replied.

I opened the door and invited her in. She pushed her cart in front of her and started dispensing soaps and shampoos on the nightstand and skink. When she was finished, she parked her cart in front of me.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked.

“Yes, just one more thing…”

I punched her in the face and wrestled her to the bed. As I had my knee to her back, I ripped off the wig.

“Nice try, Peter Tucker: FBI agent!” I said.

I released my knee and Peter started laughing as he rolled over. “Nothing gets passed you,” he said, “you’re as sharp as a tack!”

“What the fuck do you want? Why are you watching me?”

Peter sat up in bed and began wiping away the makeup. “Now now, settle down Jack,” he explained, “I know you’re after the missing Huffington girl. I promise to not interfere with with your investigation, the only service my office will provide is protection.”

“Protection from what? There’s nothing on the streets that I can’t handle myself. Remember, I spent six months in Cleveland?!”

“I know that! But things operate a little differently here.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m in charge.”

I let out a huge guffaw. “Don’t tell me the FBI put you in charge of the San Francisco field offices!”

“You better believe it, bucko,” Peter replied. “Furthermore, I don’t you running around here with that puny ass peashooter fuckin everything up! So you play by the rules or I’ll have you locked up in San Quentin! Do we have an understanding?”

“Peashooter? You mean this LETHAL weapon?”

I then pulled out the .38 and shot Peter’s makeup sponge right out of his hand.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Jack!”

“Alright Peter,” I said as I placed the .38 back in its holster, “I’ll play it your way. But what’s with the disguise?”

“Disguise?” Peter asked. “This is how I dress.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Legend Continues (Part II)

“My daughter ran off to California to porn and I’m absolutely devastated!” cried Ariana Huffington after I invited her into the home. I handed her a towel to dry herself from the pouring rain. “I don’t know what could have led her to such a decision! She was raised in a good Christian home!”

Ariana and myself, along with Pete’s family, sat around the fire place as she explained her story. “The Devil got to your daughter,” I said, “he’s my longtime nemesis. I’m quite familiar with his tactics. So You came to the right place.”

“Can you bring her home, Jack Hardcock?” Ariana asked.

I lit up another cigarette and took out a notepad. “I can,” I replied, “but it’s not going to be easy. I’m gonna need her name, age, and her last known whereabouts. I’m also gonna need a $78,000 advancement, in cash preferably, plus a $2500 per diem.”

“Also, where we could find these pornographic videos on the internet would be helpful. You know, for research purposes and such,” interjected Pete.

“Good thinking,” I replied. “Knowing what kind of porn she does…anal, BDSM, etc…would be quite helpful in this case.”

Ariana bawled her eyes out as she provided all the requested information. Pete immediately pulled out his phone to do research. “This videos are too upsetting,” he said. “Excuse me. I’ll be in the bathroom for awhile. No one knock on the door.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Huffington,” I said, “I’ll bring your daughter home.”

***

I laid in bed twisting and turning all night. To comfort myself, I started cleaning my .38. But the green bean casserole that Jesseka made was running the through me.

As I was walking to the bathroom, I found Klyde…my nephew…watching pornographic videos on his computer. I lifted the .38 and fired a round into the monitor.

“Jesus Christ, Uncle Jack! I was just trying to help you with your investigation!” Klyde screamed.

“You’ve defiled yourself AND that computer,” I said. “If you’re not careful, you’ll end up just like that poor girl. Do you wanna be shoving metal rods into other men’s pee holes for a living?”

“I don’t know, Uncle Jack,” Klyde replied. “It seems like pornography is everywhere these days. I just can’t avoid it.”

“I understand,” I said as I put my arm around him. “But just remember: Jesus will be returning very soon to vanquish our enemies. All hell will be unleashed on Earth and every man, woman, and child forsaken by God will know His wrath.”

“So true Uncle Jack,” Klyde nodded.

“Now you run off to bed.”

