By the same logic, it pays to speculate on industry gossip, like which star is about to lose her anal cherry, which producer is bouncing checks, and who murdered Johnny Toxic.
It’s business-to-business marketing, but because the business is porn, all of these topics are discussed with either amicable paranoia or sophomoric depravity. But unlike other mainstream forums that are just as debauched as GFY, there are relatively few flame wars. Instead, this audience prefers rumor, wild speculation, and conspiracy theories, all of which are equal parts news and entertainment.
After an hour of exploring, I locate several threads pertaining to the Toxic murder. I’ve also located Johnny Toxic’s last post, which is a picture dump of all the nude female shots from the HBO show Game of Thrones. Apparently, Johnny Toxic’s final contribution to his peers was a library of unlicensed medieval titties. That strikes me as somewhat ironic for a man who died with a reputation for defending intellectual property. But in light of the fact that Toxic had more than 34,000 posts in his lifetime, it’ll take a while to probe the veracity of that reputation. So I bookmark Toxic’s profile, and move to the rumors.
Someone posting as Dick Butt Kiss says he has proof that Toxic was the victim of murderous anti-porn Christians. This is a wildly popular theory, but it strikes me as way off base, despite the fact that I have no problem believing that someone would kill in the name of Christ. Such has been the nature of war and genocide for the past two millennia.
In my brief tenure as a porn journo, I’ve already written three stories about the moral majority folks. They hate porn and pornographers like Toxic. But the simple fact is that they need porn just as much as the millions of cheapskate onanists out there—jerking for Jesus but unwilling to pay the devil his due.
The moral majority would lose a lot of revenue if the pornographers they crusade against suddenly stopped filming and turned to Jesus. After all, each act of depravity has got to be worth a few fundraising dollars. Which is why those same groups email us their press releases and offer interviews under embargo, so we can run with an exclusive for an hour or two before the left-wing bloggers erupt in outrage and the right-wing bloggers criticize their criticism as anti-free-speech fascism.
As for “proof” for his theory of the case, Dick Butt Kiss offers only clips—PND and The Daily Pornographer—detailing a spat Toxic had with a Christian group out of Barstow. That would be a decent lead, except the clips are five years old, and a quick Google News search reveals that the leader of this particular anti-porn group went to jail two years back for manufacturing meth. Such is the nature of doing the Lord’s work in California’s high desert.
The most popular theory is that “the powers that be” had Johnny Toxic murdered because he made “the porn establishment” look bad. Neither one of those entities is defined with any specificity. Instead, the posters in that thread dance around the idea that both “the powers that be” and “the porn establishment” are in reality some kind of unholy alliance between TubeWorks, the major studios, and—to a lesser extent—the adult trades. Only PND and The Daily Pornographer are mentioned by name, and the posters seem quick to cast both as “stooges” and/or “puppets” of whichever “nefarious” entity really controls online smut.
None of the posters offer any explanation at all for how Toxic may have made the porn establishment look bad. Instead, it’s just assumed that corporations must be evil, whereas a professed lowlife and pervert like Toxic must have been good, if only because he was an individual who publicly stood up to a perceived evil. Such is the nature of morality when we discuss the haves and have-nots in a post-Marxist context. Occupy Porn, I guess.
In the age of the citizen journalist, there isn’t much that separates someone like me from the posters on GFY. Sure, I have an office and a paycheck. But we both use pseudonyms. And for all I know, they have just as much integrity as I do. But my priorities are different, and I suppose that counts for something. The GFY crowd is obsessed with the Why of the story; I believe you need to know the Who first. Otherwise, you’ll never really know the motive. That distinction isn’t much, but maybe journalism is less than meets the eye. The idea is to put information in context, but in the Information Age, we all have the ability to make our own context, so who needs a journalist?
