Sunday, September 23, 2007


0945 hrs. Fort Braggart Multi-Cultural Airport. The Men's Room.
I sat on the crapper, wishing like hell I could just get this business over and done with. The whole thing smelled dirty, but it wasn't the first time this mercenary found himself in the shit. I grunted, straining...and finally got the top off the bottle of Zima in my sweaty hand. Might as well relax while I wait for this piece of shit...
A sound outside my stall. Someone had entered the bathroom. I came to combat-alert and peered under my door. Black wingtips. Pinstriped trousers.
This was it. Action time.
I sat the Zima aside and pulled my pants down to my ankles.

1100 hrs. The McFab compound. The day before.
I knew I would be in combat soon. Call it a sixth sense, call it a warrior's instinct, but I knew this mercenary had a job coming as soon as I read the post-it note my mother had left on the fridge.
You'll be in combat soon, it read. Client will call back later. Mama.
Those pansies among you who are new to my adventures may wonder why I allow my mother to live in my compound. It's simple. After my wife left me and Taco Bell fired me, I moved my headquarters to my mother's mobile home in Festering Springs, just outside Fort Braggart proper. I allowed her to stay because I love her, and I even let her continue paying the bills so she wouldn't feel useless. It's called family values, for you liberals out there.
I peeled the note off the fridge and stuck it in the waistband of my camo briefs. Like most men of action, I don't wear pants unless it's necessary--and it's necessary a lot less often than you'd think.
"Mama!" I yelled into the living room while I pulled a breakfast Zima out of the fridge.
"Yeah, honey?"
"When did this guy call?" I sat on the couch across from her.
"Hang on, honey." She raised her easy chair up a bit and did something to the remote control on her stomach, muting The View on our 17-inch Sanyo. "Barbara Walters looks old, doesn't she?"
"Yeah," I agreed. "But still do-able. Very, very do-able." I forced my mind back to business. "So this guy..."
"Well, honey, I think it would take a lot less exposition if he just called back now," Mama said.
The phone rang.

"This is the hot phone," I answered. "Identify yourself."
"Hey, Randy," a weary, familiar voice greeted me. "It's Sheriff Peeler."
Christ. Sheriff Jimmy "Spud" Peeler wasn't exactly my best friend in Hangdog County, though we had certainly spent a lot of time together.
"Listen Sheriff," I said, "I've been a good boy on probation. If this is about that thing at the mall, I ask you to define 'grope' for me, because to me, I was just being friendly."
"No, no McFab, the D.A.'s still looking at the video on that. I actually called to...It wasn't my idea, but I'm callin' to offer you a job."
A job? I'd set him straight about that.
"I already did my community service, Peeler. At the Adonis Inn."
Peeler sighed. "Uh, yeah McFab...We were gonna tell you, the guy who runs that place lied to you. It's not a charity and it doesn't count as community service."
"What? I gave out tug jobs at a gay bath house for nothing? Oh, for--"
"It's alright, McFab. We'll wave the community service if you do this job for us."
"Okay." I was willing to listen.
"It's funny you should mention gays, McFab," Peeler said. "This job...It involves going undercover and catching a...Well, it's kind of a long story."
Sheriff Peeler spelled it out for me, and what he had to say shocked me just as much as if he'd told me that George Bush wasn't the most intelligent man in America.
Peeler's news flash involved the Republican congressman representing Hangdog County and parts surrounding, Representative Richard Tickler. I had voted for Tickler five times, mainly due to his anti-gay and pro-family platform. That he supported a peremptory war with Costa Rica only made me like him more.
Apparently, though, Dick Tickler was a phony, as Peeler had good intelligence that led him to believe Tickler was a closet gay--and one who preferred his forbidden love in public restrooms and other places sacred to normal men. The local G.O.P. had contacted Sheriff Peeler, hoping he'd catch Tickler before he ended up on To Catch a Predator and really hurt the republican cause.
Problem was, all the local deputies were staunch right-wingers and refused to participate in Tickler's downfall, so the sheriff needed a third party to set up a sting. Tickler's upcoming flight to Thailand, where the congressman was going to tour orphaned boys' homes, was a perfect opportunity to catch him in a public restroom--as long as someone would take on the job.
As a mercenary, I take on the hard jobs that no one else will.
"I'll take on the job," I said, "even though it pains me to bring down such a staunch supporter of traditional values."
"Good man," Peeler said. "At the very least, you might get a blowjob out of it."
"Whatever, Sheriff. A man's got to be straight to blow me. I'm not a faggot."

0700 hrs. D day.
I dressed for action, going over the instructions in my mind. As soon as Tickler went for my wee-wee I could take him down, but not a second before. I was also not to kill him, but I took that particular instruction with a grain of salt. I would do what had to be done to protect my weiner, period. If Tickler died choking on trouser snake it wasn't my problem.
I dressed like a turd-burglar, since I was going undercover. I knew that faggots like pink, so I wore a pink oxford shirt. I put on a pair of khaki slacks, instead of the macho leather pants I would normally wear at this time of year. I even shaved off my mustache, because having no mustache is an obvious sign of a gay guy. I simply dried my hair after showering instead of spiking it up with gel like cops and other bad-ass heteros do. I was ready.

0945 hrs. Fort Braggart Multi-Cultural Airport. The Men's Room.
Tickler was outside my stall. The pinstripes and expensive shoes gave him away. All I had to do now was lure him in. I had already slid my pants off; now I just needed to get his attention.
I was about to sing a Streisand song when Tickler stuck his head under the stall door.
"Hellooooo..." He said, smiling like he did that time when he explained why gays are ruining America on Fox news.
"Hi there, sweet butt meat," I said, speaking gay talk to lure him in.
"Mind if I join you?" he said.
"Sure, come on in." I unlocked the stall door and readied the tire-iron I had in my hand.
There was a sickening crunch as I brought the steel down on his skull.

0950 hrs. Fort Braggart Multi-Cultural Airport. The Men's Room.
He started coming to as I cuffed him.
"What...?" he groaned.
"You've been caught," I sneered, pulling the plasti-cuffs tight and slamming against the stall. I jerked him around and rammed his face into the toilet tank. "You lied," I said. "You were anti-gay, and even though the evidence suggests that most anti-gay republicans are gay themselves, I was shocked. And appalled. You're lucky I'm not just gonna kill you."
"But wait," Tickler said. "You're republican...I can tell by your belt buckle."
I looked down at my pewter confederate flag and couldn't argue with him.
"The thing is, " Tickler went on, "we Republicans look at gay differently. To a liberal, being gay is just something you are...You either want to  fuck men, or you don't.  To a republican, it's a temptation that every man wants, a forbidden fruit that can only be avoided if we point out how evil it is. It's easy for a liberal to not fuck men--he just doesn't want to. For us, though...It's such a powerful draw we have to fight the desire to fuck men constantly, and sometimes..." He sagged against the tiles. "Sometimes it's too much," he said.
My God. He was right. Liberals think it's fine and dandy to be gay, so confident are they that they won't catch it. Conservatives know better. Any opportunity to suck a dick, a real man can't resist. The only way to stop gays is to keep them away from macho guys like me, lest they turn me and mine.
I released his cuffs and kicked the stall door open.
"Go, my friend," I told the congressman. "Go and keep up the good work protecting us from faggots."
He didn't go immediately.

1700 hrs. The same day.
"Goddamnit, McFab!" Sheriff Peeler screamed into the phone. "We saw him go into the bathroom--what the hell happened?"
"He wasn't gay, Sheriff," I answered. "Though I did get that blow job you mentioned."