I went to the bathroom to take a shit. While on the toilet, I began looking through my notes. They read, “Subject’s age: 20 yo. Last known location: Oakland, CA.”

Then I paused to ponder the name: Layla Huffington.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Untitled (Part XII)

“So you guys accidentally killed Don Lemon, placed his body in his 4-cylinder Honda CRV with the intention of sinking it in the river to hide his body? But before you two could do that, Harvey Whinestine rammed into the Honda and made it look like vehicular manslaughter?” Patricia asked Eric after court.

“Sure did!” he said.

After Harvey Whinestine was found guilty of killing Don Lemon, Eric and Patricia immediately asked the same judge to marry them in the courthouse. Along with Kenny, the three of them returned to Patricia’s house to celebrate.

“Man we got lucky,” Eric said.

“Damn right buddy!” Kenny replied.

“I think you mean ‘Dad’”

“Ah shit, you’re right…Dad!”

Despite being three years younger than Kenny and a half a foot shorter, Eric playfully put his stepson in a headlock and gave him a noogie. While the two men horsed around, Patricia came downstairs to join in the festivities.

“Mom,” Kenny said, “I finally feel like we’re a family again. I love you.”

“I love you too, son,” Patricia replied. “I just want to say that I’m thankful for the two men in my life. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance at life, so I’m proud to announce that I am two weeks sober.”

“But why?” Eric asked. “With Harvey Whinestine going to prison, you’re now a bank president. We’re also married, Kenny and I started a car detailing business, and we just got away with murder! So Fuck that sobriety shit, we’re untouchable!”

“Hmm, I didn’t think of it that way,” she replied, then went to the bar and started drinking directly from the tequila bottle.

***

Harvey Whinestine was later sentenced to 20 years in prison. Months later, he was released on appeal due to a shoddy police investigation. All evidence was later incinerated.

Eric and Kenny were never regarded as suspects for their role in Don Lemon’s death.

Patricia and Eric divorced three months later.

The grieving, pregnant widow of Don Lemon was left a single parent and never remarried.

THE END

Untitled (Part XI)

“Excuse me, sweetheart, while I pop my Cialis,” Harvey Whinestine said to Patricia. “They say that you’re not supposed to mix alcohol and medication. But I say that’s poppycock.”

The two were sharing a daiquiri and a plate of nachos at Chili’s before they went back to her place. Harvey’s wife was at home, so naturally they couldn’t go there. “I should probably pop a Beano too,” he continued, “don’t want to be bustin ass while we’re boinking.”

“Bartender, can I get a bourbon?” Patricia asked. Harvey disappeared to the bathroom while she pounded the drinks at the bar.

He reappeared minutes later in a panic. “I clogged the toilet,” Harvey said, “we better dash. Oh, by the way, I forgot my wallet. Can you pay?”

Instead of calling an Uber, or riding together in the same car, the two drove drunk to Patricia’s place in their respective vehicles. She arrived first.

The late Don Lemon’s 4 cylinder Honda CRV was still parked in the driveway, as was Kenny’s Del Sol.

Patricia rushed into the house to give warning to Eric. She found him still shirtless and cackling with Kenny. The two were covered in blood.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” she said, “but Harvey Whinestine is on his way. Unfortunately I have to fuck him to keep my job. So you two keep it down.”

“I’m sorry, Mom, for putting you into this situation,” Kenny said. “But Eric and me have been talking and we both agree: it’s time for us to grow up. So Eric’s getting a job, and I’m quitting the drugs. That is, if we get away with killing a guy.”

Patricia would have been moved by her son and lover’s revelations had she of not been so drunk and in a rush. “That’s such a relief…” she said, “but what’s this about killing a guy?”

At that moment, there was a loud crash outside and Harvey came stumbling into the house with tears streaming down his face. “I just smashed my Bentley Continental GT into a 4-cylinder Honda CRV,” he cried, “I just killed a guy!”

