by Jane Etarie
No wonder Alethea was being such a slut. No wonder she wanted to get gang raped. I was going to have some words with her. Teach her a fucking lesson. But Tyler was blocking me, saying he shouldn't have told me, like almost begging me to calm down.
Then poor Boo showed up and wanted to know what was going on. So Tyler tells him, and Robert tries to talk me down, tells me to think of the baby. He's all like, You don't want to get kicked in the belly when you're having a baby, do you? You'll hurt the baby... the baby can drop out. Just don't worry about it... just calm down... Come on, think of the baby...
He was right. And then he put his fangs back in, like to cheer me up, to calm me down— and I cooled off right away. I knew how much he hated those fangs. It was like one of the nicest things anybody's done for me in a long time. So I tell him not to worry about it— Edward doesn't even have fangs anyways— don't worry about it, it's ok. And I give him a big hug.
And when I let go of him, he takes the fangs out of his mouth, and he gives me this look— I don't even know what kind of look he's giving me. He just takes a long pull on his beer and he doesn't take his eyes off me. He was probably just real drunk. I don't know, I was just so happy to have such an awesome boyfriend. Like for real— who gives a shit if some drunk skank thinks he looks gross?
And whatever, it was like no big deal— I could always get Alethea later. I know where she works. I could find out what she drives.
THREE
el Rapo
He says that Poon is a for real last name, that a lot of people have it. I tell him that I like Stanley J. Poon, I love Arnold J. Poon, and that Ronald J. Poon is growing on me. But really I don't understand any of this and I'm just trying to be helpful.
Robert's pretty happy with his story, says that Tyler helped him a lot. Like gave him some ideas and pointers and shit. Said it needed a prologue, something to get the action set up. He even wrote most of it. Robert really appreciated the help because Tyler's kind of busy writing a tv script. It's called Nick of Time. He says that Tyler always had the title, but came up with the ideas later.
At first Nick of Time was about this cop, Officer Nikodemedus, who can like see the future. I guess he's got this bullet or rebar stuck in his head or some shit, and the chunk of metal gives him hallucinations. Only they're not hallucinations— he gets like visions of brutal murders that haven't happened yet. Like future murders. And he's got to like figure out the crimes before they happen so he can save the victims before they get killed.
But Tyler scrapped that idea. He figures people want to watch shows about supernatural islands. So Nick of Time is about this guy, Nick, who has like this time machine. Nick's really rich because he's always winning the lottery. He uses his lotto winnings to buy an island and make a reality tv show. It's called Murder Island. He travels back in time to catch people like Adolf Hitler and Jack the Ripper and Gandhi, and then he throws them all on this island with modern day death row inmates— like gangsters and serial killers. They run around raping and killing each other and create a society. None of them can escape the island or their heads will like blow up, and they have to be extra careful not to get eaten by the velociraptors.
Robert loves the idea, and says he wishes Murder Island was a real tv show. But I don't know. I'm not so sure. It bothers me. It reminds me of something Dean said a couple months back. I'm sure he was serious. It was late at night, and Groundhog's Day was on tv. I love Bill Murray. And Dean— I swear to god he wasn't even trying to be funny— he was just smiling and takes a sip of his beer, and he makes this gross sucking squeak sound through his snaggleteeth, and he's all like, If I could do that— redo the same day everyday, or if I could travel around, like travel back and forth in time— I'd rape everything. Even the animals. Bill Murray could get away with raping everything... I don't know why he doesn't.
For real, I don't know why I hang out with these idiots.
Danger in the Land of the Turban
A Shep and Chet Novel
by Stanley J. Poon
Prologue
San Francisco Harbor, Pier 51, March 15, 1977, 3:00 am
Harry Twaddle ran. Not like he was jogging or like he was training for the San Francisco Marathon. Not even close. Harry Twaddle wasn't the athletic type. Truth be told, Harry Twaddle was a fat son of a bitch who only got off his miserable ass to get to the fridge, barstool, or whorehouse. Hell, he was so lazy he even owned a couple of bedpans— one for the bed and one for the couch. No, Harry wasn't running for fun or for exercise— Harry Twaddle was running for his goddamn life.
