Red Meat Cures Cancer

by Starbuck O'Dwyer

  Roxby and I shook our heads, but Thickens wasn’t waiting for an answer.

  “Well, I heard the pop. So I stick the bone back under the skin, take a few cortisone shots and get it taped up. A few minutes later, I’m sitting on the bench when Coach Ryan comes over to me. He says, ‘Thickens, you’re going back in the game and I want you to take out their quarterback.’ So I ask him if I’m going back in at end or tackle, since I’d been alternating between the two, and he says, ‘Neither, you’re going in as our twelfth man.’ ‘Twelfth man?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t we only allowed eleven?’ ”

  By now, Roxby and I were done with our drinks and praying for Andre to come back.

  “Then I’ll never forget what he said to me. He said, ‘Don’t be an asshole, Thickens. They’ll never see you in all this fog.’ And they didn’t. I smashed through the line, broken bone and all, and took McMahon’s head off. We lost the game, but that was some of the most brilliant coaching I’d ever been around. (Pause) So anyway, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “I want to talk to you about the SERMON suit.”

  “Sky, my office hasn’t decided what our role will be in that suit. I’ve had a few preliminary meetings with Muffet Meaney, but nothing is definite.”

  “Oh, you’ve met with Muffet?” I asked nonchalantly.

  “Do you know her, Sky?”

  “I may have met her once or twice.”

  “Some number, eh?”

  “She’s attractive.” My reply seemed suitably understated.

  “Not only that. She’s a real fuck monkey, too. I had the most wicked backache by the time I made it home from D.C.”

  I hid my extreme displeasure by biting down on a swizzle stick and reminding myself that I needed this guy. Then Roxby, for no reason other than to hear his own voice, decided to get into the mix.

  “Look, Plot. It’s no secret that you’re planning to run for governor next year. Now Tailburger is one of the best corporate constituents in my district, and I’m very interested in seeing them thrive. They employ a lot of people, and they pay a lot of taxes. That said, I’m also very interested in seeing a pro-business Republican governor, preferably one with a dickless wife, take office. I think you can be that governor, and I’d like to tell the three million voters in western New York how I feel.”

  Roxby’s words made me feel a little bit better about Muffet, but not much.

  “Burt, I would of course welcome your support in any future campaign I may or may not undertake. I would welcome it openly. But this SERMON suit is something that involves the health of the citizens of New York, and as attorney general, my first obligation is to them.”

  My tone was direct as I jumped back into the fray.

  “Let me tell you what I want, Plot. Help me broker a side settlement before the suit starts, or even better, use your influence with Muffet Meaney to get us excluded entirely.”

  “Sky, if you think I can promise you either of those things, you’re crazy.”

  “I don’t want to insult you, Plot, or worse, end up tossing some gangbanger’s salad in Attica state prison, but Tailburger would be most appreciative of any efforts you could make on our behalf.”

  “As would I,” Roxby chimed in.

  “I understand, and I promise I will try. I know it’s a competitive time in the fast-food industry and these lawsuits can be damned expensive. Let’s just keep talking. Keep the lines of communication open. You know, it reminds me of being back in the League. Seems every week I was getting hit with a palimony suit or attending a child support hearing or getting slapped with a restraining order. You name it, I saw it. Shit, I spent more time in the local courthouse than in the film room. It really got me interested in the legal profession.”

  “I’d love to hear more, Plot, but I have to get back to Rochester.

  My daughter, Sophia, is coming home for the weekend from college.”

  Roxby followed my lead with his own lie.

  “I’ve got to go, too. Big date with my wife tonight. Have to keep those home fires burning.”

  “Okay, gents. Then we’ll be talking.”

  “You got it, Plot. Thanks for your time.”

  “Thanks, Plot.”

  Roxby and I left, pretty well convinced that Thickens could be manipulated. It would mostly take money, but if it saved Tailburger from the SERMON suit, it would be worth every penny.