Eric and Kenny both smiled and gave each other a high five.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Untitled (Part X)

“Settle down, Eric,” Don Lemon kept telling his friend. Eric kept pacing back and forth, still shirtless, and wielding a knife. “I’m gonna kill him. I’M GONNA KILL HIM!” he kept saying.

“It’s just a goddamn Xbox!” Don replied. “It can be replaced!”

“You don’t get it! People have been fucking with me my whole life! I’m setting my foot down this time! I’m the alpha male. I’M THE ALPHA MALE!”

“You might have a point,” Don said. “You are fucking his mom. But Kenny might have done you a favor. I hate to be the one to tell you Eric, but it’s time to grow up.”

“I didn’t invite you to my home only to lecture me!”

“This isn’t your home! This is your sugar momma’s home!”

“How fucking dare you!” an irate Eric replied. “I thought you were gonna help me plot my revenge. But between “having a full time job” and a “family”, I guess you’re too good for that. What a shitty friend you are!”

“I won’t be spoken to in this way,” Don said as he stood up. “I’m done helping you. You’ve been nothing but a drag.”

Eric went into a blind rage and chased Don out of the house, threatening to slit his friend’s throat. While the two rushed out to the driveway, Kenny was burning down the road blasting Smash Mouth’s Wanna Be Like You on repeat. When Don reached the street, the crack pipe fell out of Kenny’s mouth as he tried to slam on the breaks. The Honda Del Sol crashed into Don, but instead of flying into the air, the tires went over and crushed every bone in his body…including his skull.

Eric screamed in horror as he watched his former friend’s violent death. “You killed him!” he yelled to Kenny through the window. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Kenny got out of the car in a daze. “That guy came out of nowhere,” he kept repeating. “Wh-wh-what’s with the knife?”

“You killed my friend,” Eric replied, “now I’m gonna kill you!”

But once again, Kenny easily overpowered Eric and wrestled the knife out of his hands. “Look!” Kenny said while he held a belligerent Eric on the ground, “I don’t know who this guy is, but it appears as though you were trying to kill him! Now we can continue to roll around on the road waiting for the cops to arrive, OR we can hide this body. So what’s it gonna be?!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

A Quiet Life (Full Story)

So I was going through some old stuff when I came across this doozy from earlier in the year.

It’s a classic. One of the best I’ve ever written.

My guts were boiling. 

I climbed out of bed, dropped my pants, and evacuated my bowels. It was a good shit.

Afterwards, I shaved my balls. And ass. I climbed in the shower and measured my penis: 3.5 inches soft, 5in hard (5 1/4in from the taint). 

I shoved some eggs and toast down my throat and grabbed a coffee. As I was walking out to the driveway, my neighbor confronted me.

“If you blast your radio at 2am again, I am calling the cops!” he said.

I pulled out my Glock. “Look buddy,” I replied, “you’re on my property. That means I have the right to unleash holy hell right into your skull. So don’t fuck with me!”

Then I got into my car and turned up the radio. I bounced up and down all the way to work to the sound of ‘Big Fat Funky Booty’ by the Spin Doctors on repeat.

When I arrived, I walked into the office. “Hey baby,” I said to the receptionist, “when are you gonna give me a shot at those titties?”

“I’ve already reported you to Human Resources,” she replied. “Please don’t speak to me.”

“You don’t have to be such a bitch, sweetheart,” I said.

I went to my desk and pulled out a bottle of scotch. “A little early in the morning for that, isn’t it Bill?” my boss asked.

“You know I’m never sober before 8am, Dick,” I replied.

“Damn it Bill! I should fire you but you always do your best work drunk.”

“Thanks Dick. Say, when am I getting that raise?”

“Once when we get those lawsuits settled from all the faulty products you designed, you’ll get a 20% raise.”

“Fuckin snowflakes,” I said. “A little cancer never hurt anyone.”

“I think the judge will agree,” Dick replied. “He should. We paid him enough money.”

