Meet William shits (part vii)

“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.

TO BE CONTINUED…

meet William Shitz (part vi)

“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.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Meet Willem shits (part v?)

“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.

TO BE CONTINUED…

meet William shits (part iii)

“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.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Meat william Shitz (part II)

“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.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

turning over a new leaf

For the month of September, I want to write something nice for a short story. I’m always writing about shitty people doing shitty things. How about this time, I write about good people trying to make the world a nicer place?

OR, How about I try to write an actual goddamn story and not shit post the entire thing?

Ya know, I enjoy fine art. In fact, I wish that I could’ve been a painter. Seriously.

I love Claude Monet. Impression, Sunrise might be the most profound thing I’ve ever seen. It really stirs the poetry in my heart. That being said, I just wish the fisherman was pissing over the edge of the boat. 🤷‍♂️

Or consider the serene scene in Georges Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. Would it have killed Seurat to have added a dude taking a shit in the water?

C’mon!

Unfortunately, God didn’t bless me with the skill of the brush. Instead, he made me barely literate enough to string together sentences that are adequately coherent. But words are to a writer what color is the painter.

“What the hell are you talking about?” you might ask.

I’m trying to explain how I view the world. I always try to find the absurd and the vulgar, even where most find profundity.

It’s like that time when I got REALLY high and started thinking about 90s/00s Oscar-bait films. Specifically the westerns: Dances With Wolves, The Horse Whisperer, Legends of the Fall, Brokeback Mountain, etc. And then I created a trailer in my head: Brokeback Wolf Whisperer, which was directed by Ang Lee, written by Paul Haggis, and starring Kevin Coster, Robert Redford, Morgan Freeman, Jodie Foster, Brad Pitt, Richard Gere, George Clooney, Nicole Kidman, and Paul Reubens.

I don’t remember what it was about, but I think it was mostly Morgan Freeman talking sense into a wheelchair-bound Richard Gere:

“Why are you always whispering to wolves, Silas? They don’t understand a damn word you saying!”

“Because of my broken back, Ennis!!!”

So I want to do a story like that: something sappy, something heartwarming, something that’s barely above the quality of a Hallmark movie. That’s my challenge for the month of September.

And don’t do drugs 👍

****

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Jack hardcock: Christian detective (part viii?)

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.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack hardcock: Christian detective (part vi)

“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.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack hardcock: Christian detective- a quick aside

My motivation for completing this story about a right-wing, ex(and now anti)FBI agent in Ohio has been depleted after some presumed MAGA dude was killed after trying to infiltrate the Cincinnati FBI field office.

It kinda sucks the fun that I was trying to have with this.

I know you don’t give a shit, but I need to say this to get it off my chest: I am not trying to make a statement with this story. My position with this blog has always been anti-political. In fact, I will continue to argue that our current political environment is indistinguishable from religious dogma and I want no part of it.

Furthermore, if you champion people getting killed to make a political statement, you are a part of the problem. You can waste your life arguing about some imaginary supernatural or metaphysical force that you want imposed on the world, OR you can live your life, create art, fall in love, and make the best of the short time we have on this extraordinary planet.

As an aside, my two biggest influences for much of my writing is Paul Verhoeven and some guy in rehab that tried to explain the plot of Momma Mia! Verhoeven’s schtick, particularly with Starship Troopers, was to tell the story from a fascistic perspective while simultaneously letting the audience in on the joke.

That concept blew my mind, so I picked it up and ran with it.

I’m intrigued by the idea of giving an audience the illusion of truth, but in actuality there’s nothing behind the curtain. It’s all dick jokes and insanity.

This is probably why I was so taken with the film We Are The Flesh. The review that I linked to in my last post called the film “anti-art.” And that’s essentially what I’m doing here. And that’s the motivation behind all of my writing.

There’s nothing behind the curtain. So embrace the madness while you can.

Jack Hardcock will return…

Jack hardcock: Christian detective (part iv)

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.”

TO BE CONTINUED….