He was tangled up in so many Gordian Knots of bullshit and trouble that not even all the seventy-three thousand little pricks at the '73 Boy Scouts Jamboree at Farragut and Moraine State Parks could ever untie them. What a mess, he thought. Why did he ever get involved in this? Why? He should have known better. Only he knew damnwell why— he was a sucker for a beautiful woman. Poor Linda, poor smoking hot Linda. She'd only asked him to investigate the disappearance of her father... get a bit of media attention... stir things up a little... and now she was... dead... a suicide they called it.
To Hell with it, he thought, all this running was bullshit. Harry was exhausted, he out of breath. He needed a smoke. So he stopped, wheezing, and lit a cigarette. He'd walk for a minute or two... just for a minute... he had a terrible stitch in his side... he'd walk off the cramps... just for a minute... and then he'd run again...
Harry rounded a corner, into an alley. The cigarette dropped from his open mouth. His pursuer was inches from his face. He damnwell nearly bumped into him.
"No... no... it can't be... You— you're not real... you're..."
Harry stopped talking. A paralytic venom was injected into his neck— a poison that also had the peculiar side effect of amplifying nerve sensitivity by ten times. And in his last moments, Harry wished he had applied himself more in his high school physical education classes. When will I ever need PE in real life? he'd asked Mr. Ladorski. If only he could go back in time and tell himself "March 15, 1977, that's when, you little know-it-all son of a bitch bastard."
It was an excruciating end, a real lousy way to go. His damned ten-times-sensitive ears would be ringing and bleeding if he were able to scream.
Chapter One
Gavin McLeod, Coroner of the San Francisco Bay area, stood over the body. A good portion of his chili dog splattered on the ground. It was hard to tell one chunky mess from the other. One was made of beans, pig lips and assholes— the other had been the victim's rectal cavity in better times.
"Bruce, you wanna grab me the tongs? I think I found his wallet."
"Jesus Christ, McLeod," said the rookie, trying his damnedest not to gag, "how the hell can you eat? The smell..."
McLeod ignored him, and carefully prodded the defiled anus as he took the last bites of his dog. He handled the tongs like a man who had been playing Operation all his life, not like the drunk who'd finished a forty of single malt scotch just hours before.
McLeod retrieved the wallet. Sticky strings of maybe blood trailed from it like hot mozzarella off a slice of Papa Antonio's pepperoni pizza.
"Looks like we got a Mr. Harold J. Twaddle... forty three years of age... eighteen dollars... press card... the man was a jounalist."
Two men seemed to approach from nowhere.
"Outta the way, rookie."
Shep shoved Bruce out of the way, his partner Chet laughed.
"What have we got here, McLeod? This guy's a fucking mess."
McLeod wadded up a note that had been in Twaddle's hand and tossed it to Shep.
Shep easily snatched it out of the air and read it aloud.
"Goodbye, cruel world. I am sorry."
The detectives smirked.
"Hell of a way to kill yourself..." said Chet. "A killer with a sense of humor..."
"Maybe," said McLeod, "but one thing's for sure...this poor bastard was raped to death."
"Well son of a bitch..." said Bruce. "I guess the old bastard rea
lly did see something."
"You got a witness?" said Shep.
"Yeah, some old bum, sent him to the drunk tank. Says he saw something— like a dog, only it was green, and it stank... gave off this horrible musk. Says it jumped on Twaddle. Twaddle fell and didn't get up. Then he says this thing stood on its hind legs. And at first he thought it was the tail— only it wasn't, because it was on the front— it uncoiled like one of those party blowers... and then the thing was on top of him again. And the eyes... he says the eyes reflected like an animal's in the dark. Reflected red. When the thing looked back at him, he says he thought he was going to die. The old bastard turned around and staggered away as fast as he could."