  18

  Simmering

  The mood at corporate headquarters was less somber than I anticipated. I said hello to Sheila, our receptionist, and made my way to the executive conference room for our monthly board meeting. Ned, Ted and Fred, dressed in bright green pants, multicolored shirts, white golf shoes and visors, had arrived early, as usual, in order to monopolize the doughnut tray.

  “Hey, guys,” I muttered upon entering.

  “Hey, Sky,” came back at me in triplicate.

  “That was some stunt you pulled on Larry King,” Ned offered, his mouth full of glazed dough.

  “Absolutely,” agreed Ted as he licked chocolate off his fingers.

  “What’s going on with you and that chick?” Fred subtly asked while fingering a cruller.

  “I’d rather not talk about it. Just a bad night all around,” I responded, hoping to deflect their interest. “What did you shoot this morning, Ned?”

  “Sky, get this. I’m a hundred fifty, maybe a hundred seventyfive yards from the hole on the sixteenth at Shady Bush. I pull out a six-iron, stroke her smooth and put that puppy three inches from the cup. Prettiest thing you ever saw.”

  “He shot a one-forty,” Ted blurted.

  “Shut up, Ted. It was a one-thirty. We weren’t playing water penalties, remember?”

  “Would sure like to join out at Crooked Creek, Sky. Heck of a club,” Ted agitated for a reaction.

  “I know, Ted. I’d love to help you out there. The waiting list is just brutal. I’ll let you know when your name pops up.”

  Biff Dilworth, wearing his trademark three-piece suit, sat with his legs crossed near the head of the table, reading the Wall Street Journal. He didn’t engage in small talk prior to the start of our meetings, mostly because he hated the rest of us. Chad Hemmingbone felt similarly and usually arrived a few minutes late in order to avoid the inevitably mundane conversations one is subjected to at such gatherings. In contrast, Annette McNabnay, apparently over my earlier snub, smiled at me upon her arrival and asked how I was doing. As we chatted and waited for stragglers, the Link took great pride in introducing Sister Ancilla as our newest board member. Though her business acumen could be compared to that of a goat, she would add “moral insurance,” in the words of the Link.

  “What kind of ball do you play, Sister?”

  “Ball?” she replied, clearly confused by Ned’s question.

  “Yeah, you know, golf ball. What kind of golf ball do you use?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t play the game.”

  Ted, being a complete turd, took offense to her characterization of his favorite activity.

  “Hey, Sister, it’s a sport, okay? Not a game. Pinball. Now that’s a game.”

  “I meant no offense.”

  “None taken, Sister. None taken. Just watch what you say.”

  Ned wanted to get back to his point despite the sister’s evident lack of interest.

  “Anyway, Sister, the new Titleists are amazing. Great touch around the greens and long as Christmas Eve off the tee. So if you’re in the market, give ’em some thought.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Fred, despite knowing that I thought he was retarded, attempted to engage me in conversation, much to his credit.

  “Taking any vacation this summer, Sky?”

  “I don’t think so, Fred. Too much going on with the new campaign to get away right now. What about you?”

  “Yeah. I’m taking the whole crew over to the British Isles to play the legendary courses. St. Andrews, Balmoral, Carnoustie, all of them. We’ll get in fifty-four holes a day.”<
br />
  “Bet the kids’ll love that.”

  “You know, they’re only six and four, but I think it’s going to be a good experience for them, and Marcia, well, she can’t wait. I told her the RV I’m renting has a stove and an oven. Can you believe it?”

  “No. It sounds wonderful.”

  “She’s really excited.”

  Once our entire assemblage had gathered, we proceeded as usual. After the minutes were approved, we formally voted Sister Ancilla onto the board and began the various committee reports. When the time arrived for marketing, I took the lead as committee chairman and recounted some of the initial problems we’d been having with the Torture campaign. Soon, the topic turned to a new giveaway scheme in light of the carnival worker comb set surplus. The Link got us started.

  “How about a knife giveaway? Kids love knives.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Frank,” Chad Hemmingbone conjectured.