“Thanks Dick. You’re the best.” 

Dick went back to his office and I pulled up porn on my work computer. It was a productive day.

***

So my Audi was doing 95 through a school zone when I went around a flashing red bus. An officer pulled me over.

“License and registration please.”

“Sorry Officer, I’m driving on a suspended license due to numerous DUI arrests,” I said. “Also, this vehicle is registered to my ex-wife. I stole it from her because she accused me of domestic abuse.”

“Well slow down,” he replied. And I was on my merry way.

When I pulled into the driveway, my neighbor was waiting on me. “Don’t ever pull a gun on my husband again!” she yelled.

“Bitch! This is America!” I replied. Then I fired an entire clip into the air.

Later that night, my girlfriend gave me oral. When she asked me to return the favor, I said, “Heh, no thanks. I gotta kiss my mother with this mouth.” 

Then I went to sleep.

***

“You can’t use racial slurs in conference calls!” the Human Resource officer told me.

“Susan, stop,” I said, “you know how much you turn me on when you’re angry.”

“I’m afraid that you will be suspended without pay until the Board decides what to do with you,” she responded.

“I’m not racist!” I declared. “I was simply stating what the Papa John’s guy said in HIS racist phone call!”

“You are hereby suspended. Please vacate the premise.”

“Bitch,” I said as I stood up. 

I was so upset that I got drunk and drove to a cockfight. As I was placing a bet, my friend Don noticed something was wrong.

“What’s on your mind Bill?” Don asked as we were sharing a crack pipe. 

“I don’t know anymore Don,” I said. “I feel like I’m stalling. All I’m doing is filling my time with sex, drugs, and absurd behavior. It’s gotten me nowhere. I don’t ask for much. All I really want is a quiet life. Sounds simple enough but I can’t seem to get out of my own way. I’m lost and the walls are crumbling all around me. Is it possible Don? Is it possible that I am the problem?”

Don took a hit off the pipe and thought for a moment.

“Nah,” he finally said. 

“You’re probably right.”

Then we picked up some hookers off skid row.

***

After returning home from my weekly STD checkup, there was a package on my doorstep. It was addressed to my neighbor, but I took inside and opened it anyway.

In the box was a stuffed teddy bear and a letter from someone named “grandma”. I thought that was a stupid name but continued reading anyway. The letter said:

Dear Mikey,

Grandma and grandpa love you very much. We hope that you feel better soon.

Love,

Grandma and Grandpa 

I put the contents back into the box and poured a drink. I was supposed to start taking medication for something called “syphilis” but I threw that shit into the trash.

“Maybe I should return the box,” I thought. But I wasn’t so sure. I lit up a cigarette, shot up heroin, took a bump of coke, played a round of Russian Roulette, then taped up the box.

As I was laying the box on their doorstep, my neighbor opened the door. “Get the fuck off my porch,” he said.

“This is YOUR package asshole!” I replied. “UPS wrongly dropped it off at my house.”

“Why should I believe you?” he asked after he pulled out his .38. “You’ve played your drums, lit off fireworks, and engaged in target practice with your shotgun at ungodly hours of the night. You’ve also ding dong ditched my ass, stole my WiFi, and played peeping Tom on my wife. Well guess what PAL! You’re now on MY property and am well within MY right to blast YOUR ass!”

I raised my hands. “Now calm down John,” I said. “We’re both sensible adults. We can talk this out.”

“No,” he replied. “I’M the sensible adult. You’re an asshole.”

John then fired his .38 into my gut and I laid there bleeding out in his front yard. He picked up the package and opened it.

“Well I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said, “you finally did something right in your life.”

I lifted my head up while holding my guts in. “Please call an ambulance John,” I said.

“Sure, I’ll get right on that.” John then looked up into the sky and smiled. “It’s nice finally getting some peace and quiet around here,” he said. 

He went back inside and shut the door.

THE END