Brother Joses stood over his parish like a specter from the past. He was no mere preacher; he was a prophet of things to come.
“The Lord is not a Lord of peace,” he proclaimed to his captive audience, “as Isaiah told us: See, the day of the Lord is coming — a cruel day, with wrath and fierce anger. . . . I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty. . . . Their infants will be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses will be looted and their wives violated. I shout to the world with the power of a thousand trumpets: repent! For the Lord shall have His vengeance!”
The parishioners nodded, too awestruck to proclaim their faith with revelry.
In the front pew sat Jack Hardcock, his hands trembling. He had seen the wrath that Joses spoke of, for he was It’s one instrument. And Jack’s own instrument of Death was none other than the Smith & Wesson .38 special. It was holstered securely underneath his jacket. But the fiery message of Brother Joses was speaking to his God-given urge to kill.
Jack quietly stood up, buttoned his jacket, and proceeded to exit the chapel. Halfway to the door, with his back turned toward Brother Joses, the preacher shouted: “Brother Jack, the Lord does not call upon the faint of heart!”
Jack turned around, unbuttoned his jacket, and pulled out the .38. The parishioners sat silently as he unloaded the revolver, leaving one in the chamber. “Do you trust the Lord?” asked Jack.
Joses said nothing as beads of sweat poured down his face. Jack spun the revolver and placed the stubbed barrel up to his chin. “I certainly do,” he said.
Then he pulled the trigger.
A few screams echoed through the chapel, but there was no gunfire. Jack stood there, barrel still to his chin, laughing at the weakhearted parishioners.
But Joses didn’t flinch.
“It appears as though I am one of God’s chosen,” Jack said to Joses. Then he pointed the .38 at the preacher.
“Are you?” he asked.
Jack pulled the trigger, unleashing a bullet that went clean through Joses’ shoulder. Blood splattered all over the Christian flag. Pandemonium broke out as parishioners rushed to their preacher’s aid.
“Faint of heart?” Jack chuckled to himself. He shook his head and walked out the front doors. As he proceeded down the steps, Jack looked out into the barren Utah landscape. He noticed a lone figure standing in the dusty wind.
Jack squinted.
“Could it be?” he thought.
It was his own flesh and blood; his brother. It was Peter Hardcock.
“Don’t you know that Mormons are godless heathens?” Peter asked.
“Peter,” Jack said, “I’m so sorry. After my last case, I had to go somewhere. The Mormons were the only ones that would take me in. I’m sorry that I never reached out.”
“Nevermind that,” Peter replied, “our father is missing.”
“Our father?”
“Yes. Our father is missing and he needs your help. Rod Hardcock has been taken prisoner by Mexican cartels.”
I have finished 0 stories this year and at this rate I will finish 0 more. As you are all aware, I’m in the middle of a career change which might require me to return to clown college to finish my clown degree sooner than I expected. So enjoy this story from last year.
What I’ll say about this one is that I made some decisions. I wasn’t happy with it initially but upon revisiting it I think it holds up decently well.
Meet William Shits
William Shitz woke up the same time every morning: 4:30AM.
He’d look in the mirror, trim his mustache, and evacuate his bowels. He’d always use two squares of toilet paper. No more, no less.
His bowel movement was a little more painful than usual this particular morning. But he thought nothing of it. After wiping his ass, William departed to his study to read the morning newspaper.
“Can you believe this Archibald?” William asked the butler in his thick transatlantic accent.
“Belief what sir?” asked Archibald.
“The Dow 500 crashed 8 million points yesterday. We must be in a recession!”
“Nonsense, sir,” Archibald said, “you’re a billionaire. None of that will affect you.”
“Mmm, right you are,” William said as he sipped his Earl Grey. “Do tell me, have I missed any phone calls this morning?”
“It’s 5am, sir. It won’t be start of business for another couple of hours.”
“Right. Well I better get moving then, I don’t want to fall behind on the day’s schedule.”
William Shitz removed his smoking jacket, put on his business attire and ascot then climbed into the back of his Rolls-Royce Phantom III. As Archibald was driving the vehicle, he handed the gold-plated phone back to William. “Your daughter is on the line, sir,” he said.
“Darla Shitz,” William said into the phone, “how have you been my dear?”
“Dad, I’m ready to come home,” Darla replied.
“Now now, Darla, you know I wish to be called ‘father’.”
“Father, I’ve been in France for six years! I know that it was rough on you when mother passed, but I want to be back with my family!”
“Now’s not a good time, darling. I must be going, I have a busy day ahead of me. Goodbye.” William abruptly hung up the phone and handed it back to Archibald.
“How is Darla doing, Mr. Shitz?” Archibald asked. “I would love to see her again.”
“Oh fine, fine,” William replied, “but I’m afraid she wishes to stay in France a little longer.”
The Rolls pulled up to Shitz Factory, a large DoD contractor that develops and manufactures weapons used to drop on villages in the Middle East. It was personally owned by Mr. William Shitz himself.
“I haven’t had a day off in two years,” said Allan Funt, Vice-President of operations and William’s right-hand man. “I’m overworked, I’ve developed a drinking problem, and my wife is fucking the mailman. All I’m asking is a couple of days off.”
“I’m sorry Allen,” Mr. Shitz replied, “but I expect all of my employees to give the same dedication that I gave into building this company for a laughable fraction of what I make. That goes for you as well.”
Allan began to tear up. For a fleeting moment, William felt a degree of sympathy for him. “Now now, Allen,” William said, “you’re my most valuable employee. Keep up the good work and maybe I’ll give you a day off next year.”
Allan nodded, wiped away a tear, and diligently went back to work. As William was returning to his office, he felt a sharp pain in his stomach.
“Are you alright, sir?” Archibald asked.
“I don’t understand, Archibald,” William said, “I already had a bowel movement this morning.”
His stomach continued to cramp. He rushed into his private office and on into the bathroom then dropped his pants. He noticed that he already soiled his silk underwear.
William continued to spray shit out of his rectum and into his diamond-made toilet. After a violent two minutes, he grabbed his usual two squares of toilet paper and wiped his crack. When he looked back at the paper, he was appalled.
It was covered in blood.
***
“You got ass cancer, Bill,” the big, burly doctor said to Mr. Shitz. “It’s inoperable and you likely have a year to live.”
“My God,” William responded, “how is that possible?”
“Well, since your factory manufactures uranium weapons, a piece of radioactive material probably snuck up your asshole…I won’t ask how that happened…where it metastasized into terminal cancer. So I recommend you get your affairs in order. Now kindly get the fuck out of my office because I’ve got more patients coming in.”
Mr. Shitz returned to the front desk and paid the $450,000 doctor’s bill. “Would you like to schedule your next appointment?” the receptionist asked.
William thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said.
He wandered back out to the Rolls-Royce where Archibald was waiting on him with the door open. “I trust your appointment went well, sir,” the butler inquired.
“I’m afraid not Archibald,” William replied. “I have cancer of the asshole.”
The news hit Archibald like a ton of bricks. “Is that so, sir?” the butler asked as he tried to maintain his composure. “Can it be removed?”
“I’m afraid not. It appears that I have only a year to live!”
Mr. Shitz’s longtime butler was shattered inside. He had a million things to say but there was not enough time to say it; Archibald wasn’t ready to tear down the façade of professionalism that held his world together.
“Will…,” the butler began to ask as his voice cracked. “Will you be informing Darla of this news?”
“In time, Archibald,” William replied. “Right now, there’s too much to be done. I must get back to work.”
Mr. Shitz and the butler returned to Shitz Estate. William immediately departed to his study while Archibald remained outside on the brick-paved driveway. The butler sat down behind the wheel of the Rolls-Royce and began to cry.
That’s when he noticed me. I was trimming the hedges along the driveway.
“Who are you?” Archibald asked me as he wiped away tears.
“I’m the new gardener, sir,” I responded. “I started yesterday. Is everything alright?”
“Yes yes,” the butler said, “I have terrible allergies this time of year.”
“I see,” I said, “I’m Jim Grey. You must be Archibald Duke, Mr. Schitz’s longtime butler.”
“Yes I am,” he replied.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” I told him. “Mr. Shitz thinks very highly of you. In fact, I’d say that he regards you as his closest friend. You’re probably the only person, besides me of course, that truly understands him.”
A bewildered look fell over Archibald’s face. “How would you know anything about Mr. Shitz?” he asked.
I smiled. “I’ll just say that he and I have been inseparable for a very, very long time.”
***
“I don’t know sir,” Allen Funt said while bawling his eyes out. “I’m already stressed out enough. I don’t know if I can handle running this company while you tend to personal matters.”
“Damn it, Allen,” William retorted, “you’re a workhorse! The best one I’ve got! You should consider it an honor that I’ve selected you to run this factory!”
Allen buried his head in his hands. “I haven’t seen my kids in two years, sir,” he said. “Please, Mr. Shitz! Please loosen my load!”
William got up from behind his desk and plopped down next to Allen. “I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Shitz said as he patted him on the knee, “if you do a good job, I’ll give you a 1.5% raise on top of your $24,000 yearly salary. So please, Allen, find the strength to carry on.”
Allen nodded, blew his nose, and wiped away the tears. “Yes sir,” he said. Then got up and returned to work.
William sat back down behind his desk. I entered his office carrying a bouquet of lilies. “Good morning, Mr. Shitz,” I said, “I just cut these and figured you’d enjoy some.”
“Lilies?” William inquired. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m your new gardener, Jim Grey,” I said, “If you recall, your wife wanted these planted at your estate before she passed. These were her favorite flowers. She wanted you to think of her every time you looked at them.”
William was dumbfounded. “How-how do you know this?”
I found a vase and placed the flowers inside of it. “Mr. Shitz, I know that you’re dying,” I said as I sat the vase on his desk. “Yet you feel that there’s too much to be done. And you’re right. You’ve always been a hard worker. But this might be the hardest thing you’ve had to face.”
“But…how do you know so much about me?”
I sat down in front of his desk. “Do you believe in the afterlife, Mr. Shitz?”
“I’ve- I’ve honestly never considered it.”
“Well I’ll just say that I’ve watched you your entire life,” I said, then smiled. “I guess you could call me your protector.”
“I see,” William replied as a growing look of concern fell over his face. “Then I suppose heaven’s been displeased with my performance.”
“Not entirely,” I said. “But there is an opportunity here to right the wrongs. It’s not too late, Mr. Shitz.”
“If you are who you say you are, Mr. Grey,” William said, “then what do you know about living as a mortal; to face the temptations of flesh and blood?”
“This is not just a chance at redemption for yourself, William,” I replied. “If we work together, we will both be back in heaven’s good graces.”
***
Who am I, this mortal shell Jim Grey?
Didst I fly too close to the flame? Did I sear off my wings and tumble to this providence of flesh and sin?
“Hear me now o Heaven!” I cried out, “must I die with the blood of my veins?”
But reprieve was delivered from upon high; “be a good servant, but not for thy sake.”
Yet a servant is nothing more than a slave; and I’m a slave by the Grace of heaven.
***
I was no more free than Mr. Shitz was free from impending death. “What happens when I die?” he asked.
“I am no more an expert on death than you are on life.”
“Is that the meaning of your visit Jim Grey? To give me one more shot at life?”
“Perhaps.”
But how could I deliver something that I don’t possess?
Now enough about me….
***
The helicopter landed on the estate lawn. Archibald extended his hand to help Ms. Shitz deboard the craft. “How delightful it is to see you again!” he told her as they strolled across the grass and into the foreroom.
“Tell me, Archie,” Darla said, “how bad is it?”
“Your father is fine right now,” he replied, “but in time, his health will deteriorate. He will lose all control of his faculties. Piss and shit will flow out of him continuously before his bowels fall out of his asshole at the moment of death. I can’t think of a worse way to go. He would be better off ending it now rather than remain cognizant as his dignity melts away.”
“How horrible!” Darla bawled as she buried her head into Archibald’s chest.
“Yes,” he said as he wrapped his arms around her, “but you mustn’t say anything about it when you see him. He’s still processing his ass cancer diagnosis.”
“I understand,” she said while wiping away tears. “He’s always been a stubborn man. This will take time.”
“Of course,” Archibald replied as he offered her a brandy. “How was your stay in France?”
“Absolute dogshit!” Darla exclaimed. “They’re a bunch of chain-smoking, wino bastards! And the world thinks the US is racist?! Try spending 15 minutes at a Parisian bus stop! Jesus fucking Christ!”
I wandered in through the kitchen door bearing a gift. “A rose for you,” I offered Ms. Darla Shitz, “I’m Jim Grey. Welcome home.”
Nothing across all heavens, from the seas of Aquila to the moons of Indus, prepared me for the sight I saw; a woman, whose beauty rivaled that of Artemis.