"...El Chupacabra..." said Chet as he stroked his moustache.
"Bullshit. This wasn't done by any animal... since when do animals leave suicide notes and calling cards?"
McLeod threw his half smoked cigarette on the ground, and bent over the body. He lifted up Harold Twaddle's shirt. A name had been violently scratched into his back.
el RAPO
Ripley
Where the hell did I put it? I looked all over the place for it— like I must have pulled my jacket inside out like a dozen times. Seriously, how many fucking pockets or purses could have I lost it in? I dropped it at the party it is what happened. I mean, I was drunk. I've lost all sorts of shit when I'm drunk. It's not like I put it through the wash or threw it in the garbage or some shit. But whatever— it didn't matter how I lost it— I couldn't find her card anywhere.
I got it at the Halloween party. A little after I cornered and smacked Alethea and told her to fuck off before I killed her. Some drunk girl came up to me. I didn't know her but she thought she knew me. She was calling me Miranda, asking me if I still see Hannah around. How was Devin? Was I still working at the Poppy Seed? Still living at the Reprise? And I'm all like, Ya... Ya, same old. And she asks me some more shit, but I really can't hear her— it's loud and she's drunk. Mostly I just nod and smile and answer ya and laugh with her.
And then she's all like, Hey, have you met my cousin? And she points to some girl across the room talking to a few people. The girl's not overly animated. She's more cool, friendly, relaxed. Confident. Everyone's paying attention to her, like she's telling the most interesting story in the world. And then she smiles and says something and makes a couple of charming gestures, and everyone's laughing.
The drunk girl tells me to hang on a second— she'd be right back. I didn't hear what her emergency was, but I take her word for it, it's real important.
I watched her cousin. She had dark long hair, she was beautiful. Probably thirty, but looked mid twenties. I already knew her without even talking to her. We had a lot of the same interests. Bought the same yoga pants. The same coffees and teas. Loved the same books and movies. But that's where it ended. She had all the advantages. Traveled all over the world. Surfing, skiing, drinking. Flamenco dancing in Spain. Living carefree, following her muse. She had a loving family that encouraged and supported her, financially and emotionally, even if she'd fuck up— but she never did. She'd also had fun at college or university, maybe even got a degree. Had a large support system, made lots of friends. You'd resent her— for all her beauty and success, for how life came so easy to her, how she drifted so effortlessly— if she wasn't such a likable person, if you didn't want to try so hard to impress her. I hated her already and we hadn't even met.
The drunk girl got back quick and babbled something about how she was sorry and then she grabbed my arm and dragged me, and was all like, Come on, you've got to meet her, come on. So she was pulling me and staggering and slurring some more shit. And then we get to her cousin and she introduces me, but I instantly forget her name and can't really hear much, it's so loud. This is Miranda, she's like my best friend... blahblahblah... school... blahblahblah... The Poppy Seed. I'm sure she's making us out to be better friends than we really are. Then the drunk girl's cousin smiles, and extends her hand, says nice to meet you or some shit. I give her hand a shake, and I notice that her face is covered in blood.
And I'm all like, Wow, your costume is so gross.
I sounded like a retard. I couldn't think of anything else to say. But it was a real good costume. I hadn't even noticed it until she was right in front of me. She was like wearing cargo pants and suspenders and a tight white T-shirt, which was splattered in blood and had that alien from the movies popping out of her belly. And I didn't come right out and ask her, because maybe it was part of her costume or maybe she just had a fat gut, but she looked pregnant. And after spending the next fifteen, twenty minutes listening to these people, I found out that she was. The skinny bitch was about six, seven months in, but she looked more like four. Why the hell did I get so fucking fat?
My best friend disappeared again. So I started talking to her cousin. I tell her that I'm pregnant too, just over six months, same as her. And she's all like, Oh wow, I would never have noticed. So I start talking diet with her, and then we talk more pregnant shit. She's doing most of the talking, but she's asking me a lot of questions too, like she's genuinely interested. Mostly I just nod and agree with her and laugh and say ya ya, and, oh I know, I know, and, for sure, for sure.