What GFY does confirm is that the other Ron—whoever he is—is my best lead. There’s one thread about him about ten pages deep. Someone using the handle Sweet Dick Willy posted the thread. Whoever Sweet Dick Willy is, he didn’t use Ron’s name, but he did describe him as a “cocksman” and “former Marine.” None of the posters who bumped the thread said anything about whether or not they thought Ron was the killer, but they all described working with him in negative terms. One poster called him a “fucking psycho” and another poster called him a “limp-dick psycho.” A few more posters said he was a decent guy who had just taken too many steroids. Thinking back to the awful acne on his back and butt, I’m inclined to believe the slightly more favorable assessment of the other Ron.
But there are other theories that point the finger in the direction of talent.
One theory has it that a midget named Tiny Tina killed Toxic. But as much as I’d love a nice alliterative headline—“Tiny Tina Terminates Toxic”—I have to discount this theory for two reasons.
First, the poster, someone who goes by the handle Louis Suck Cock, clearly has a vendetta against Tiny Tina that goes back some time. In fact, for the past four years, Louis Suck Cock has been using GFY to slam Tiny Tina, accusing her of performing with herpes, selling heroin, and castrating a clown. It’s absurd, which is what brings me to the second reason for discarding this theory.
Toxic took a battle-ax to the chest. According to Boyd, he was standing when it happened, which means Tiny Tina would have needed a ladder to kill him. Technically, I suppose Tiny Tina could have done it, but I have a hard time imagining a scenario where she could have gotten Toxic to stand in front of a ladder while she made her ascent up the steps, a massive battle-ax in her tiny hands and murder on her mind.
Further down, a poster using the handle Clarence Dick Yo posited that the killer might be an amateur girl who came from Missouri. That thread didn’t get much attention, aside from a few jackasses who requested nude pictures of the girl from the Show Me state.
Call it a hunch, but I’m pretty sure Clarence Dick Yo is Bobby Beauchamp because GFY doesn’t seem to be the sort of forum that attracts a lot of dudes with law degrees who would choose a handle to honor the jurist Clarence Darrow. What I don’t know is why he would speculate publicly about his friend’s killer. But I make a note to look into any amateur content Toxic produced, and to ask Beauchamp about his rather obvious online secret identity.
I have my work cut out for me. But it’s late, so I close my laptop and head downstairs. I want to drink a glass of water before crawling into bed, but what I find is Miles watching porn with Detective Boyd.
Chapter 33: The Johnny Toxic Collection
Seeing Boyd in my living room is like a seven-layer dip of weirdness.
For starters, I’m in my boxers. Cops generally make me nervous, and Boyd is no exception. But I’m pretty sure I’d be way more comfortable if I were wearing pants.
The absence of pants only makes me more aware of the fact that Boyd and Miles are watching porn—together. Unless it’s a bachelor party or a sex tape of someone who is either famous or personally known to the group, I’m opposed to public porn viewing. Actually, even in those scenarios, I’m uncomfortable watching porn with other people around. Unlike movies, porn prompts a certain of level audience participation, and I’m just not a circle jerk kind of guy.
But the really weird thing is that Miles and Boyd seem so chummy there on the couch. Miles has a yellow legal pad on his lap and the remote control at the ready. Boyd is noshing on a bagel leftover from brunch, and between bites he’s telling Miles when to fast-forward and when to press play.
“Nice wood, Heywood,” Boyd says.
I look down at my boxers to check, which naturally prompts Boyd to add, “Made you look.”
It never occurred to me that a homicide detective could be so juvenile, but I have all the proof I need when Miles says, “Good one” and they high-five.
“We’re watching Johnny Toxic’s movies,” Miles says. “All of them.”
There’s a stack of DVDs between them, and a few more stacks on the floor. It’s actually an impressive body of work, easily several hundred DVDs. Evidently, Johnny Toxic was a prolific filmmaker. And this is just the content that was released on DVD; there’s a lot more that’s Web-only.
“We’re looking for clues,” Miles says. “Isn’t this awesome? I’m like Serpico over here.”