“This is our new gardener, Ms. Shitz,” Archibald said. “He’s an acquaintance of your father.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grey,” Ms. Shitz spoke as she placed her hand into mine, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, please excuse me. I must be meeting with my father.”
“Of course,” I said. I watched her gracefully gather herself as though there wasn’t a storm raging inside of her.
There too was a quiet storm gathering within me. What was it about Darla Shitz that promoted such passion?
Why was heaven hellbent on its temptations?
***
“Damn it Dad! When you spend six years in a French whorehouse as I have, you can smell shit from a mile away! And YOU, sir, are full of SHIT!” Darla yelled to her father.
“Darla, please,” Mr. Shitz responded, “I’m wearing adult diapers now. I assure you, there’s not an ounce of shit in me.”
“Well you can’t spend your remaining days toiling away in your study!”
William stood up from behind his desk and shoveled ice into a glass. He poured himself a tall drink of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. “Are you sure that’s a good idea in your condition?” Darla asked.
“Goddamnit Darla, can you stop pestering this dying man?!” he snapped.
This was the first time Darla heard her father drop his high-class pretensions. “So there’s a man underneath that mustache and ascot after all,” she said.
“Fuck you,” William replied as he pounded the whiskey. “I have nothing to be ashamed of. I raised you and I built a billion dollar company. Now leave me be.”
Darla laughed and stood up. “I’m home now,” she said, “you’re gonna have to face me eventually. Or else I will haunt you till your dying day.”
She stormed out of the study. Moments later, I walked in to find Mr. Shitz blind drunk. “Damn it, Jim, I can’t handle this right now,” he said to me.
“Yes sir, I understand,” I said. “Mind if I have a drink?”
He nodded.
I took a sip of the stout liquid and wondered how humans could stomach the stuff. “Sir,” I wondered aloud, “can you tell me about your wife?”
William swiveled his chair, back facing me. “What can I tell you about her that you don’t already know?” he asked.
“Well,” I continued, “I know that you loved her. Doesn’t that extend to your offspring as well? Especially since she’s a continuation of you and your wife?”
William swiveled back around. “Are you some kind of fucking moron?” he asked.
“In your ways, yes,” I said as I downed the whiskey.
William laughed. “Darla and me have an understanding,” he said, “care for another drink?”
“Please.”
The conversation trailed off after that. William eventually passed out on his leather-bound sofa in the study. But being new to this intoxicating experience, I ventured out to the garden, carrying the bottle with me.
The pond was the most beautiful spot. As dusk started to settle, katydids and frogs began their nightly symphonies. Across the way, I saw Darla lighting a cigarette.
I turned my head when she looked my way. I focused on the bottle as I pretended not to notice her. Then moments passed and she was out of sight.
The sun finally sunk below the horizon and the moonlight peered through the clouds. I thought I was alone.
“Mind if I have a swig?” a voice from behind me asked.
***
“Don’t tell anyone that we fucked,” Darla said as she climbed naked out of bed. “I can’t think of anything more embarrassing than sleeping with the gardener.”
“I understand,” I replied.
“By the way,” she asked as she strapped on her brassiere, “how do you know my father has ass cancer?”
I began to stutter. “I, uh…it’s a long story.”
“Oh shit,” Darla said, “you’re not one of his long lost children are you?”
“Umm…no?”
“Oh thank god,” she exhaled, “I wouldn’t want THAT to happen again!”
“ANYWAYS…,” I replied, “Will you be returning to France anytime soon?”
“God no, I’d rather be the one that has ass cancer.”
“Then why’d you go there in the first place?”
Darla paused dressing for a moment. “I…I was dating Stromae.”
“But he’s Belgian.”
“Look, you’re not INTERPOL! I don’t have to tell you shit!” Darla exploded. She finished dressing and stormed out of the guest house.
I climbed out of bed when Archibald wondered in with breakfast on a tray. I was putting on my underwear.
“Exquisite dong, sir,” he said
“Thank you Archibald.”
“I trust you laid the pipe well last night.”
I tilted my head. “But Archibald, how did you know?”
“Now now,” he said, “Mr. Shitz pays me very well to know goings on within his estate. A flea can’t fart…as the expression goes…without me hearing it. So please, Mr. Grey, please handle Ms. Shitz delicately.”
“But Archie,” I replied, “it was just a one time thing. It…it won’t happen again.”
Archibald was skeptical. “Mr. Grey, what goes on between two adults is none of my business. But, I figured you to be of higher character.”
I nodded as I looked down to the floor.
“Now,” he continued, “when you finish breakfast, Mr. Shitz has requested that you join him on a hunting excursion. A rare breed of arctic fox has been brought to the estate, and Mr. Shitz would like to hunt it into extinction before cancer takes its toll. His associate, Mr. Allen Funt will be joining the party. Please be punctual.”
***
“The arctic fox spends its days burrowing underground and avoiding contact with its own kind,” Mr. Shitz explained while staring down the sights of his shotgun. “It’s a solitary animal, much like myself. When it dies, it dies alone.”
Mr. Shitz pulled the trigger, unleashing the sound of hell. A helpless fox, only a few yards ahead, exploded into a million pieces, leaving only fur and guts strewn about.
After witnessing the appalling sight, Allen Funt started heaving at the foot of a tree. With a slight smile on his face, Mr. Shitz reloaded the shotgun. “Mr. Funt,” he said, “I do believe it’s your turn.”
“No thank you, sir,” Mr. Funt replied as tears streamed down his face, “I just don’t have it in me!”
“Goddamnit Allen!” Shitz yelled, “I will be dead in less than a year and you will be the CEO of a billion dollar company! Now if you want PTO, a livable wage, and health insurance, you will senselessly kill the last surviving member of this species into extinction!”
“I can’t!”
Shitz cocked the shotgun and directed towards Funt. “You will!” he declared.
“Oh god I’m gonna die!!!”
“Gentlemen,” I interrupted, “what’s the meaning of this? Mr. Shitz, please lower your weapon.”
Allen Funt pissed his pants as he had a stare down with Mr. Shitz. He also shit pants. After a few moments, William came to his senses and lowered the shotgun.
“My apologies, gentlemen,” Mr. Shitz said. “Mr. Funt, it was my hope that killing these animals would give you the courage to turn this shotgun on me. It was my dream to be executed by the man who would supplant me as CEO.”
William then looked out onto the field to admire the last surviving arctic fox. It was juxtaposed proudly against the endless horizon. “It’s just you and me!” William yelled to the animal, “we’re the last of our kind!”
He dropped the shotgun by his side then looked over to me. “Mr. Grey,” William said, “you are my protector; my guide across the river Styx. But I’m not ready to punch that ticket.”
Mr. Shitz started stripping off his clothes, down to his underwear. Finally his bare cock was flapping in the wind. It was cold that day.
“Jim Grey,” William continued, “if you want me dead, you’ll have to catch me first.”
Allen Funt and I then watched Mr. Shitz’s flabby asscheeks jiggle as he hopped like a jackrabbit into the tree line.
***
“Mr. Shitz is no stranger to wandering bare ass naked in the woods,” Archibald informed us, “this is no cause for alarm.”
“He wanted Allen to kill him with a shotgun, Archie!” I said, “I think concern is warranted here.”
Archibald put his hands up to his face and rubbed his bald head. “What difference does it make?” he asked. “He’ll be dead soon anyway.”
Darla put down the booze and spoke up. “Archie’s right,” she said, “we should let him die the way he wants: balls dangling in the wind.”
“But that’s not the way he wants to go!” I replied. “He wants me to hunt him; he wants us to hunt him.”
“But why, Jim?! Why?!” Allen Funt cried out.
I went to the bar and poured a stiff drink. “Because…,” I said, “because his whole life he’s felt misunderstood. He’s been alone in this world. He wants us to to prove our love to him, by hunting him in the wilderness so we might see his true self.”
Allen Funt continued to bawl his eyes out. “I just want to go home and see my family!” he cried.
“Calm yourself, Allen,” I said, “you’re just as much a part of this as we are.”
Darla, already three sheets to the wind, tried to slur out her words. “And how do you know so much about father, Mr. Grey?” she asked.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I replied. “None of you would.”
Archibald picked up the shotgun and began loading shells. “Probably not, Mr. Grey,” he said, “but I know what I must do. I’ve been William Shitz’s butler for 47 years. If anyone must put him down, it should be me.”
“That’s your responsibility?” I asked.
Archibald took a long pause. “Yes,” he said. “It’s common knowledge that butlers must take an oath to do what must be done, even if that means mercifully killing his master with a shotgun. It is my sworn duty.”
I walked up to the aged butler and put my hands on his shoulders. “When the time comes,” I asked, “can you do what must be done?”
“Yes, Mr. Grey,” he said as he looked me square in the eye, “and if I can’t pull the trigger, then it becomes your responsibility…and I too must be executed for my dereliction of duty.”
***
“He’s close,” Archibald said as he dug his fingers into the soil.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“There’s a steaming pile of bloody shit right there,” he replied. I looked to the right and lo and behold, right there a reeking pile of human poop.
“It seems like you’ve done this many times before,” I said to him.
“Far too often.”
The four of us-Archibald, Darla, Allen Funt, and myself- trekked through the woods in search of a mentally deteriorating William Shitz. The sun was starting to set. A gentle gust was blowing in from the north; a storm was brewing. While we found hopeful signs that Mr. Shitz was still alive, we only covered a small portion of the 148,971 acres that he owned.
We decided to hunker down for the night. I put together a small fire in the middle of camp. As usual, Allen Funt couldn’t stop crying. “What are we gonna do when we find him?” he bawled.
“We’re gonna kill him,” Archibald replied as he gnawed on a piece of beef jerky.
“But why 😭😭😭😭?” Funt asked.
Archibald threw down his jerky and pulled out a small machete. He grabbed Allen and held him up to a tree with the blade up to his neck. “Because Mr. Shitz wishes it!” Archibald screamed.
“Gentlemen!” I interrupted. “We must maintain our composure! Let’s not make any decisions on Mr. Shitz until we find him!”
Archibald nodded and lowered the machete from Allen’s neck. “I know what I must do,” he said as he slid the blade back into its holster. Then he looked me in the eye. “Just don’t forget what YOU must do.”
Archie climbed back into his tent for the night. So did Allen Funt, as he soiled his pants for the second time that day. Darla and I sat by the fire.
“Why did your father love your mother?” I asked her.
“You really are some kind of fucking moron,” she said as she lowered the flask from her lips. “Why don’t you understand the simplest of human concepts? Are you some kind of alien?”
“In a way,” I replied as I took a swig from the same flask.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Probably not! But try me! Nobody, not even Archie, understands your sudden appearance in my father’s life.”
I took another big hit from the flask. “It is my duty,” I explained, “to guide your father into the next life. Or at least it was. You see, I was his guardian…but I fell out of heaven’s grace.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she replied. “So if you’re his disgraced guardian angel, then why are you bothering to fulfill your heavenly duties?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “Redemption I suppose.”
“For what?”
“I…I guess I thought I could be human,” I stuttered. “But I never grasped human love. I was damned…damned to walk the earth; being neither human nor angel. I thought I could do one last thing…revealing to your father love and compassion in his final days; the kind he has never felt before. But then something strange happened.”
“What happened?” Darla asked longingly.
“I met you.”
Darla chuckled and shook her head. “You’re just another drunk weirdo that’s wandered into my life,” she said. Then she stood up and brushed the dirt and leaves from her jeans as the rain started sprinkling down. “But,” she continued, “you ain’t a bad fuck. So you’re welcome to join me in my tent. Just TRY to last longer than two minutes this time, mmk?”
***
“I found him!” Allen Funt screamed through the torrential rain. It was our second day of hunting for the surprisingly evasive Mr. Shitz. The terrain in the sprawling forest proved to be formidable.
Archibald, shotgun in hand, ran towards Allen’s screams. Darla and myself weren’t far behind. “Where is he?” Archibald asked as he approached.
“Right there,” Allen said.
The butler looked down and was puzzled. “That’s just a hole in the ground,” Archibald replied.
Allen cocked his head. “But I thought that’s what this was,” Funt said, pointing to his ass.
Darla had enough. “This excursion is pointless!” she yelled. “Just let my father die naked and shitting himself in the woods, just as he wanted!”
Allen Funt seconded the notion.
Archibald tuned out the noise as he gazed into the woods ahead. “There,” he pointed.
Less than a 100 yards away was the majestic arctic fox. The creature contrasted like an apparition against the wet and drab forest. “Follow that fox,” Archibald ordered.
The butler proceeded forward while Darla and I followed in his footsteps. Allen Funt fell into the very hole he pointed out moments before.
“Help!” he screamed.
No one came to his aid.
We watched closely as the fox trotted forward a few feet. As the animal neared a meadow, a totally nude Mr. Shitz fell out of a tree and onto Darla’s shoulders. “Father!” she cried, but Mr. Shitz was delivering a rear naked chokehold, quite literally, as he was hanging on to her rear, he was naked, and had her a chokehold.