  “Sure it is. What child doesn’t enjoy a good game of mumbletypeg?”

  “That seems a bit violent to me,” Sister Ancilla said. “How about handing out copies of the Bible?”

  The Link, who was not used to having his ideas dismissed so summarily, reasserted himself immediately.

  “Sister, the name of the company is Tailburger, not Jesus Burger.”

  Biff Dilworth, who was always pushing the educational angle, suggested we distribute great books. His idea was, of course, shot down by the Link.

  “Biff, you old coot, will you please join us in the new millennium? Kids don’t want to read. Hell, half of them don’t know how to read. Books are not going to bring them by our stores.”

  “Don’t we have a responsibility to our youth market to help them better themselves?” Biff persisted. “Sister, don’t you agree?”

  “I do. I think books are a wonderful idea.”

  The skillful use of Sister Ancilla to leverage an idea against the Link was something our fat führer had not anticipated and certainly didn’t like. His anger spilled out as he spoke.

  “Are you two done? We’re not running the book-of-the-month club here. We’re running a fast-food company. Whatever we give away has to appeal to our current customers, seventy-eight percent of whom, according to our research, are illiterate. So we’re not gonna sell more burgers by giving away Moby Fucking Dick, Tom Fucking Sawyer or the Invisible Fucking Man. Are you tracking?”

  “I think I’m tracking, Frank, but your foul language is entirely unnecessary,” Sister Ancilla responded, a bit bewildered by the Link’s profanity.

  “Sister, I apologize. I’m just passionate about our product, and I want to see it sell.”

  “God forgives you, my child.”

  Suddenly the board meeting was turning into a confessional. What was next? Wafers and grape juice?

  “Thank you, Sister. Now let’s hear some better ideas.”

  “What about a nice titanium driver?” Fred asked.

  “Now that’s a good idea,” Ned added.

  “Hell of a good idea,” Ted followed.

  “Are you three brain-dead?” the Link asked.

  Chad Hemmingbone saw the limitations of the proposed offer.

  “Don’t those go for three hundred dollars a pop?”

  “Well, some of your Big Berthas do, but we could give away knockoffs,” Fred answered.

  “Our patrons would be more likely to use them on each other’s windshields than on a golf course,” Annette McNabnay observed.

  “Road rage could be a problem with a club giveaway,” Dilworth concurred.

  Ted Truheart, still afraid the Link would release the pictures of him with his French au pair, said nothing.

  “What about domestic violence?” Hemmingbone inquired.

  “What about it?” I wondered aloud.

  “Well, we have a high number of wife beaters among our clientele. I’m concerned we might be held liable for any clubbings.”

  The Link was fed up.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Can we come back from the brink of insanity here, please? We’re not giving away titanium drivers. Okay?”

  Fred wasn’t quite ready to let go.

  “How about putters?”

  “That could work,” Ned opined.

  “That could definitely work,” Ted completed the triumvirate of stupidity.

  The Link shook his head and turned his attention to me.

  “Sky, what do you think? You’re the one who got us into this mess. How’re ya gonna get us out?”

  I figured I could dance around the issue for a short time.

  “Frank, I can report to the board that I’m in touch with an outside consultant, Cal Perkins, who is an expert in marketing and is going to work with me on some new ideas. I’ll have more to say next time but I’m excited about the possibilities.”

  “Good, Sky. I’m glad to hear that, but you better move your ass quickly before this whole company is bankrupt!”

  The meeting adjourned after a blood vessel popped in the Link’s neck and he needed to seek medical attention. Ned’s suggestion that we give away electric golf carts was more than his father could take. In all my years at Tailburger, the board had never made it through an entire meeting’s agenda, and today was no exception.

  I saw Annette in the parking lot as the other cars cleared and sensed an opportunity. I felt a bit awkward approaching her, but I was determined to move on from Muffet, and asking Annette out seemed like the best way to do it.

  “Hey, Annette, could you hold up?” I picked up my pace until I stood next to her.