Ripley's trying to figure out what I'm dressed up as, and I'm all like, Oh, nothing... it was a stupid idea, nobody knows who we are. And I explain to her that I'm here with my boyfriend, and that he's supposed to be Edward and I'm pregnant Bella. It's stupid, I say, it was a stupid idea. And then she's all like, Oh my god, of course, of course! That's so good! And it's not like she was just saying that to be nice. She even knows the scene the costumes are from. And then she's all like, I hope you don't mind my saying this— and I don't know if anybody's ever told you this before— but from the side... you look just like Kristen Stewart.
I needed to have this girl as my friend. Maybe I had her all wrong, like I was too quick to judge— I mean she was so pretty. And even though I probably still hated her just a little in the back of my mind, I wanted her to like me. I needed her approval.
And then some Thai hooker interrupted us and says some shit into Ripley's ear. There must have been like fifty girls dressed as hookers at the party. Bunch of sluts.
So Ripley says she's sorry, she's got to go. Some girl named Zoey— who I'm guessing is her drunk cousin— my best friend— is puking and passed out in the shitter. She's got to get her cleaned up and drive her home. She says it was really nice meeting me, and she hands me a card. Then she apologizes— she's not trying to be tacky and get business, but it has her number on it. She says to call her anytime and leave a message if I want— we'll go for tea.
And then she fucked off, like Cinderella or some shit. And I lost the glass slipper.
iPhone
This girl from work, Kameljit Guptha, tried to kill herself today.
The janitor, I don't know his name, slithered up to us in the coffee room. So gross. He creeps me out. When he looks at me I feel like he wants to rape me. Like he wants to kill me. Keep me in his fridge. Eat my skin.
Does anybody speak... Hindu? he says.
Ya. Ya I fucking speak Hindu. What a fucking retard. He looks it too, with his rat face and crossed eyes. I don't even know which one to look at. He wears a Playboy Bunny necklace, fingerless gloves, and a belt with so much shit attached to it I don't know how his pants stay up. You should see his backpack. There's like a 7-11 coffee mug the size of a midget attached to it. He's going to get scoliosis or whatever, I swear. But hey, at least he's ready for any situation, with all his pliers and duct tape and shit. Except for translation, I guess.
He found Kameljit on the floor of the women's shitter. And I felt a little bad. She'd been by my desk earlier asking if I had any painkillers. I had some Midol in my drawer. I shot her the bottle. And I also gave her an Adderall, a Percocet, an Ativan, a Zoloft and one of my leftover rave pills if she needed anything else. I mean, I didn't know— I was just trying to help. And Nancy— whose hair's just a total disaster—
tells us that she took like sixteen pills. And I didn't know how she knew this, but I didn't doubt it. Nancy's like a total nosy cunt— the kind of bitch who knows everyone and reads the obituaries every week to see who died. For real, her hair looked crazy and whorish. I had to look away.
Poor Kameljit. I wondered if she'd ever listened to the cd's I'd burned for her. Probably not. A couple of the girls wondered if she was just doing all this for attention. Probably not. I mean, I know— I've done it for attention, and I don't think she was faking it.
Nancy says that Kameljit threw all her savings into Sun Money Systems International. Like sixty, seventy thousand maybe. Like all her life's savings. Money that she was supposed to like buy a husband with. Like a dowry? Only now she had nothing, or she couldn't get at her money, and her parents had some stud lined up for her in India. Nancy says that if her parents found out, they'd like beat the brown off her, or throw acid in her face or some shit. They'd be like so ashamed and dishonored.
And I guess that when the paramedics wheeled her out, Nancy was like standing behind a plant or some shit, watching, listening. She said that Kameljit was like crying, like all quiet, and just kept on going, Please... I'm ok... I'm ok now... just don't tell my father... please... please don't tell my father...
I really wish she'd listened to those cd's. I couldn't imagine like for real trying to kill myself. Some people have real problems.