“Release her!” Archibald ordered.
Darla lost consciousness and fell to the ground. With an open shot, Archibald raised the shotgun and fired. But the spry Mr. Shitz dodged the shrapnel and disappeared into the shadows.
“Goddamn, he’s like the Vietcong,” Archibald said as he reloaded the shotgun.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“He’s too dangerous like this,” Archibald replied. “If you see him, kill him.”
Right then, Mr. Shitz swung around a tree and knocked Archibald out cold. The shotgun flew forward to my feet.
I kneeled down to pick up the weapon. But Mr. Shitz was close enough that I could see the rainwater dripping off his ballsack. I slowly picked up the shotgun and returned to my feet.
It was nearing dusk and the rain was falling harder. But the red in Mr. Shitz’s eyes pierced the dark through the booms of thunder and brilliant flashes of light.
***
“Pull the trigger, Jim Grey,” William said as rain poured down his face. “That’s why you’re here, after all.”
I stood frozen in an awe-inspired fear. The nude figure that stood before me transfigured into a dark angel. He was still man, but appeared to possess the powers of hell.
I was unable to pull the trigger.
But before I could react, William grabbed the barrel and slammed the butt of the shotgun to my face. Still conscious, I fell backwards into the muddied forest floor. I could taste something from the corner of my mouth; it was blood, assisted by the rain, streaming down from the wound on my forehead.
I had never bled before.
William now held the shotgun but threw it aside as he stood over me. His cock was inches from my face. Finally, the rush of panic kicked in and I sprinted aimlessly through the woods.
But the newly minted demonic angel was never far behind.
Then I reached an obstacle: a gully nearly 100 feet deep but a little over 10 feet wide. I had no time to think. I leapt across the crevice but my feet missed the landing on the other side.
My life was hanging perilously over the side of a cliff, fingers barely maintaining a grip on a wet, slippery rock jutting over the edge.
William looked down upon me struggling like a helpless creature. For the first time in his 70 years, he felt something he previously thought impossible: sympathy…compassion. Mr. Shitz then entirely hurdled the 10 foot gap and kneeled down before me.
“It’s quite a thing to live in fear, isn’t it?” he asked. “But that’s what it means to feel alive.”
Right as my fingers slipped, William grabbed my wrist and single-handedly pulled me to safety. As he dropped me on land, I impulsively wiggled backwards up to a tree, not knowing what to expect.
The arctic fox wandered up and sat obediently next to Mr. Shitz. The old, dying man gazed upon the animal and sat down before me.
“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe,” William told me, “I’ve had shits like fire from a baconator in Hoboken. I watched Harry Reems and Arthur C. Clarke cheer as they masturbate. Now all of those moments will be lost, in time, like the career of David Blaine.”
A look of sorrow fell over William Shitz’s rain-covered face. “Time to die,” he uttered. And with those words, the clouds departed, and the fox trotted off into the sunset.
I laid there for what seemed like hours, pondering Mr. Shitz’s last moments. And in his waning hours, he bestowed upon me the gift of humanity; his last, and perhaps only, act of benevolence.
Then I heard a voice from across the gully. “I guess he’s through, eh?” it asked. It was Archibald, holding the shotgun.
“Finished,” I said.
Archibald tossed the shotgun to my side and started to walk away.
Then he paused.
“It’s too bad I won’t live,” he pondered aloud, “but then again, who does?”
***
After I shot Archibald for his supposed “dereliction of duty”, he managed to survive.
“Maybe we’ll just call it even,” the old butler said as he held his hand over the gushing shotgun wound. He placed his arm around my shoulder and I carried him back to the estate.
Darla regained consciousness after being choked out by her dying, naked father. “Is he finally dead?” she asked.
I nodded.
“About fucking time,” she replied, “let’s leave that crazy old bastard’s body out in the woods.”
Everyone agreed.
We all returned to the estate and shared a bottle of brandy. Archibald was looking a little pale due to the massive blood loss. Darla was happy to be home. “What the fuck was up with that arctic fox?” she asked.
I swirled around my glass while I pondered. “I guess it symbolized Mr. Shitz’s soul,” I said. “At his moment of death, the fox took up his spirit. Now Mr. Shitz is truly free; free from man-made constraints, free to live the life he always wanted. And more importantly, he took up my spiritual burdens by becoming the Angel of Death, and bestowing up me full humanity; the greatest gift he ever gave anyone. Or some shit like that. I dunno.”
“Okay good. Glad I wasn’t the only one that saw it,” Darla replied. “Because I was REALLY tripping balls out there.”
We all had a good laugh, including Archibald who continued bleeding all over the couch. Then it occurred to me:
Sorry for playing the hits, but I’m still undergoing writer’s block. I’m trying to jog my creativity by starting shit on Instagram, but that takes time.
Honesty, I forgot about this story. I posted it a year ago and while it isn’t my best work there’s still a few good ass jokes.
So enjoy
Pennies for the Dead
So I was doing a seance during the middle of the night-in a cemetery-when a security guard approached me.
“The hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Conjuring the dead. What does it look like?”
“Well hurry up. Gates close in an hour.”
So I cranked up the spirit box and pulled out the Ouija board. I asked the spirit box, “is a Joe Morris present?”
The box scanned through the channels before saying “Beelzebub”. Oh shit, I thought. I probably just cursed myself.
“No no no,” I replied. “JOE Morris.”
The box continued to scan but I was receiving no answers. The Ouija board was no help either. It kept spelling out “anal sex” and “go fuck yourself”. This was getting me nowhere.
I packed everything up and took out my flashlight. Next to Joe Morris’ tombstone was the name “Jezebel Morris”.
Dorthy Morris neglected to tell me that name.
Joe was Dorthy’s father. He was allegedly poisoning in 1952. The autopsy, however, was inconclusive. Dorthy’s been wanting this case solved her entire life. Now, in her twilight years, she lived a reclusive life on her family’s estate while her brain slowly demented away.
In my opinion, Joe died by natural causes. You know how men lived in those days. But I hadn’t had a case in months.
Was it wrong of me to take this elderly lady’s money? Yes.
I immediately left the cemetery and stopped at the Voodoo shop. I had to do something to spurn any demonic curses, ya know? Afterwards I drove to Dorthy’s estate.
I pounded on the door. She was hard of hearing.
“Is that you Lyle?” she asked
“No ma’am. It’s Ty Carson, private detective,” I replied.
I opened the door and found Dorthy with a blanket covering her lap in front of the fireplace. She was playing checkers.
“Who are you playing checkers with?” I asked.
“I’m not playing checkers.”
I quickly moved on to the business at hand. “I did what you asked,” I said. “I went to the cemetery to talk to Joe. I found out that the dead aren’t too keen on talking.”
“But I talked to Joe this morning,” she replied.
I ignored that comment.
“Who’s Jezebel?” I asked.
Dorthy gave me a puzzled look. “Jez has been dead for years,” she said.
“I know. Who was she?”
“No. I can’t betray Joe like that.”
“But she might be key to understanding Joe’s death.”
“No. That matter is closed.”
I shrugged. I figured that I could just go through public records in the morning. As I began to leave, I turned around.
“Oh, by the way,” I said, “the spirit box and Ouija board came to about $150. That will be charged to your account.”
“$5,000 you said?” Dorthy asked as she pulled out her checkbook.
“Yes.”
***
I couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed.
I had a hunch that it was the repo man coming to take the Geo Metro. I pulled out my .38 and shouted into the dark. “I have your filthy money!” I yelled. “Show yourself!”
Out of the shadows, I heard a thick Boston accent: “Are you Mista Cahson?” it asked.
“What’s it to ya PAL?!”
The figure stepped forth slowly from the shadows. He was tossing a baseball into the air.
“I’m Mista Pete Morris,” the figure said. “I’m son of Dorthy Morris, your client. I understand that you’ve been taking my mutha’s money.”
“She’s been giving it to me in larger amounts than I’ve been asking. That’s hardly stealing,” I replied.
“Hey ohhh, buddy! I ain’t said nuthin about stealing.”
“Then you better make your point. I have a .38 aiming between your eyeballs.”
Pete straightened up his jacket and began stammering nervously. “All I’m asking is that you let me in on the cut,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I work better alone. Besides, fuck the Red Sox.”
“I’m tellin ya,” Pete said, “there’s somethin goin on with Dorthy.”
“Yeah, it’s called dementia.”
“No. There’s something else goin on up there at that estate. Something that can’t be explained, not of this world. Some things just can’t be stopped by bullets, ya know?”
Pete then tossed the baseball again and I shot it out of the air.
“I haven’t found one yet,” I said.
“Look, I have all the answers you’re looking for,” Pete continued. “The death of Joe Morris is deeper than you think.”
I put the gun back into my holster. “Buddy,” I said, “if you’re trying to grift your rich elderly mother out of her money, you’re gonna have to find another angle.”
As I turned around to finish my walk home, Pete spoke up again. “I know about Jezebel,” he said.
“So do I pal,” I said as I continued walking, “she was Dorthy’s sister who died of pneumonia a year before Joe’s death. She was 20 years old.”
“That’s not the whole story,” Pete replied, “in fact, she wasn’t Dorthy’s sister.”
I stopped, turned around, and pulled out a cigarette. “Alright bucko,” I said, “now you’ve got my attention.”
***
“Sorry babe,” I said to Sheila. “I got the whiskey dick.”
“It’s alright, I’m used to it,” she replied. “Maybe you shouldn’t drink before sex.”
“I wouldn’t know. Never tried it.”
Sheila climbed out of bed and got dressed. As she put her shirt on, she noticed the crap on the floor. “What’s this stuff?” she asked.
“Don’t touch it,” I said, “that’s a spirit box and a Ouija board. You might awaken a demon from hell. Trust me, that’s one can of worms you can’t close.”
“What are you doing with that?”
“It’s some case that I’m scamming *ahem* I mean helping some old lady solve.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Oh yeah, totally.” I looked over to the clock and noticed it was 7:30pm. “Speaking of, gotta get to work.” I got out of bed and threw my pants on. “You can stay here for the night,” I told Sheila, “but remember: DO NOT touch that damn Ouija board.”
I was running late. I had to meet Pete at the Morris estate where he was going to shed some light on Jezebel’s identity.
I arrived 45 minutes later. It was nearly pitch black. I grabbed my flask and flashlight and got to work. “This better be worth my time,” I told Pete.
“I told you that you’re not gonna need that .38,” he said.
“You let me be the judge of that.”
We began venturing into the woods. There was allegedly a cellar back behind the mansion that contained the remains of Jezebel. “I’ve been told all my life that this is an old Indian burial ground,” Pete said.
“Why didn’t you tell me that before I pissed on that hedge?” I asked.
“There it is,” he said. I shinned my flashlight in that direction. The cellar was only a few yards ahead.
“How far down is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I never been down there.”
I lit up a cigarette. “You go first,” I said.
Pete gathered up his courage and proceeded towards the cellar. He took a deep breath before going down the stairs. The cellar was deep. Too deep for my liking.
I put one hand on the .38.
Finally we reached the bottom. We were standing in a wide, musty corridor with multiple chambers. “What the hell was this place used for?” I asked Pete.
“Supposedly this was a torture chamber for runaway soldiers during the Civil War. Many slaves lost their lives down here.”
“Pete, I’m beginning to think that your family deserves to be cursed.”
“What’s this?” Pete asked. I shined the flashlight over to an old fire pit littered with ash and bones.
Then the cellar door slammed close.
I pulled out the 38. “Stay calm,” I said.
“I told you there’s something strange going on here!”
“Shut up Pete.”
“I can’t die down here! The Celtics are in the playoffs!”
“Pete, so help me god, if you don’t shut up I’ll shoot you myself!”
Suddenly my flashlight went out. Then something grabbed Pete. “Damn you Brad Stevens!!!!!!!” he screamed before disappearing into the dark.
I started firing indiscriminately into the shadows.
“Pete!” I screamed out.
There was only silence.
The flashlight kicked back on and I shined it all around the corridor. Pete was nowhere to be found. “Fuck this,” I said as I sprinted back up the stairs and to the car.
I floored the Geo Metro back to the apartment. I rushed in through the door and began frantically looking for the Ouija board. “Damn it Sheila!” I yelled. “What did you do with the Ouija board?”
Sheila stumbled out of the kitchen with a glass of wine. “The planchette began moving around,” she said as she slurred her words. “It started spelling out ‘You’re next’, ‘Hail Satan’, and ‘I heart ass’ I didn’t know what that meant so I threw it into the fireplace.”
“Sheila,” I said, “I might’ve opened a portal to hell.”
***
I quietly hoped that Pete lived a lonely, miserable life. He never mentioned anything about a spouse. His mother was barely cognizant of his existence. Honestly, he seemed to be a stupid sack of shit and nobody would have missed him.