  “Sky, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m off to another meeting, believe it or not.”

  “Sure, sure. I understand. This’ll just take a minute.”

  Having turned her down once, I was now met with suspicion. The slight prick to her person that accompanied my rejection had healed, and there was no interest in reopening the wound, however tiny.

  “Listen, I’d like to take you out sometime.”

  She sighed. “Sky, I don’t know. I mean, didn’t you say you were getting involved with someone? What about that?”

  If I’d been totally honest, I would have told Annette that I still had feelings for Muffet, and that somewhere deep in the lower recesses of my heart, I hoped we could be together again.

  “That? That’s all over now.”

  “Well . . .”

  “I promise to get you home before curfew.”

  Annette’s face lit up. For a moment, I had won her vague affections back.

  “I guess so.”

  “That’s a yes?”

  “Yes. Give me a call.”

  “Great.”

  I stood and watched as Annette drove away. The sputtering exhaust from her car provided the soundtrack to a movie moment in my life. As she disappeared out of sight, it struck me that she was somehow important in whatever cosmic plan existed for me. With any luck, she’d help me forget all about the loss of Jess and the pain in my gut caused by Ms. Meaney, and would put me on the path to happiness. In many ways, I was at her mercy.

  19

  Breach

  To ensure complete privacy for our discussions, Cal agreed to meet me at my house. Although I was still uncertain about entering the world of pornography, I knew it was my only option. To calm my raw nerves, I lit a Commodore and put on Mozart’s Turkish Rondo. With my wretched career nearing its tragic conclusion, I figured I’d better start appreciating some of the finer things. Cal came through my front door with his typical exuberance. He was in top shape, the result of regular running, and looked about fifteen years younger than me. It was true what they said. Money did make you more attractive.

  “You make me sick, Cal. Do you know that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand,” I said, taking another drag on my butt.

  “I’ve got some great ideas for Tailburger, Sky.”

  “Good, come on in to the kitchen. I’ve got some beer.”


  “It’s ten A.M.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s light beer.”

  Cal had a laptop with him that he flipped on and used to pull up his Lust Ranch site.

  “We get six million hits a month on this sucker, and that number is growing.”

  I looked at the comely female form on the screen and found my prurient interests piquing. To Cal, the same set of huge knockers registered as dollar signs. “What a shame,” I thought, rubbing my schwantz against the nearest table leg.

  “What I propose as a first step is to place a large ad banner on the wallpaper. That way, every time a horny, and hopefully hungry, male logs on, he will see the Tailburger logo and the catch-phrase ‘Torture Yourself.’ You like that?”

  “That’s good. I like it.”

  “Alone, it’ll give you a one percent bump. Your consumers and ours mesh perfectly.”

  “I don’t know if I should feel flattered or insulted by that remark.”

  “C’mon, Sky, don’t tell me that surprises you.”

  “It doesn’t. I’m just fucking around. What else do you have?”

  “Today’s your lucky day. Construction on our actual Lust Ranch in Nevada is almost finished. Why doesn’t Tailburger sponsor some kind of contest to win a free trip out there along with a year’s supply of food? We’ll promote it exclusively through the site.”

  “Cal, that’s good. We can call it the ‘Nail Some Tail Sweepstakes.’ ”

  “Perfect. And the great thing is that you’ll hit one of your big target markets. Disgruntled teens.”

  “Isn’t the site restricted?”

  “Yes, but the kids find ways to get in. And let’s just say we don’t work too hard to stop them.”

  “I don’t want to know anything about that end of the business. Just keep it legal.”

  “Don’t worry about that. It’s all covered.”

  “Christ, it really sounds promising, Cal. But how am I going to keep this quiet from my own organization?”

  “We’ll run it through our marketing group. I’ll make sure the details are kept secret and you pay us under a consulting arrangement. It’s no problem. Plus, if someone at Tailburger wants to blow your cover, they’ll have to admit they’ve been trolling for porn on the Web. Do you think anybody would do that?”