“More like Jerk-pico,” Boyd says.
“Hey-oh!” Miles says like they’re frat brothers at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice.
“Rewind,” Boyd says. “There’s a new girl. Let’s get her name.”
Miles stops the DVD and backs it up.
“Whoever did the DVD authoring on these really sucked at his job,” Miles says. “They need to have each girl as a separate chapter, then break that down into navigable subparts—interview, blow job, cowgirl, doggy, cumshot.”
It figures that Miles would give notes on porn. He’s just that kind of guy.
Miles presses play and we all look to the TV. A nervous redhead in a tube top looks back at us. She says her name is April and that she loves sucking cock.
“They all say that,” Boyd says, rolling his eyes. “And none of them have last names.”
Miles writes April’s name on his notepad.
“Do you know if they use writers on these shoots?” Miles asks. “I could crush these scenes.”
Boyd snaps his fingers and points at the screen. Miles hits fast-forward. We watch as April sucks and fucks at double speed.
“This is how you’re going to crack the case?” I ask Boyd.
“No, this was my idea,” Miles says. “Tell him.”
“It was Spielberg’s idea,” Boyd says. “He’s an idea man.”
Miles smiles. He tells everyone that he’s an idea man, but when someone else picks up that label—even sarcastically—it warms his heart because he knows that frequency of repetition only adds to his reputation.
“I did some research on Google, Heywood. Did you know that most murder victims know their killer? Tell him, Boyd.”
“Most murder victims know their killer.”
“So you’re going through all of Toxic’s movies looking for a clue?”
“Yeah!” Miles says. “Like a needle in a haystack.”
“Or like a virgin at a gangbang,” Boyd says.
Miles is smiling. His instincts are solid, even though his methodology is idiotic. But from the look on his face, I can tell that he thinks the clue will come to him by watching porn, just like those scenes in the movies where the hero solves the mystery by viewing a tape a thousand times, over and over again, until he notices something that everyone else missed.
Unfortunately, I’m not sure Miles realizes that those scenes are shot as a montage, because if you actually did the work that way, you’d be there for years.
Boyd isn’t smiling, and I suspect that his metaphor—virgin at a gangbang—was deliberately off.
“You didn’t come here to watch porn,” I say.
“I’d never turn down bagels and titties,” Boyd says. “But no, I did not come to your shit stain of an apartment to watch porn.”
Boyd gets up and crosses in front of the television just as Miles tries to pause the DVD.
“Shit, I missed it again,” Miles says. “Heywood before you came down I was on fire. Right Boyd?”
“He was on fire,” Boyd says. “Your roommate’s remote control skills are unparalleled.”
From the television, I hear a woman introduce herself as Celeste. She also loves to suck cock.
“I’m going to pitch a competition reality show where the contestants face each other to see who has the best remote control skills,” Miles says.
“He’s an idea man,” I say as I meet Boyd by the door, eager to show him out.
“We’ll use different remotes, remotes that aren’t in English, and remotes with the button labels faded off,” Miles says. “That’s how you keep it interesting.”
Miles yammers on about his pitch, annoyed that he can’t call the show Remote Control because MTV already used that title.
“I thought I told you to stay clear of my investigation,” Boyd says.
“I can’t stop him,” I say. “Besides Miles watches a lot of porn.”
“You went to go talk to the lawyer,” Boyd says.
Not wanting to confirm or deny that accusation, I give him my best poker face. But my efforts are futile.
“Miles is a fountain of information,” Boyd says.
Boyd stares at me for a long minute and I can smell the everything bagel on his breath.
“I have every right to cover this murder,” I say. “It’s a news story.”
“No argument there,” Boyd says. “But did it ever occur to you that whoever killed Toxic wouldn’t think twice about clipping your ass?”