But I didn’t want anyone reporting his disappearance. What would I have told the police? That he was sucked into some black hole in the middle of the woods?
I had to find Pete. And finding Pete probably led to solving the mystery of Joe Morris’ death.
Actually, I could have walked away from this entire thing and no one would have been the wiser. But I knew the spirits were listening in. I had to get to the bottom of this thing before they got to me.
I picked up the spirit box. “Listen here, damn you,” I said, “I know you can hear me. I want some answers! Where’s Pete? Who’s Jezebel?!”
The spirit box began scanning through the channels before spitting out “suck.my.penis.”
That’s it, I thought. I reloaded the .38 and went back to the Morris Estate.
It was 12:30am. I pounded on Dorthy’s door. “Is it the milk man?” I heard her ask. “Come in!”
I opened the door and there was Dorthy playing Trivial Pursuit alone. “Damn it Dorthy!” I said, “I need answers! Who’s Jezebel?!”
“Jezebel? She’s been dead for 20 years.”
“Records say she died in 1951. Stop jackin me around!” I pulled out the .38. I meant business.
The candles around the aged mansion began to flicker. Random objects started to move: books flipped open, mirrors were rattling, the record player was blasting Lionel Richie’s ‘Dancing on the Ceiling’. Dorthy meanwhile went into a trance. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she backed up into the shadows.
I turned on the spirit box. “Alright Jezebel! I know you’re on to me,” I said. “Talk to me! Let’s settle this thing!”
Suddenly the doors flew open. A woman floated into the room. Her eyes were as dark as night.
I lifted the .38.
But it was Sheila.
“Sheila, you’re drunk,” I said. “Go home!”
“I am not Sheila,” the demonic voice said. “I am Jezebel!”
“Try me, asswipe!” she replied. Then I pumped a few bullets into her chest.
Nothin
“Alright, so I guess you’re Jezebel,” I said. “Where’s Pete?”
“His soul resides in HELL for all eternity!!!!”
“Good, he’s a Boston sports fan,” I said, “he needs to know how that feels.”
“You will join him soon enough!”
“Sorry sister, I already live in Ohio.”
I pulled the trigger again but I already emptied the revolver. I threw the gun at her and started running down the hallway while screaming for my life.
I hid in the closet under the staircase. Of course, it didn’t take long for her to find me. Using her demonic powers, Jezebel began to eat my soul. I started praying. “God, I regret everything,” I said.
Then God responded. Thunderbolts began raining down on Jezebel from some unseen force and she retreated into the shadows. I was still alive.
I crawled out from the closet. In front of me stood a wizard-like figure dressed in white robes and holding a staff.
“Thank you Jesus,” I said.
“I’m not Jesus,” the figure replied. “I’m Joe Morris.”
I stood up. “Joe Morris? Shouldn’t you be 120 years old?”
“119 to be precise.”
Then Pete ran down the hallway. “Ty! I’m still alive!” he said.
“I thought you went to hell,” I replied.
“I did. It ain’t such a bad place. I got to meet Dave Cowens.”
“He’s still alive dumbass.”
“Are you sure? By the way, did you piss your pants?”
“I did. It’s a side effect of my elavil prescription. Where did Jezebel go?”
“She went back to hell to lick her wounds,” Joe Morris said. “We must go to the cellar, return to hell, and make sure she never returns.”
“Fuck that,” I said. “This ain’t my problem. I’ll just collect the money from Dorthy and be on my merry way.”
Right then, a possessed Dorthy flew down from the ceiling and attacked me. While I fought her off, Joe Morris released more thunderbolts from his staff. Finally, she flew off of me and began writhing on the ground before whatever cursed spirit that possessed her left her body. Dorthy was dead.
“Mother!” Pete screamed.
“She hasn’t been your mother for a long time,” Joe said.
I took a moment to gather myself.
“Alright,” I said, “I need to change my pants before we go to the cellar.”
***
“So you’ve been in hell for 70 years Joe?” I asked.
“Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
“Did you die first? Or did you go down there for shits and giggles?”
“Unbeknownst to me, my family has been guarding this portal to hell for 200 years. Jezebel was a maid at our estate and I went outside my marriage to be with her. But Jezebel was secretly the devil and she cast me into the portal.”
“So is your body buried in that cemetery or what? If so, how the hell are you standing here with a flesh and blood body?”
“Don’t worry about it. The point is there’s been a rebellion in hell. Spirits are escaping to this earth and if we don’t stop Jezebel, there will be hell on earth!”
“Relax Joe, you’re just describing Toledo,” I said.
“You already made that joke.”
“How can three flesh and blood men stop an army of evil spirits?” Pete asked.
“While in Hell, I learned the ancient dark arts of Mesopotamia,” Joe replied. “I’ve been made a priest in these ancient religions. All I have to do is bless your weapon of choosing, and voila.”
“Can you bless the bullets of my .38?” I asked.
“Sure can.”
“Hell yeah!”
“What about my pocket knife?” Pete asked.
“That’s a pretty lame weapon, Pete.”
“Grab as many weapons as you can carry,” Joe replied.
“What about this machete?” Pete asked.
“What about this IWI Tavor TS12 shotgun?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. I will bless them all. We must hurry though.”
“Thanks Joe!” I said. “By the way, I’ve always wondered: what’s it like having sex with Satan?”
***
“Just be warned,” Joe said to me, “Hell ain’t what you think it is.”
“How so?”
“You just have to see.”
Joe, Pete, and I gathered our divinely blessed weapons and proceeded to the cellar in the woods. Joe went into the portal first, then Pete. I hesitantly went in last.
I felt my body break down into its molecular and atomic parts while time and space melted down. Then reality reconstructed itself and the three of us were in a large theater.
On stage was a nude couple: one an elderly woman and the other an average-looking dude with an abnormally large dong. A horse was also on stage. It was a community theater production of Equus.
“Ah shit. Now I know what you mean,” I said.
We rushed out of the theater, side by side, weapons on ready. We were men on a mission, a mission to find…and kill…Jezebel. And more importantly, we had to stop the dead from invading the earthly realm.
Outside the theater, we hailed a cab. The driver stopped and we all piled into the back. “Does anyone want to sit up here with me?” the driver asked. “Son of a bitch,” I said then got in the front seat.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked. “Downtown” Joe replied.
The cab driver then blasted Jon and Vangelis from the radio and was humming along. I turned to the backseat.
“Hell seems more boring and mildly irritating,” I said, “much like Minneapolis.”
“Yeah, but imagine spending spending eternity here,” Joe replied.
He had a point.
The cap pulled up to a downtown bank. We all piled out of the car. “Are you sure that the Empress of Hell and all of Damnation is here?” I asked.
“Of course, with their ungodly interest rates, there’s nowhere else she could be!” Joe said.
So the three of us…a wizard, an idiot, and a guy with a shotgun…walked into the bank lobby. We went up to a loan officer.
“We’re here to see Jezebel,” I tell the man.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asks.
I cocked the shotgun and blasted a hole in his chest. “She’ll be with you shortly,” the loan officer replied.
Security guards rushed into the lobby and began firing indiscriminately. Pete became an absolute beast and started slicing away with his machete. Joe unleashed fire bolts from his staff. I unloaded shell after shell from my shotgun.
As we looked over the absolute slaughter of security guards, with blood and guts strewn about the lobby, Joe nodded his head. “I think our plan is working out pretty good,” he said.
“I’m out of shells,” I said and dropped the shotgun. Then I pulled out the .38 and kissed it. “But I still got six shots.”
We all went into the elevator and Joe hit the button for the 666th floor. “Holy shit!” I said. “How many floors are in this building?”
32 minutes later, we arrived. Jezebel was in a conference call with all of her minions. She was planning the final stages of her Hellish invasion of earth.
“What took you so long?” she asked.
“Your slow ass elevator,” Pete said.
“You think your earthly powers can stop me?”
I lifted the .38. “Nothing can stop these bullets sister.”
***
I instantly wasted 5 bullets.
Sadly, I had to borrow a weapon from Pete. And let me tell you: it ain’t easy killing demons with a pocket knife.
In the midst of the mayhem, I lost track of Jezebel. “She escaped to the roof!” Pete yelled while decapitating a goblin.
I sprinted up the stairs to the very top of this 666-storied building. I was out of breath when I reached the roof. Jezebel was waiting.
“Your pathetic little weapon will do nothing to me,” she said.
“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” I replied.
Above the roof, Jezebel was opening a portal to Earth where all the spirits of this evil domain could trespass. I was running out of time. So I rushed Jezebel with the knife.
As I leapt towards her heart, she blocked my movement, knocking loose the pocket knife.
I was on the ground. Powerless. Jezebel laughed. “What a weakling,” she said as she put her pitchfork up to my neck.
“If you kill me,” I asked Jezebel, “where am I gonna go? I’m already in hell!”
“If you think it’s bad here, wait till I send you to Bridgeport!”
I closed my eyes in preparation for eternity. Then thunderbolts rained down on Jezebel. While Joe unleashed his unholy powers from the staff, Pete went absolute apeshit on Jezebel with his machete. This severely damaged her powers, thus closing the portal.
With her powers nearly drained, Jezebel stood at the edge of the roof. “Halt!” I yelled before Joe could make the final kill shot. “Jezebel still possesses Sheila’s body.”
I looked deep into Jezebel’s eyes. I could still see Sheila. “Sheila,” I pleaded, “I know that we never had sex because of my undiagnosed ED. I know that I’d often disappear into the bathroom and leave you with the bill. I know that I’d also clog the toilet and blame it on the cat,” I said, “but I also know that I love you and you should probably attend AA.”
Right then, Jezebel began to spastically writhe on the ground. The evil spirit departed Sheila’s body, and there alone stood a defeated Jezebel.
With one bullet left, I pulled out the .38. “Back to where you belong Satan: Massachusetts.”
I pulled the trigger.
The flash from the barrel echoed throughout Hell. In a puff of smoke went Jezebel.
I couldn’t believe it.
“Is she gone for good?” I asked Joe.
He looked out to the horizon. “We defeated her for the time being,” Joe said. “But the devil is never really gone. Where Jezebel resides now is in a hell of her own making, a place so unfathomable that God himself wouldn’t dare set foot. So Norway probably.”
I walked over to an unconscious Sheila. I kneeled down to awaken her. “What happened?” she asked.
“Just a temporary demonic possession. Nothing to worry about,” I said.
Sheila stood up and looked down to the sprawling city below. “Where are we?”
“Why did you give me this ‘Jesus Saves’ tract?” the bank robber asked me. I had the .38 pointed directly at his skull.
“Because I’m giving you one last choice,” I said. “And I suggest you accept the Lord Jesus as your personal Savior.”
“And what if I tell you that you can wipe your ass with this?”
I shook my head in disappointment. “Then tell Satan he’s next,” I said. I pulled the trigger and unleashed the full fury of my .38 right there in the bank lobby.
Shouts and screams echoed throughout the halls while the robber’s brains spewed out onto the marble floor below. I raised my hands to calm the crowd. “No need to thank me,” I said, “I’m just a good Christian Samaritan doing his job. Have a blessed day.”
I exited the bank just as the police arrived. The officer in charge started yelling in my face. “Goddamnit Jack Hardcock!” he screamed, “you had the suspect disarmed and apprehended, but you shot him anyway!”
“It’s good to see you too Sarge,” I replied sarcastically. “I figured that I save the taxpayers money by executing the bastard right then and there.”
“That’s not how justice is done!” he exclaimed. “Get out of my city before I throw these cuffs on you!”
“With pleasure,” I said then spat on the ground. But that’s the kind of thanks I get for being an instrument of the Lord’s Wrath.
***
“It’s time to go to Bible study,” my brother Pete Hardcock said. Him and his wife were kind enough to allow me to sleep in their garage while I got my life together. This was a year after I saved the city of Cleveland and Progressive Field from a renegade FBI agent. To pay the bills, I was now doing private detective work; stalking cheating spouses and such. It was beneath the dignity of a lethal holy weapon such as myself.
“You know I don’t need that shit,” I said to Pete, “I don’t have to read the Bible. I know everything in it is true and divinely inspired. That’s good enough for me.”
Pete’s stay-at-home wife, Jesseka, brought me a plate of green bean casserole. “Where’s the bourbon?” I asked.
“You know we don’t drink in this house,” Jesseka replied.
“If God didn’t want us to drink, He wouldn’t have made Kentucky bourbon,” I explained.
“Say Jack,” Pete said, “why don’t you come to church and meet a nice Christian lady. You’re 21 years old. Don’t you think it’s time to settle down and start a family?”
“Poppycock,” I replied. “How can I settle down when there’s so much evil on the streets? Like I tell everyone, I’m a blunt instrument of the Lord. So I have no thoughts or desires of my own.“
Pete and Jesseka’s son, Klyde, came rushing into the garage. “Uncle Jack,” he said, “someone’s at the door for you.”
