Sunday, September 23, 2007

Stalled

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."

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

The Therapists Win

0945 hrs. Fort Braggart, East Carolina. Downtown.
I parked as far away as I could without having to walk far enough to get me sweaty. The southern summer heat was stifling, and the last thing I needed was my mustache wax running when I was embarrassed to be here anyway.
The sign on the building said it all. Odd Horizons. Recovery for Addicts and Rage-aholics.
According to my court-ordered assessment I was both the former and the latter, with a bit of "sexual delusions" thrown in for good measure. Shows how much the liberal justice system knows.
I'd been doing just fine drinking Zima all day, settling personal vendettas with a urine-filled watergun, and demanding marriage from chicks I'd come to know only by intensive stalking. The only reason I had to come here at all was because of the damned incident with the ostrich, which I don't care to go into right now. Suffice it to say, my probation demanded this "treatment," and I wasn't going to jail again after what happened last time.
I put the "Black-Owned Business" sign on the windshield of my mom's car to keep it safe, and shuffled reluctantly towards Odd Horizons.

1000 hrs. Odd Horizons.
Someone tried to hug me as soon as I opened the door to room 219.
"Welcome," he said. "Welcome home!" I pushed him away with a move I learned from Hardcore Self-Defense 3: When Well-Meaning People Attack.
"You must be Randy," someone else said, and I stepped into the room to face him. He sat in the open end of the semi-circle formed by the chairs laid out for the participants. "Don't mind Trevor," the man added. "He was touch-deprived as a child and he's just trying to make you feel loved."
I gave Trevor another shove towards an empty chair and addressed what appeared to be the leader. "Let's just keep Trevor touch deprived," I said. "I didn't come here to catch gay."
"Oh, Randy," the leader chuckled, "you have a lot to learn!" He indicated an empty seat (luckily not next to Trevor), and I sat down, joining the group of five or so. The leader stroked his mustache (a Saddam mustache, I noted, not a Magnum P.I. mustache like an American would wear), and addressed us.
"Welcome, welcome, welcome," he said in an accent I couldn't quite place. "For our newcomer, I would like to introduce myself. I am Doctor Hamas al-Shiznit. I know you will wonder about my name," he added, "and yes-- I am Persian." He beamed at me, his teeth white like tracer rounds against the night sky.
"Pear-shaped?" I asked.
"Per-sian. I am from Iran." So. We had us a Mexican on our hands.
"Let us please now to introduce ourselves to this newcomer," he said, and gestured towards a fat red-haired guy in the corner.
"I'm Bo. I've been here three weeks and my drug of choice is pork rinds."
"Hi, Bo!" Everyone said as one.
"I'm Toby," another guy said. "I've been here seventy-five times and my drug of choice is alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, pills, ecstasy, unprotected sex--"
"Yes, Toby, very good," Dr. Shiznit said. "Next?"
"I'm Ed. Ed Undy." He looked around the room with dead blue eyes, like the eyes of a shark whose eyes were both dead and blue. "I'm here because...Because Mother made me come." He paused. "Mother makes me do things."
"Hi, Ed!"
"Very good, Ed," Dr. Shiznit said. "You're communicating. Next?"
A couple of more feebs introduced themselves and then it was my turn.
"I'm McFab. Randy McFab. Mercenary, private investigator, bean-man at Taco Bell until I was fired without cause. I'm here because the U.S. justice system has been co-opted by liberals and a real patriot can't get a fair shake anymore. Especially when an ostrich is involved."
"Oh, Randy," the doctor laughed, "don't worry about what you've done. Here all are welcome, no matter how sickening or unnatural their crimes may be. Ashalam, my friend."
I didn't bother pointing out that I had plead nolo on the ostrich thing, so technically I wasn't guilty. It was the ashalam bit that had me worried. This Mexican was speaking terrorist.
"Now, " Dr. Shiznit continued, "I would like us please to direct our attentions to today's handout from the 'big book.' " He began passing out papers.
"Woah there buddy," I said. "I ain't no Muslim. I read the Bible, not the Korean."
"Oh, no, Randy. This is not the Holy Koran. It is the 'big book,' the book of Drunks Incognito."
I'd heard of D.I. They went to meetings, talked about God, and tried to interfere with each others' drinking. Not my cup of tea, but at least it wasn't the Korean. I'd play along.
"I will read first, " Dr. Shiznit said. "'Today's reflection: I don't have to puke today...'"

1130 hrs. Room 219.
I had zoned out during most of the "reflection," and went into my backpack for some refreshment to keep me awake.
"Mr. Randy," Shiznit said, "Please to put away the Zima. There is no drinking in group."
No drinking. Where had I seen that rule before? Oh, that's right. The Taliban. I took a long swig of the Zima and tucked it back in my rucksack.
"Thank you Randy. Now, we will each share what is on top of our minds. Any thoughts of using the alcohol or drugs...Randy?"
"I don't do drugs, Ayatollah Touchy-Feely. I'm an American."
"Hey, I'm an American!" Toby said, and slumped over in his chair. "Oh, wait..." he mumbled.
"Alcohol is a drug, " Shiznit said. "And you must accept that you're an alcoholic, Randy."
"How many alcoholics just drink Zima?" I demanded.
"He's got a point, doc," someone piped in. "He might just be a pussy."
"No, no," the doctor laughed. "It doesn't matter what you drink. It is why, and how much. Our friend Mr. McFab is an alcoholic and a pussy."
"No one calls me an alcoholic!" I snarled. If I'd had my urine-filled watergun with me, this raghead doctor would be crying for a pre-moistened towelette right about now.
"Someone needs a hug," Trevor said, but my look put him back in his seat.
"It is okay," Dr. Shiznit said. "Randy is in denial. We can skip your alcoholism for now, until you are ready, in'shallah." He kept sneaking his Muslim talk in there, kind of like...like Osama Bin Laden!
"I see what you're doing, doctor--if you're even really a doctor."
"I am trying to help," Shiznit said, "and no, I am not a real doctor."
"You're trying to prey on these losers and convert them to Muslim. Then you're gonna send them out to do your bidding like trout."
"Like trout, Randy?"
"If you were Aquaman, and they were trout. Yes. Just like that."
"Randy, you are not thinking clearly," Shiznit said. "Aquaman lives in the ocean. Trout are freshwater creatures."
"There's sea trout," I said. "And you know it."
"Aquaman talked to a dog once," someone said. "But the dog was in the ocean at the time, so..."
"Enough about Aquaman! Randy, please..." Shiznit gestured for me to sit back down. "Open your mind, friend. We are only trying to help you with your problems. We are not trying to convert you to anything."
I sat, reluctantly.
"Now," Shiznit said, "what does the Prophet teach us about marijuana?"
I lunged at him, and then everything went black.

2300 hrs. Odd Horizons.
I rolled over, trying to get comfortable. You'd think a padded cell would have more padding.
When I had come to after the injection Shiznit gave me, I'd tried to tell the staff what he was doing to the impressionable feebs under his control. They didn't believe me, and underscored the point by placing me under 72-hour suicide watch. It wasn't me I wanted to kill.
I'd be out eventually, and that terrorist bastard Shiznit would find out what happens when you cross an American mercenary. You get prank calls, that's what. Even late at night.
"Is your refrigerator running?" I whispered into the darkness of my cell.