The blood drains from my face. My personal safety hadn’t occurred to me. My own mortality factored into my decision to go after this story, but only to the extent that I didn’t want to die as just a porn reporter. I never gave any thought to dying because I was a porn reporter. What hadn’t occurred to me—although it probably should have—was the inherent danger of unmasking a killer. Frankly, I didn’t think I’d even get close to that, I just knew I had to try, or I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.
“When push comes to shove a killer won’t think twice about killing again to keep from being locked in a cage for the rest of their life,” Boyd says.
“You’re just trying to scare me off,” I say, surprised by my own resolve.
“Bingo, dick-brain,” Boyd says. “Scaring you off may be the only way to save your punk ass from getting dead.”
“Boyd, it’s him,” Miles says, handing the detective a scrap of paper with the film’s title.
There on the screen Miles has frozen an image of the other Ron, the veins in his neck thick and blue as he pounds some nameless woman. I look at Boyd and he looks back at me.
“Is he your suspect?” I ask.
Boyd doesn’t answer the question, but his eyes tell me what I need to know.
“Watch your ass, Heywood,” Boyd says with a smile before slipping out the door and into the darkness.
Chapter 34: Blue Monday
December 30, 2011
I wake up early to get a jump on the day. It’s my second week on the job, but already I understand the imperative of working at a content mill for cut-and-paste journalism. The challenge is keeping your head above water so you can hit your quota without any major fuck-ups. Reporting a real story isn’t prohibited, but it is frowned upon if it takes you away from the more important task of filling pages with a news-like substance that ad sales can monetize.
There’s a Yum Yum Donuts on my way into work. It’s a cliché, but seeing Boyd in my apartment made me think of donuts. Walking out with a large coffee and an apple fritter, I realize Boyd isn’t the only cliché.
I’m not sure why Boyd’s trying to warn me off the story, but I decide that I need to know more about him, so I plan to do some deep Googling on the detective. Unfortunately, when I arrive at the office, I have company.
Dean looks like shit, but he gets points for being the first man in. He’s got that fried look of a man who crawled into a Quark-hole for the past week and put together a 140-page magazine all by his lonesome. It’s the same look he had on Friday, only varnished with cocaine and Mexican beer. His eyes are glassy, and his desk smells like weed and hand sanitizer. It’s Monday all right.
“You came back,” he says, grinning like that coked-out rabbit who steals cereal from kids.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”
&
nbsp; Dean looks at my coffee and then nods to an empty chair that’s halfway between his desk and Sunny’s. I notice the large Starbucks coffee in Dean’s hand and realize that this is his invitation to join him for breakfast.
“You’re not hungry?” I ask.
“I can’t eat here,” he says. “Germs.”
Dean really is porn’s answer to Howard Hughes. Based on the stuff I’ve seen already, I can’t blame him.
“Most people quit,” he says. “A week is a long time.”
“Is that what happened to the receptionist?”
“Who?”
“The receptionist,” I say. “When I had my interview, there was this goth girl in a tight sweater sitting out front. I think we had a moment. I don’t know, it’s tough to tell with goths.”
“No, I don’t think so. We don’t have a receptionist.”
Either the mystery receptionist is a figment of my imagination, or Dean’s assessment of the turnover rate at The Daily Pornographer underestimates just how much this place feels like a bad ’Nam movie, where some jaded soldier makes a point of telling the new guy that he doesn’t bother to learn the names of the replacements because they’ll probably die before he has anything else to say to them.
I’m sure Dean is wrong, but it doesn’t really matter. So I sit down and decide not to mention the fact that I’ve heard Oz is a firing machine.
“Did you have some kind of a pool going on me or something?” I ask with a smile calculated to suggest that I’m kidding about the idea that the office would bet on when the new guy would quit.
“Yup,” Dean says with a straight face. “I made twenty bucks, too.”
“You bet on me?”
“I never bet against a local,” Dean says.
Maybe we’ve turned the corner, or maybe Dean’s winnings have smoothed over the rough patches in his personality. Either way, he’s suddenly very chummy.
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