“Back to work,” I uttered to myself. So I pulled up my pants, lit up a cigarette, then walked towards the front door. There I found a woman with tears streaming down her face.
“Are you Jack Hardcock?” the woman asked. “My daughter has gone missing. I need your help!”
***
“My daughter ran off to California to do 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? 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.
***
“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.”
***
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!”
***
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.
***
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.”
***
“ 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.
***
“So it’s totally cool that we left a dead body in that storage unit?” Donovan McNabb asked Peter. We back in the Vandura en route to Riverside. Peter sat silently in the backseat. He was still pissed at me for killing his favorite porno director.
“Yup,” Peter replied to Donovan. “There’s a dead body in every storage unit in El Segundo anyway.”
“Do you know the strip clubs in Riverside?” I asked Peter. “Would you happen to know which one Layla Huffington might be at?”
“She’s at the Glory Hole,” he said while thumbing through the latest issue of Fine Gardening.
“How would you know that?”
“You mind your own goddamn business, Jack Hardcock!”
We rolled up to the Glory Hole an hour later. Donovan was adamant that he go inside first. “I really need the closure,” he said.
“No,” I replied as I reloaded the .38. “This is about me. I’ll go inside and scope the place out.”
I put the fake mustache back on and wondered inside. “That will be a $20 cover charge,” the bouncer said to me.
“That’s outrageous,” I replied, “it’s 1:30 PM!”
“Those are the rules.” So I shelled out the 20 bucks and went to the bar area. Strippers were everywhere but I was the only patron. “What can I get you, honey?” the bartender asked me. She was a mature woman, 65 to 70. All she was wearing was a tiny purple thong.
“Bourbon please,” I said.
“All we have is Tennessee Whiskey.”
“Dickle?”
“Just Evan Williams, green label.”
“That’ll do. I’m here to hate myself anyway.”
She poured the stiff drink and I scanned the club. There was no sign of Layla Huffington anywhere. So I summoned the bartender back.
“Excuse me, but does Layla Huffington work today?” I asked. The bartender leaned forward and her boob rested gently on my forearm. “Sweetheart, Layla ain’t a stripper no more,” she said.
I lowered my head, fearing my search had come to a dead end.
“She does peep shows in the back,” the bartender continued. “Go on. Pay her a visit.”
I nodded and picked up my whiskey. A puny bald man greeted me in the back. “Sir, just step into one of the rooms, drop a quarter into the slot, and the curtains will open,” he informed me. “The performer will do whatever you ask of her for five minutes before the curtains close. At that time, you will have to insert another quarter if you want the show to continue. You will be able to see her, but she won’t see you. If you make a mess, clean it up. Enjoy the show.”
I walked into a pitch black room and dug into my pocket. I only had one quarter. I dropped it into the coin slot and the curtains swung open. The room brightened up and in front of me, on the other side of the glass, was a scantily clad Layla Huffington.
I quickly turned my head. My back was facing the glass.
“Hello?” Layla asked, “is anyone there?”
I was too terrified to speak.
Then I could hear her knocking on the glass. “You have me for five minutes,” she said, “is there anything you want to see?”
“Uhh,” I stuttered, “my apologies. It’s been so long since I’ve laid eyes on a woman.”
“You have nothing to fear mister,” I heard her say, “I do this all of the time.”
“I suppose you do,” I said.
“So?” Layla asked after a long pause. “What do you want me to do?”
I backed up and leaned against the glass, still not facing her. I couldn’t find the words. “I just want to hear your voice,” I finally said.
“My voice? What do you want me to say?”
“Who are you? Where do you come from?”
“Umm, well,” I heard her chuckle, “no one’s ever asked me that before.”
I didn’t reply.
“I grew up on a farm in Iowa,” she explained in a soft voice. I could feel her standing near the glass. “I dreamt about being somewhere, anywhere but where I was. One day, I left for the big city, expecting big things. But big things never came. I realized that I’m just a small town girl, meant for a small world. And now I’m here. It’s a tale as old as time.”
My left hand reached across my body and I placed it against the glass. I could see Layla out of the corner of my eye, but I still couldn’t face her.
“Do…” I started to say. “Did you ever love someone?”
There was a long, awkward silence. “I…I…,” she stuttered.
Then the curtains shuttered and the room returned to black.
***
“So you’re telling me that you spent three hours in a strip club and Layla Huffington wasn’t there?” Peter Tucker asked me while we were staying at the Red Roof Inn off 91. “Meanwhile, I had to smell Donovan McNabb’s farts while sitting in a van under the blazing sun?” he continued.
“That’s correct,” I replied.
“Why are you lying?”
“Why is it so hard for you to believe that I’d spend three hours in a strip club?”
“You’re a Christian man for fuck’s sake!”
“I was doing my job!”
“Goddamnit Jack! You’re hiding something!”
“No!” I screamed, “NOOOOOOOOOO!” I threw my .38 into the mirror, shattering it into a million pieces. The gun itself, my most prized possession, was destroyed. “Pete, you don’t know the burdens I carry,” I said, “men have families, people they love. I have no one. Men have friends, people that understand them. I have no one. I have been, and I fear always will be, an instrument of God’s wrath. Only Jesus can understand the weight I carry on these shoulders!”
I stood silently by the window while Peter picked up the crippled .38. “You broke your little gun,” he said.
I said nothing.
“Sally Wally was right about you back in Cleveland,” Peter continued, “you are a menace. I know you know where Layla Huffington is. So get her and take her back to the pit of hell where you come from. But know this: today won’t be the last time you’ll see me. I will find you. You are getting what’s coming to you.”
Peter grabbed his coat and slammed the hotel door. I poured a shot of bourbon and joined Donovan on the patio where he was smoking a joint.
“What was all that commotion about?” he asked.
“It was nothing.”
Donovan took another hit off his joint and began to stammer. “You know Jack,” he finally uttered, “I’ll never forget what you did for me back in El Segundo.”
“What do you mean?”
“Shooting that knife-wielding porno guy in the face like that. That really meant something.”
“It was all instinctual. I would have done it for anybody.”
“Yeah but…it’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I’m really thankful that you mysteriously appeared to me on the streets of Oakland. After Layla left me, I thought everything was over. But I didn’t realize that this was only the beginning of my journey. While I still want to face her, I feel like I’m becoming whole again. And for that, I feel like I owe you one.”
I took a swig from my bourbon and looked out to the Riverside cityscape below. “I’m gonna cash in on that favor immediately,” I said to Donovan. “I’m going back to the Glory Hole again tonight and I don’t want you there. But I’m gonna need a SHIT TON of quarters.”
***
“I don’t know what you want from me, mister,” Layla Huffington said from behind the one-way mirror, “so you DON’T want me to take my clothes off?”
“No,” I replied, “I want to preserve your dignity.”
I finally gathered the courage to look at Layla. She was everything that I had hoped for. God was speaking to me at that very moment. He was telling me that it wasn’t a sin to gaze upon her; she was already mine.
“Look, if you just want to talk,” Layla said, “I can just meet you at the bar. It’ll cost you, of course, but at least I’ll be able to see your face.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I said.
“Why not?”
I didn’t know how to reply. So there was a long silence then the curtains fell in front of the mirror. I dropped another quarter in the slot and they opened again.
“You must have a lot of quarters,” Layla said, “you’ve been here for two hours and told me almost nothing. Sure, not having to take my clothes off makes things easy. But it’s been really boring. So please, say something.”
I figured it was time to come clean. After all, it was costing her mother thousands of dollars a day for me to find her. So I took a deep breath and considered my words.
“Layla, I can’t get you out of my mind,” I explained, “I’m a lonely man. But that’s the cost of being a blunt instrument of the Lord. Yet I’ve been sent on a mission to find you and return you to your family. But I can’t shake the feeling that God has finally smiled upon me and said ‘it is not good for man to be alone.’ So he delivered you to me.”
Just as I had feared, a look of puzzlement fell over Layla’s face. “Excuse me?” she laughed, “Is this a joke?”
“This is certainly not a joke,” I replied.
“Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are! And my family? Those abusive fucks? They can go to hell! I’ve spent my whole life trying to get away from them and there’s no way I’m going back!”
“Layla, listen to me…,” I said. I was beginning to panic. “Maybe you’re right,” I continued, “maybe we should meet face to face at the bar…”
“Like hell we are!” she interrupted, “you stay away from me!”
Layla pressed a panic button. The lights went out and the curtains closed. I began pounding on the glass. “Layla!” I yelled.
Two large bouncers stepped into the tiny room. “Sir, you need to leave,” one of them ordered as he laid his hand on my shoulder. Without my .38 special, I had to rely on my physical prowess to overpower the men. So I utilized my signature move: a kick to the scrotum so hard that it induced vomiting.
As the bouncers barfed all over the floor, I took one of their taser guns. Then I roundhouse kicked the one-way mirror and the glass came crashing down.
***
“Layla, wait! I love you!” I yelled as I chased her out of the strip club and into the parking lot. As she frantically dug through her purse to find her keys, I pulled out the taser.
“Don’t make me use this,” I warned her. I inched closer towards her as she swiftly opened the door to her vehicle.
“Stay the fuck away from me!” Layla screamed. Then she swung around and nailed me in the stomach with a pair of brass knuckles. I dropped the taser as I fell to the ground.
Layla then squealed her tires as she attempted to back out of her parking space. But standing behind the vehicle was Donovan McNabb. “Layla!” he shouted.
She slammed on the brakes and put the car in park. “Donovan?! I could have killed you!” she screamed through the window. Then she stepped out of the vehicle to confront her ex-boyfriend.
“Donovan, goddamnit!” Layla shouted, “how the hell did you find me?”
“Nevermind that!” he replied, “I was worried sick about you after you ran out on me!”
Layla slowly rubbed her fingers through her hair as she tried to find the words. “I’m sorry I did that,” she replied, “I just didn’t have the courage to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Donovan asked, “That it was over?”
Layla began to stutter. “I…I don’t know,” she said, “Donovan, I just don’t know who I am, okay? When I’m here, I want to be there. And when I’m there I want to be here. I just needed time away.”
“You could have said so!” he said.
Before Layla could answer, a squad car pulled into the lot. The police officer slowly rolled up and shined his bright light into our faces. I climbed to my feet as I was still struggling to catch my breath.
“Everything’s alright, officer,” I said, “no need for the law. Thank you for your service and blue lives matter.”
The officer slowly opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle. I couldn’t see his face as I was still blinded by the light. Then I heard a faint laugh.
“Well well well, Jack Hardcock found Layla Huffington,” the officer said. Then he stepped in front of the light and his face was plain as day.
It was Peter Tucker.
“Peter, I don’t have time for your theatrics,” I said, “let me get Layla and we’ll get the fuck out of California.”
“You know Jack, I was thinking…,” Peter replied, “I could save the taxpayers a lot of money by just killing you right here.”
“Look, how many times do you want me to say I’m sorry for killing your favorite porno director?”
“Dillon J Dudenburg was his name, Goddamnit!” Peter yelled as he pointed his 9mm at my head.
“Whatever. You can’t kill me. There’s too many witnesses. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in prison for murder and impersonating a police officer?”
“I’m in the FBI. I AM THE LAW.”
“Peter,” Donovan interrupted, “Jack saved my life. I will be forever grateful for that. So if you’re gonna kill Jack Hardcock, you’ll have to kill me too.”
Peter thought for a moment, nodded, then turned the gun on Donovan. He pulled the trigger and a bullet landed square in his chest.
Layla screamed as her ex-boyfriend fell to the ground. That provided enough of a distraction for me to grab the taser gun and fire it towards Peter. The hooks grabbed ahold of him and he began to spaz out. Yet that wasn’t enough to bring him to the ground.
“I’ll get you next time, JACK HARDCOCK,” Peter yelled. While volts were still discharging through his body, Peter pulled off each of the hooks like they weren’t shit, then he slowly walked back to the police car and drove away.
Layla was holding a dying Donovan in her arms. There was no stopping the bleeding. As he was drawing his last breath, he grabbed me by the arm. “You were right, Jack,” he said.
“About what, Donovan?”
“There is an afterlife. I see it now.”
“Do you see Jesus?”
“I don’t see Jesus,” he explained, “but I do see Satan. Oh shit…”
Those were Donovan’s last words.
***
Care for a Fruit Roll-up?” I asked Layla. I was riding in the passenger seat while she was driving down I-10. We we’re leaving California for good.
“No,” she simply replied.
“More for me then.”
We didn’t say much. Before we left, I loaded Donovan’s dead body into the trunk. The two of us were still covered in his blood.
“I’ve been wondering, Layla,” I said, “have you gave any thought to what I told you back there at the strip club?”
“The fuck are you talking about now?”
“You know…about me being madly in love with you, God sending you to me, and all that jazz…”
Layla then swerved off to the shoulder and slammed on the brakes. The sudden stoppage made me spit out my Fruit Rollup.
“Get out,” she demanded.
“But why?”
“I’ve known you for maybe four hours and you’re already the craziest son of a bitch I’ve met.”
“Layla, I’m just asking you a question. I have feelings, ya know? And you’re not being very receptive to them!”
“I’ve got my boyfriend’s dead body in the trunk, and you want to talk about FEELINGS? Who do you think I am? Your mother? Your therapist? Fuck you AND your feelings!”
“But…but…I know that God…”
“You think that God is on your side?” Layla interrupted. “Then good for you buddy! Maybe he’ll give you a ride cuz I certainly won’t! Now get out of MY car!”
I stepped out of the vehicle stunned. But before I shut the door, I leaned forward to say one more thing. “Layla, I just want to say that I will always love…,” but she squealed the tires, with the sudden force shutting the door closed, then off she went…going 9-0, eastbound down I-10.
Other than the blood soaked clothes on my back, I had nothing. The sun was just dawning over the desert horizon.
About five miles down the road was a lone gas station. I walked inside, grabbed a biscuit, and tossed it into the microwave. Then I walked up to the station attendant.
“Gotta take a shit,” I said.
“Bathroom’s down the hall.”
While glancing through a porno mag while sitting on the toilet (I must’ve been in Nevada), I heard a commotion outside. I quickly wiped my ass and stepped out of the bathroom. The attendant was being held at gunpoint by a couple of bikers. One of them was holding a .38 special.
Before they noticed me, I grabbed my biscuit from the microwave. “You guys should really try the food here,” I said as I chewed on the bread.
The biker with the .38 turned his weapon on me. “Give us your money too, pal!” he ordered.
So I took out my wallet and pulled out a $5 bill. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “I’ll make you a deal: you give me that .38 and I’ll give you this $5 bill.”
“Or else what?” the biker chuckled.
I took another bite of the biscuit. “Welp,” I wondered aloud, “then I hope you’ve accepted Jesus into your life. Cuz you’re about to meet him.”
The two bikers nervously cackled while sweat poured down their faces. I stared them down while continuing to eat the biscuit. Finally one of them looked over to the other. “Can you believe this jackass?” he asked.
Then I threw the rock hard biscuit into his face, wrestled the .38 out of his hands, and shot dead the other biker. With the last thief on the ground and my knee to his throat, I pointed the .38 between his eyes. “I’ve already sent two people to hell today: Donovan McNabb and your friend here. Shall I make it a third?” I asked him.
The biker cried as he shook his head ‘no’.
“Then accept Jesus in your life,” I said.
“I accept! I ACCEPT!” he yelled.
“Then I’ll see you in heaven,” I replied. I pulled the trigger then bits of skull and brain matter went all over the floor.
I stood up straight and secured the .38 in the front of my pants. Then I looked over to the attendant. “Sorry for messing up your floor,” I said, “and for clogging your toilet.”
“Care for a Fruit Roll-up?” I asked Layla. I was riding in the passenger seat while she was driving down I-10. We we’re leaving California for good.
“No,” she simply replied.
“More for me then.”
We didn’t say much. Before we left, I loaded Donovan’s dead body into the trunk. The two of us were still covered in his blood.
“I’ve been wondering, Layla,” I said, “have you gave any thought to what I told you back there at the strip club?”
“The fuck are you talking about now?”
“You know…about me being madly in love with you, God sending you to me, and all that jazz…”
Layla then swerved off to the shoulder and slammed on the brakes. The sudden stoppage made me spit out my Fruit Rollup.
“Get out,” she demanded.
“But why?”
“I’ve known you for maybe four hours and you’re already the craziest son of a bitch I’ve met.”
“Layla, I’m just asking you a question. I have feelings, ya know? And you’re not being very receptive to them!”
“I’ve got my boyfriend’s dead body in the trunk, and you want to talk about FEELINGS? Who do you think I am? Your mother? Your therapist? Fuck you AND your feelings!”
“But…but…I know that God…”
“You think that God is on your side?” Layla interrupted. “Then good for you buddy! Maybe he’ll give you a ride cuz I certainly won’t! Now get out of MY car!”
I stepped out of the vehicle stunned. But before I shut the door, I leaned forward to say one more thing. “Layla, I just want to say that I will always love…,” but she squealed the tires, with the sudden force shutting the door closed, then off she went…going 9-0, eastbound down I-10.
Other than the blood soaked clothes on my back, I had nothing. The sun was just dawning over the desert horizon.
About five miles down the road was a lone gas station. I walked inside, grabbed a biscuit, and tossed it into the microwave. Then I walked up to the station attendant.
“Gotta take a shit,” I said.
“Bathroom’s down the hall.”
While glancing through a porno mag while sitting on the toilet (I must’ve been in Nevada), I heard a commotion outside. I quickly wiped my ass and stepped out of the bathroom. The attendant was being held at gunpoint by a couple of bikers. One of them was holding a .38 special.
Before they noticed me, I grabbed my biscuit from the microwave. “You guys should really try the food here,” I said as I chewed on the bread.
The biker with the .38 turned his weapon on me. “Give us your money too, pal!” he ordered.
So I took out my wallet and pulled out a $5 bill. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “I’ll make you a deal: you give me that .38 and I’ll give you this $5 bill.”
“Or else what?” the biker chuckled.
I took another bite of the biscuit. “Welp,” I wondered aloud, “then I hope you’ve accepted Jesus into your life. Cuz you’re about to meet him.”
The two bikers nervously cackled while sweat poured down their faces. I stared them down while continuing to eat the biscuit. Finally one of them looked over to the other. “Can you believe this jackass?” he asked.
Then I threw the rock hard biscuit into his face, wrestled the .38 out of his hands, and shot dead the other biker. With the last thief on the ground and my knee to his throat, I pointed the .38 between his eyes. “I’ve already sent two people to hell today: Donovan McNabb and your friend here. Shall I make it a third?” I asked him.
The biker cried as he shook his head ‘no’.
“Then accept Jesus in your life,” I said.
“I accept! I ACCEPT!” he yelled.
“Then I’ll see you in heaven,” I replied. I pulled the trigger then bits of skull and brain matter went all over the floor.
I stood up straight and secured the .38 in the front of my pants. Then I looked over to the attendant. “Sorry for messing up your floor,” I said, “and for clogging your toilet.”
“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.
Jack Hardcock will be returning in November. So here’s an introduction to the man, the legend.
Enjoy.
“Cleveland. Shit,” I uttered to myself. “Still only in Cleveland.”
“What’s that, Jack?” the Chief asked.
“Nothing, Chief,” I replied. “It’s just that I’ve been stuck in this godforsaken city for the last two months.”
“Eh,” the Chief shrugged, “at least it ain’t Cincinnati.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I replied as I lit up a cigarette. “What do you got for me?”
“A triple homicide. Two dead hookers and an anonymous John.”
“So the usual, huh?” I said.
“Jesus Christ, Jack! Do you want the case or not?! I’ve got two detectives downstairs itching for a case like this and you’re up here bitching like a little bitch!”
“Don’t use that language around me Chief,” I replied. “I was raised Southern Baptist.”
“My mistake, Jack,” the Chief said, “you know me, I always try to be respectful of other people’s belief’s. Except for Seven Day Adventist.”
“Word.”
“So what’s it gonna be Jack? Do you want the case or not?”
I put out my cigarette and grabbed the file. “I guess so Chief,” I said, “Sometimes I wish the Lord would come back and unleash hell on this town. If it ain’t a serial killer, it’s some goddamn junkie robbing his grandmother for his next fix. I swear, you unbelievers will learn the vengeance of God! May this city be cast into Hell!”
The Chief got on his knees and begged for mercy. “Please Jack! Don’t let me burn in hell for all of eternity!”
“Then accept the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart,” I said, “and pray for the forgiveness of your sins.”
And on February 23rd, 2022, the Chief accepted Salvation through Jesus Christ.
After the Chief’s conversion, I loaded my .38 and asked God to guide my bullets into the bodies of my enemies. “Thank you Lord,” I prayed, “let vengeance be Yours…and mine.”
I kissed the barrel of my gun and entered the mean streets of Cleveland. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil,” I uttered.
I grabbed the first pedestrian I saw on the streets. “Do you recognize this man?” I asked while holding up a picture of one of the victims.
“No,” they replied.
I slapped them across the face with the butt of my gun. “Liar!” I yelled, “Do you know what the Lord does to liars? He mutilates their genitals and they feast on them in heaven! So don’t let the devil catch your tongue! For it’s not the devil you should worry about if that happens! It’s GOD. And you WILL know God’s wrath AND the wrath of my .38!”
After the pedestrian pissed their pants, they confessed the victim’s name: Art McGarth.
So I let that poor sack of shit go and lit up a cigarette. “Not bad for an honest day’s work,” I thought.
***
“What can you tell me about Art McGarth?” I asked the cop at precinct 13.
“Fuck you Jack Hardcock!” the cop said. “You don’t run this city! Every time you come around here, a cop ends up dead. You’re a loose canon! I will not be cooperating with you!”
I pulled out my .38 and reached across his desk. “Listen here, HEATHEN,” I said, “I’m doing the Lord’s work by saving this city from the clutches of SATAN! You will cooperate with me or else you will be swallowing one of these bullets!”
The Chief detective of the precinct, Sally Wally, intervened. Her bottom of her skirt went just above her knees. “Jack, put that gun away,” she ordered.
“Sally, you’re dressed immodestly,” I replied. “I can’t do my job with an erection.”
“Step into my office please.”
I went into Sally’s office. I threw my coat and jacket down on the couch and kicked my feet up on her desk. “Did I say you can sit?” she asked.
“Sally, with all due respect,” I replied, “you might be over this precinct, but I’m still a man. And as a man, my authority supersedes yours.”
“What do you want with Art McGarth?” she asked, completely ignoring my comment. “This investigation is under our jurisdiction. We will handle this case.”
“The Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigations has asked me to look into his murder, along with the murder of two prostitutes,” I said. “McGarth was listed as a John Doe with the Bureau before I identified him and his name only appears in your databases. So what can you tell me about him?”
“After you got 14 of my officers killed in your last investigation,” Sally explained, “a federal grand jury decided that my department no longer has to cooperate with yours. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the Supreme Court.”
“You see, that’s the thing,” I replied as I lit up a cigarette and let the ashes fall to the ground, “man has his laws. And God has His. And I don’t answer to the laws of man.”
“That’s why you were kicked out of the FBI,” Sally said.
“Come on Sally! I wasn’t booted from the FBI! I voluntarily left because I couldn’t work for a heathen President like Joe Biden!”
“Tell your department that if they want our cooperation,” Sally said, “they will have to get a federal warrant. Until then, get the fuck out of my office and don’t show up here again.”
I stood up, grabbed my hat and coat, then put my cigarette out on Sally’s desk. “Have a blessed day,” I said.
There was something fishy going here. Whatever Precinct 13 was hiding, with the Lord’s help, I was going to get to the bottom of it.
When I walked outside, I reached into my holster and pulled out the .38. “Don’t worry sweetheart,” I said to the gun, “this city will soon know your wrath.”
I kissed the gun and put it back into the holster.
***
I unlocked the door to 12th story apartment overlooking downtown Cleveland. I threw down my keys and coat then turned on the light.
The local gangster, Gregg Poppovich, was pointing a gun at me. “What do you want with Art McGarth, Jack?” he asked as he lifted a stogie to his mouth.
“I’m investigating his death, Gregg,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Of course not,” he replied, “I just didn’t want you pointing the finger at me.”
“Now why would I want to do something like that?” I asked while I studied him over.
Gregg laughed and put the pistol away in his holster. “I didn’t suppose you did,” he said, “you’re too smart for that.”
“But you must know something. Or else you wouldn’t have broken into my apartment.”
He laughed some more. “Of course,” he said, “that’s why I’m paying you a visit. It’s neither organized crime nor police corruption. There’s a madman loose out there, Jack. I don’t know much more than you, but watch your back.”
“Thanks for your concern, Gregg. But I have the Lord’s protection. Besides, why kill McGarth? He must have had some connections.”
“Not McGarth,” Gregg said, “but the two prostitutes. They’re disappearing all over the city. I’m telling you, Jack, it’s a Jack the Ripper kind of situation.”
“A serial killer?” I laughed, “in a city like Cleveland? Never heard of such a thing.”
“I’m not crazy, Jack. I don’t believe in that silly God of yours, but I do believe in the Devil. And he’s here in this city. So you better watch yourself.”
“I’ll pray on it,” I said, “and I’ll pray for you and your Salvation. May the Lord guide you towards the Light.”
Gregg left and I took a shit. All that scotch and nicotine was running through me. I absolutely destroyed that toilet.
When I walked out of the bathroom, Sally was lying on the bed. “Jesus Christ, Jack!” she said while puffing on a cigarette, “someone light a match!”
I closed the door and loosened my tie. “You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” I said. “What are you doing here? I should really change the locks to this place.”
“Just paying you a visit,” she replied while hiking up her skirt to expose her gorgeous legs. “Have you found out anything about Art McGarth? Seeing as we’re both investigating his death.”
“His murder appears to have been collateral damage,” I said. “Other than that, I know nothing.”
“Are you sure?” Sally asked as she unbuttoned her blouse.
“Sally, I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen here. You know I don’t know what to do with a woman. I’ve never had sex!”
“I could show you,” she said as she lowered her shirt to expose her shoulders.
“No thanks,” I replied, “I don’t believe in sex before marriage. Now please leave.”
After she left, I straightened out the bed, loaded one round into the revolver of my .38, spun it, pointed it at my head, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
“Thank you, Lord, for always watching out for me,” I prayed. Then I went to bed.
I always sleep better after a game of Russian Roulette.
***
I returned to DCI headquarters to check in the Chief. He was shoveling jelly donuts down his face hole and getting shit all over the paperwork.
“Can you believe this shit, Jack?” he said while shards of donut was flying out of his mouth.
“I’m a Christian, Chief,” I replied, “I believe everything that I’m told.”
“Take a look at this.”
Chief handed me a report from the Pittsburgh FBI office regarding a series of murders. I had to swipe away jelly just to read all of the paragraphs.
“So what?” I asked.
“The autopsies came back from the McGarth killings. It can’t be a coincidence Jack. The same guy killing all them hookers in Pittsburgh is the same guy who killed McGarth and our two prostitutes.”
“The FBI are a bunch of jokers, Chief. I wouldn’t trust them to find a missing cat. Especially after what they did to President Donald Trump at Mar-a-Lago!”
“Now cool it, Jack!” Chief said. “I know that you hold a grudge against the Bureau after they shitcanned you and sent you to Ohio BCI, but I expect your full cooperation!”
“Cooperation?” I asked. “The fuck are you talking about, Chief?”
“The Feds are coming to help us with our investigation,” he replied, “and I don’t want ONE word out of you! You hear?! Or you’ll be sent to Toledo so fast that you’ll bust your pants!”
“I already busted in my pants once today, Chief,” I said, “then I prayed for the Lord’s forgiveness. So don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“That’s it!” the Chief yelled, “get out of my office!”
“With pleasure.”
The FBI would not be getting my cooperation. But I couldn’t solve this case on my own. So I went looking for my good friend: local gangster Gregg Poppovich.
I found him enjoying a plate of lasagna at his Italian restaurant that he owned just outside of town. I grabbed his head and shoved it into the plate.
“Jesus, Jack!” he said as he wiped away the tomato sauce from his face, “you could have just said hello!”
I laid the .38 down on the table. “I need some answers,” I said.
“About what?!”
“Art McGarth.”
“I told you! I know what you know!”
I grabbed the plate and smashed it against his face. “Not good enough!” I yelled.
Gregg grabbed another towel and began wiping the blood from his face. “Is there something wrong, Jack? You seem a bit agitated,” he asked.
I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Thanks for asking Gregg,” I said, “but it seems like the FBI is always up my ass!”
“I know how you feel,” Gregg replied, “it ain’t easy being a local gangster, ya know?”
“Unfortunately, they’re coming down here from Pittsburgh to investigate the McGarth killings,” I said. “I don’t need their help. What good has the Federal government ever done?!”
“Jack, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye,” Gregg said, “but if you ever needed any assistance, I’m always here to help.”
“Thanks Gregg,”I replied, “you’ve always been a good friend. So since you’re offering, I’m gonna need the entire Cleveland criminal underworld to help me catch a killer.”
***
I couldn’t sleep that night. I even loaded .38 revolver with two extra bullets.
Nothin.
I prayed to the Lord Jesus Christ Our Savior. I said, “Lord, every time Ohio BCI tries to give me a partner, I tell them I don’t need that shit because Jesus is my partner. Well now I’m calling on that partnership. Please let me find the killer of Art McGarth and the two prostitutes before the FBI does. Amen.”
Immediately, there was a knock on the door. It was Sally.
“Sally,” I said, “for the last time, quit coming around here. I don’t know how to fuck.”
“This isn’t a social visit,” she replied, “you’re wanted at the precinct. There’s been another murder.”
***
“How long ago did the murder take place?” I asked as we were walking into the coroner’s office.
“Approximately 8 hours ago,” Sally replied.
“Have you identified the body?”
“We were hoping you would help us with that,” she said. Sally then pulled back the sheet covering victim’s body.
I was aghast.
“My god,” I said, “Sally, that’s, that’s…”
“The Chief?” she replied. “Yes, how convenient. You were the last one seen with him.”
“Listen, I had nothing to do with that!”
“Put your hands behind your back,” she ordered.
“You’re making a big mistake!” I yelled.
“Am I? The Chief was killed with a bullet to the brain fired from a .38 special. That’s your modus operandi. You had a means to kill him, now I just need a motive. I hereby place you under arrest, Jack Hardcock!”
Two other officers flanked me on both sides. I roundhouse kicked one and kicked the other one in the gonads so hard that he passed out. I pulled out my .38 and pointed it at Sally. “I demand you tell me what’s going on here!” I ordered.
“You’re a renegade cop, Jack!” she said. “You are the biggest menace to the streets of Cleveland and I’m taking you down.”
I laughed. “Better luck in the next life, sweetheart,” I said, then pulled the trigger. Sadly, I only had two chambers loaded in the revolver because I was playing Russian Roulette earlier, so nothing fired.
“Sorry,” I said to Sally. Then I pulled the trigger again. Unfortunately the bullet missed her.
Before I could fire off a last shot, the two cops re-emerged from their blackout. So I jumped out a window and fell 20 floors into the dumpster below. I shattered my pelvis, ruptured my spleen, punctured both lungs, broke all of my limbs, and was severely concussed.
I laid in the dumpster where a dump truck scooped me up, poured me into a rubble heap, and carried me off to a landfill. When I awoke the next morning, I crawled out of the trash dump, and all the way to Gregg Poppovich’s restaurant outside of town.
It ain’t easy crawling 8 miles while undergoing organ failure with all your limbs shattered. But that’s just life in Cleveland.
***
Jack, you magnificent sack of shit,” Gregg said to me after he patched me up, “I don’t know how you do it, but I’ve never seen anyone heal from broken limbs, organ failure, and brain damage as quickly as you have.”
“That’s the power of prayer,” I said in response. “I don’t need any of that medicine bullshit. I have God on my side.”
“You have proven the Power of Christ to me, Jack,” Gregg replied. “Despite growing up in America, getting hounded daily by Jehovah’s Witnesses, raised in the Catholic Church, and the Bible essentially being the cornerstone of Western art and literature, no one has ever told me about Jesus Christ or how to receive His Grace.”
“Bow your head,” I said. And on February 27, 2022, Gregg Poppovich, local Cleveland gangster, accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as his Savior.
I got up from the operating table, buttoned up my shirt, and punched Gregg in the stomach. “I’m gonna need more bullets for my .38,” I said.
Gregg was wheezing on the floor. “You could ask nicely, Jack,” he said.
“I don’t have time,” I responded, “Sally’s behind these murders, I’m sure of it. She’s already framed me, which means the FBI will be looking for me. Have you amassed your army of fellow gangsters? I’m gonna need them.”
Gregg stood up and straightened out his jacket. “They’re ready and waiting on your orders, sir,” he said.
“Good,” I replied, then socked him in the face. “I want a stakeout on Sally and a few of her officers. They are NOT to engage with any of them. Understood? Once when they have them cornered, your men should reach out to me. Okay?”
“Understood, sir,” Gregg said as he wiped blood away from his nose.
“Alright, now where are those bullets?”
I went to the back of Gregg’s Italian restaurant outside of town to do some target practice. I had just recovered from shattering every bone in my wrist after falling 20 stories into a dumpster. Unfortunately I missed every shot.
Gregg stood on the back patio laughing with a stogie hanging out his mouth. “Are you sure you’re ready for all this?” he asked.
I turned swiftly and shot the stogie out of his mouth. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. I twirled the gun around my finger and put it back in my holster.
***
I received a page from my beeper,” Gregg yelled. “They spotted Sally alone off Market Avenue!”
So Gregg and I piled into his 78 Buick Regal and sped off northbound into town. “What are we gonna do when we catch her?” Gregg asked.
“Just gonna ask her a few questions,” I said.
But before we reached Market Square, a black SUV rammed into the side of us. The Buick crashed into the side barrier then went over the edge into the Cuyahoga River.
Thankfully the river wasn’t on fire at that particular moment.
***
Gregg and I were individually strapped to a chair in an abandoned warehouse. We were revived by a blinding flash of light.
“Well well well,” a voice said from behind the light. “If it isn’t disgruntled Ohio BCI agent Jack Hardcock and local Cleveland gangster Gregg Poppovich. You two make strange bedfellows.”
“By the authority of Jesus Christ, I demand to know what’s going on here!” I exclaimed.
The light shut off and in front of us were three FBI agents. I recognized one of them. “Peter Tucker,” I said.
“Jack, how’ve you been?” Peter replied.
“Pete, untie us now! I don’t know what Sally told you, but I am not the killer!”
“Yes I know,” he said, “I just wanted you to know that I am in charge here.”
“What do you mean?”
Pete lit up a cigarette. “You see,” he stated, “we know that Sally and her minions are the ones that killed Art McGarth and many, MANY others.”
“If you have something to say, Pete,” I said, “spit it out. We don’t have all day.”
Pete took a long exhale as smoke billowed out his mouth. “Sally is a vigilante, Jack,” he continued. “We’ve keeping a watchful eye on her. She’s been executing pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers, stoners, plumbers, hipsters, Hoobastank, and anyone she deems a menace to society. She’s gone renegade, Jack. She thinks she’s above the law.”
“My God!” I said. “That means…”
“Yes,” Pete interrupted, “that means you were next.”
An agent came up and cut Gregg and me loose from our chairs. “Since you’re in charge,” I said to Pete as I massaged my wrist, “what happens now?”
Pete put out his cigarette and stepped out from behind his desk. “Jack, you can fool BCI but you can’t fool me,” he said. “I know you want back into the Federal Bureau. Cleveland’s a toxic wasteland. It’s Ohio’s toilet for fuck’s sake. It’s no mistake that the Browns are perpetually terrible. This city is cursed! I know that you don’t want to spend the rest of your career here.”
He handed me my .38. “All I’m asking,” Pete concluded, “is that you help me catch Sally. If you can do that, we can forget that time you accidentally burned down a retirement home and shot up a Denny’s. You’ll be back in the Bureau. What do you say?”
I looked him square in the eye.
“Pete, if I help you do this and you go back on your word,” I said, “you won’t have to wait on the Second Coming. I’ll send you straight to hell myself.”
***
Sally’s trail went cold. But somewhere beneath that shit-crusted anus that is the Cleveland underworld, she was waiting on us, plotting her trap.
The FBI was generous enough to fish out Gregg’s Buick from the bottom of the Cuyahoga River. Despite being busted up on the side and immersed in water for hours, it started up like a charm.
“A Buick will never let you down, my daddy always told me,” Gregg said.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
We were passing back and forth a bottle of brandy while on stakeout outside of Progressive Field. Peter Tucker sent us there. He had his suspicions that Sally would strike there next.
“What kind of idiot would send us here?” I asked Gregg. “It’s not even baseball season!”
“That ain’t true boss,” he replied. “There’s a celebrity baseball game here tomorrow.”
The blood drained from my face. “Oh fuck!” I said. “Gregg, get to the nearest pay phone and page Pete’s beeper. We’re gonna need backup.”
I knew what Sally was thinking. Celebrities would be there. That means pedos, druggies, rapists, all-around scum of the earth. She would have all of her eggs in one basket.
So I readied my .38 and scaled the fence into the stadium. It was night. The security guards were sleeping.
Sally was there. I knew it with all my instinct. I kicked open doors and trashed the stadium but found no one.
Then I entered the equipment room.
Inside were countless bald eagles locked up in cages. Strapped to them were contraptions that, when activated, would release live hand grenades onto unsuspecting people below.
“What are you doing in here?!” a man shouted. It was the bird keeper.
I lifted the .38. “Where’s Sally?” I said.
The man raised his hands in the air. “Hey man! I know nothing about that. I was just paid to do a job!”
I clicked the gun. “I’ll give you three seconds to answer before I blow your brains out,” I replied.
The man pissed his pants and continued to cry that he knew nothin. I pulled the trigger and his brains splattered all over the wall. In hindsight, that was a bad decision because I should have took him in for questioning.
C’est la vie.
I walked back out to the Buick and looked for Gregg. Off in the distance, underneath a pay phone, I saw Gregg laying on the ground holding his guts in.
I ran up and tried to stop the bleeding.
“She got me good, Jack,” Gregg said.
“Shut the fuck up you stupid bastard,” I replied. “You’re not gonna die.”
With his last bit of strength, Gregg grabbed me by the back of the neck. “Jack, I want you to know,” he uttered, “I regret every moment.”
There I held Gregg Poppovich, local Cleveland gangster, dead in my arms.
Then the pay phone rang. “Jack! This is Pete Tucker,” the voice said, “I received an urgent page from Gregg!”
“Gregg’s dead,” I said to Pete. “Sally killed my boss and now she’s killed my best friend. But I have her right where I want her. She’s here, Pete. Vengeance is mine.”
***
“What are you gonna do Jack?” Peter Tucker asked me at the FBI flophouse. I was washing local Cleveland gangster Gregg Poppovich’s blood off my hands.
“I’m gonna do what the Lord should have done a long time ago,” I said, “I’m gonna send her back to hell. Right where she belongs.”
“Say it ain’t so, Jack,” Pete replied, “are you actually losing your faith?”
I grabbed a cheap towel and began drying my hands. “I never question the ways of God,” I said, “but I sometimes wonder if He really has forsaken us. He’s certainly done so to Cleveland.”
Pete poured two glasses of whiskey and handed one to me. “We’ve always hated each other, Jack,” he said, “in fact I despise the ground you walk on. Someday I hope you die a slow agonizing death, preferably by fire or some means of disembowelment. You’re a piece of shit and I would love to grab this bottle of whiskey, shove it up your ass, and throw you out the window. However, unlike you, I have restraint. But goddamnit Jack, I’ve always respected your faith. And I’ll drink to that.”
“Thanks Pete,” I replied, “I needed that pep talk. It’s tough out here on the streets. It’s tough to make friends when they always end up dead. At least the Chief and Gregg found Salvation before their deaths. I do find consolation in that. I hope that someday you’ll find Peace through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Fuck that shit,” Pete said, “a lot of good that did to your friends. They found a guarantee into Heaven and next thing you know, they’re dead. That’s not for me Jack. I need the constant threat of Hell to keep me alive. That’s how you survive these streets.”
I shook my head. “You’re too short sided Pete.”
“No, dipshit. I just ain’t stupid.”
“Well, whatever,” I said as I downed the whiskey, “we’ve got a demon on the loose. And if there’s one thing that I’ve learned about the Lord is that He always vanquishes His enemies. Specifically through MY .38.”
“What a pussy ass weapon,” Pete replied.
As he raised the whiskey glass to his mouth, I fired a round right through the glass. Shards and liquid went everywhere.
“Alright, now I see what you mean,” Pete said as he wiped away whiskey that splashed on his face. “So what’s the plan? How are you gonna get to Sally?”
“Thankfully we cleaned up the blood and brains from that guy I shot at Progressive Field,” I replied. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have killed him, but what’s done is done. Hopefully she won’t notice he’s missing and she’ll move forward with her plan.”
“And then?”
“And then?” I thought, “God will provide a way.”
“That sounds like a stupid plan.”
***
“Stop calling them the Cleveland ‘Indians’ Jack,” Pete said while we were prepping to enter Progressive Field.
“I will never give into the woke agenda,” I replied. “This is a Christian Nation and I will never let a Catholic like Joe Biden tell me who to respect! Build the wall!!!”
“You’re a moron,” Pete uttered.
Security let us through the gate and we were handed a program. It stated that at the conclusion of the National Anthem, hundreds of bald eagles would be released over the stadium.
“We gotta stop those eagles,” I said, “thousands of people are at this celebrity baseball game. If Sally armed those birds with live grenades, there’s no telling what kind of damage that will do.”
“We should split up,” Pete ordered, “we’ve only got 10 minutes!”
Security was tight. There was no way we could search the entire stadium. I had to act fast.
The Village People were prepping to sing the National Anthem. One of them stepped into the bathroom and I followed him inside. While he was taking a shit, I kicked open the stall door and knocked him out.
With him unconscious, I took his costume, added a lot of makeup, and flushed the toilet. As I exited the bathroom to search for Sally, one of the Village People, the construction worker, shouted at me.
“Hey buddy,” he yelled, “it’s time to go on!”
“Fuck,” I said, then followed them out onto the field.
I had the .38 hidden under my smock.
As we danced to an upbeat rendition of the National Anthem, I kept a lookout for Sally. When the song concluded, Deshaun Watson was coming out onto the field to throw the first pitch.
Then the bald eagles came flying.
“Everyone hit the ground!” I yelled as I drew the .38.
I ripped one bullet into the air after another. Each one made it into a bald eagle and they came plummeting towards the ground. The stadium erupted into a panic and security rushed the field.
“I’m a cop!” I yelled after they tackled me. I pulled out my badge.
Pete came running out behind them with his weapon drawn. “Jesus Christ, Jack!” he said, “What the hell’s the matter with you? Out of all the Village People, you came out dressed as the Native American?!”
“Never mind me!” I said, “What about the bald eagles?! Did anybody get killed?!”
“There were no grenades,” Pete replied, “you just senselessly shot six bald eagles out of the sky in front of everyone!”
“Damn it Pete!” I yelled, “Sally is here! We’ve got to stop her!”
There was a quiet roar overtaking the stadium. It continued to grow louder and louder. “The fuck is that sound?” Pete asked.
A large, smooth object the loomed large over the stands and was slowly moving over the field. It was the Goodyear Blimp. I squinted to see who was piloting it.
It was Sally.
“My god, Pete,” I said, “it’s a trap…”
***
“Shit!” I yelled. “After killing those bald eagles, I’m all outta bullets!”
“Jack,” Pete replied, “if you can get us out of this, you might make me a believer after all.”
That was all the motivation I needed. So I said a prayer: “Lord, everything that’s happened so far has led me to this point. Give me the strength to kill Sally and lead Peter Tucker to Salvation in Jesus Christ. Amen.”
Right then, as the Goodyear Blimp hovered above, Sally, who was piloting the aircraft, released dozens of live hand grenades down onto Progressive Field. Pete and I weaved and bobbed our way through one explosion after the next but when the last grenade landed, it didn’t explode.
That’s when the Lord gave me a sign.
I saw Deshaun Watson, who was supposed to the throw the first pitch in the celebrity baseball game, cowering in the corner and pissing himself in the dugout. “Deshaun!” I yelled, “we need your arm strength! If you pick up this live hand grenade and hurl it back at the blimp before it detonates, you might be redeemed in the eyes of the public for all those disgusting sexual acts you did to those masseuses. Maybe not though. But what other choice you got?! Hurry before it explodes!”
Watson gathered up the courage, climbed out of the dugout, picked up the grenade, and with all of his strength he launched it towards the blimp.
He was right on the money. The grenade exploded, and the blimp came tumbling down onto the field.
Sally was in a daze when she climbed out of the wreckage. “Holt!” Pete ordered as he lifted his 9mm towards her. But Sally was too quick. She drew her weapon and shot Pete in the abdomen.
Then she turned her gun towards me and laughed maniacally. “I finally have you where I want you, Jack Hardcock!” Sally said, “Prepare to meet your maker, Cleveland scum!”
Sally then ripped an entire clip into my direction, but to her surprise, every bullet missed. I dodged my way over to Pete’s position. With one hand over the bullet wound, he tossed me his 9mm with the other. “Pete,” I said, “without my .38, I’m useless!”
“I believe in you, Jack,” he replied, “have faith!”
I lifted the 9mm and emptied five bullets into Sally. As she dropped to her knees, I walked towards her, still aiming the weapon. “But why, Jack?” she asked, “I was only trying to clean up the streets. Wouldn’t your God approve?”
“No Sally,” I said, “Vengeance is the Lord’s. And I am His instrument.”
I fired one more round into Sally’s skull and her body fell to the ground.
***
“I hate the everlasting shit out of you, Jack,” Pete told me on the hospital bed. “But goddamn it, you saved my life. I’ll never forget that.”
“Good. So you’ll accept Jesus into your life?” I asked.
“Fuck no! We got lucky that Deshaun Watson was there. It happens. No need to thank god for that bullshit. Deshaun might be a sex pervert but he’s got a rocket arm!”
“Yeah? Well that’s, like, your opinion, man. Next time your life’s in danger, you might not be so lucky. But someday, Pete, I’m gonna prove to you that God’s real. You watch!”
“Fuck off, Jack.”
The mayor of Cleveland stormed into the hospital room with all smiles. “Jack Hardcock, with Lebron James gone, you’re the biggest hero to this town,” he said, “I would like to present to you the keys to the city.”
“Thank you, Mayor,” I responded, “but you can kindly stick those keys up your ass. I’m resigning from the Ohio BCI and moving on with my life. My only hope is that the next time the Cuyahoga River catches on fire, it will burn this entire city down.”
“But Jack, where will you go?” Pete asked.
“God made me a rolling stone,” I replied, “I will go wherever the Lord tells me. With the help of my .38, I will perform God’s wrath on any son of a bitch that asks for it. And I’ll spread the Word of Jesus and whatever.”
“I wish you the best of luck,” Pete said.
“Thanks Pete, but I don’t need that shit either. I have the Lord’s protection.”
We shook hands and I departed the hospital room. Where I was going, I didn’t know. My only guide was the Word of God and my .38.
“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?!”
After I shot Archibald for his supposed “dereliction of duty”, he managed to survive.
“Maybe we’ll just call it even,” the old butler said as he held his hand over the gushing shotgun wound. He placed his arm around my shoulder and I carried him back to the estate.
Darla regained consciousness after being choked out by her dying, naked father. “Is he finally dead?” she asked.
I nodded.
“About fucking time,” she replied, “let’s leave that crazy old bastard’s body out in the woods.”
Everyone agreed.
We all returned to the estate and shared a bottle of brandy. Archibald was looking a little pale due to the massive blood loss. Darla was happy to be home. “What the fuck was up with that arctic fox?” she asked.
I swirled around my glass while I pondered. “I guess it symbolized Mr. Shitz’s soul,” I said. “At his moment of death, the fox took up his spirit. Now Mr. Shitz is truly free; free from man-made constraints, free to live the life he always wanted. And more importantly, he took up my spiritual burdens by becoming the Angel of Death, and bestowing up me full humanity; the greatest gift he ever gave anyone. Or some shit like that. I dunno.”
“Okay good. Glad I wasn’t the only one that saw it,” Darla replied. “Because I was REALLY tripping balls out there.”
We all had a good laugh, including Archibald who continued bleeding all over the couch. Then it occurred to me:
“Did we get Allen Funt out of that hole?”
THE END
*****
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“I found him!” Allen Funt screamed through the torrential rain. It was our second day of hunting for the surprisingly evasive Mr. Shitz. The terrain in the sprawling forest proved to be formidable.
Archibald, shotgun in hand, ran towards Allen’s screams. Darla and myself weren’t far behind. “Where is he?” Archibald asked as he approached.
“Right there,” Allen said.
The butler looked down and was puzzled. “That’s just a hole in the ground,” Archibald replied.
Allen cocked his head. “But I thought that’s what this was,” Funt said, pointing to his ass.
Darla had enough. “This excursion is pointless!” she yelled. “Just let my father die naked and shitting himself in the woods, just as he wanted!”
Allen Funt seconded the notion.
Archibald tuned out the noise as he gazed into the woods ahead. “There,” he pointed.
Less than a 100 yards away was the majestic arctic fox. The creature contrasted like an apparition against the wet and drab forest. “Follow that fox,” Archibald ordered.
The butler proceeded forward while Darla and I followed in his footsteps. Allen Funt fell into the very hole he pointed out moments before.
“Help!” he screamed.
No one came to his aid.
We watched closely as the fox trotted forward a few feet. As the animal neared a meadow, a totally nude Mr. Shitz fell out of a tree and onto Darla’s shoulders. “Father!” she cried, but Mr. Shitz was delivering a rear naked chokehold, quite literally, as he was hanging on to her rear, he was naked, and had her a chokehold.
“Release her!” Archibald ordered.
Darla lost consciousness and fell to the ground. With an open shot, Archibald raised the shotgun and fired. But the spry Mr. Shitz dodged the shrapnel and disappeared into the shadows.
“Goddamn, he’s like the Vietcong,” Archibald said as he reloaded the shotgun.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“He’s too dangerous like this,” Archibald replied. “If you see him, kill him.”
Right then, Mr. Shitz swung around a tree and knocked Archibald out cold. The shotgun flew forward to my feet.
I kneeled down to pick up the weapon. But Mr. Shitz was close enough that I could see the rainwater dripping off his ballsack. I slowly picked up the shotgun and returned to my feet.
It was nearing dusk and the rain was falling harder. But the red in Mr. Shitz’s eyes pierced the dark through the booms of thunder and brilliant flashes of light.
The Internet Ruined Everything 