Not Safe for Work

by Michael Estrin

  · Being molested has nothing to do with his vocation because he fucks women. “Hot women. The hottest women.” That’s how he changes the topic.

  · One time he fucked a woman while skydiving.

  · He keeps trying to pitch that movie’s producer to let him fuck two women while skydiving, but so far there’s only marginal interest.

  · He doesn’t have a home, but he usually crashes wherever he shot that day.

  · He gets paid between $50 and $150 a day, depending on how many times they need him to cum.

  · He’s working today. They’re paying him $250 to fuck Nina Wild after all the dudes are finished. The extra hundred dollars is because it’s kind of gross, but he doesn’t mind.

  · He studied history for a year at a community college in Arizona, but dropped out after 9/11 because everything his professors were saying was “bullshit.”

  · The UFC is bogus because in a real cage fight you absolutely go after your opponent’s eyes.

  · He always puts ranch dressing on his pizza.

  · He is not a faggot.

  · He was suspended from the UFC after his third fight. Something about an eye gouge, but the charges were later dropped.

  · Again, the eye thing. He doesn’t understand why people don’t get it.

  · Johnny Toxic jerked off into Ron’s ranch dressing.

  · Ron didn’t know he had put the jizz-ranch on his Meat Lover’s pizza until after he ate half the pie. He was starving after a day of fucking.

  · Johnny Toxic told everyone, and they all laughed, and he got furious, and Johnny put his reaction on YouTube as a teaser for the video. (The video is probably Fuck-Whores 8. Need to follow up on that.)

  · So after everyone went home, he and Johnny watched a bootlegged copy of Inception.

  · They argued about the meaning of the movie.

  · Johnny took the position that the movie is a metaphor for filmmaking.

  · Ron took the position that the film—while ostensibly about dreams and consciousness—was really about how the lizard people control our reality.

  · Then they drank Jägermeister mixed with Four Loko and played Madden.

  · Johnny scored a cheap touchdown while Ron was taking a shit.

  · Without a word or a warning, Ron put a battle-ax through Johnny’s chest. That was payback for the touchdown.

  · He gouged out Johnny’s eyes after the fact as payback because Johnny had jizzed in his ranch.

  · He hung what was left of Johnny’s eyeballs in the bushes by the front door to say Merry Christmas.

  Chapter 43: Exclusive!

  I’m looking at my laptop.

  I have a brief story loaded into The Daily Pornographer’s content management system with the following headline: “Cocksman Confesses to Murdering Toxic.”

  Sure, I went heavy with the alliteration, but I have bigger problems.

  I need a quote from Boyd, and Sunny wants it now.

  I want that quote too, because I want to be right. But I don’t want to give Boyd an opportunity to shut me down. He doesn’t know that a quick call to Sunny would cut my legs out from under me, and I don’t know if he’d try such a tactic, but I can’t take the risk.

  The trick is to sucker punch Boyd with a piece of information he doesn’t think I have. He didn’t let out details like the eyeballs, so if I can get him to confirm that fact, I can corroborate Ron’s confession. If I’ve got that, I’ve got the story.

  “Boyd,” he says on the first ring like he was waiting for my call.

  Even on the phone, he’s intimidating, and I wonder if they teach a class on that technique at the Police Academy, or if it’s just something you pick up with time.

  “Hi Detective,” I say.

  “OK.”

  “Yeah. Um.”

  “This is the part where you start talking,” he says. “Because you called me, Heywood. That’s just basic phone etiquette.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I guess I email and text too much.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Boyd says. “You’re whole pansy-ass generation would cry if they had to pick up the phone without emailing ten times to confirm first.”

  “I know. I really worry about what technology is doing to us,” I say. “Anyway, I just wanted to call to apologize.”

  “Seriously? Are you yanking my crank?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m too old for prank phone calls, and caller ID kind of ruined the party on those anyway.”

  “Nobody has ever apologized to me,” he says. “Ever.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have listened to you. I have no business investigating this case. I mean, I’m in way over my head. This is a murder. With a battle-ax. And the eyeballs ripped out of the sockets and dangling in the bushes like those Christmas balls. I’m scarred shitless, frankly. Do you think I need police protection, or something? Does that cost extra?”

  “Heywood.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cut the shit.”

  “What?”

  “An indirect confirmation,” he says. “Oldest trick in the book.”

  “Did I lay it on too thick?”

  “A little,” he says. “I saw better acting in those movies Miles is probably jerking off to right now.”

  “Where did I go wrong?”

  “I’m not your coach, chucklehead.”

  “So I’ve got a confession,” I say, changing my tone and with it, the subject. “He’s a total blabbermouth, I’m sure he can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

  “That’s nice. Where are you?”

  “Confirm the story, and I’ll give you a fifteen-minute head start, Detective.”

  “Heywood Jablowme just sacked up to the table, folks!”

  Boyd’s tone is patronizing, but I don’t really give a shit. I have something he wants and he has something I need, so there’s a trade to be made.

  “I’m going to start the clock now,” I say.

  “Start the cock now?”

  “Clock,” I correct. “You know I said clock. And it’s ticking, by the way.”

  “I like your strong-arm, maybe you aren’t a total dick-brain, chucklehead. But I need an hour. That’s the standard embargo for a murder suspect.”

  “Let’s hear the confirmation first.”

  “Yes, a male John Doe porn star who goes by the stage name Ron and who appeared as a costar in the victim’s final film is wanted as a suspect in the murder. You can cite me as a source close to the investigation.”

  I can’t believe it. I’ve got a bona fide scoop on a murder story. I’m thrilled. But I’m also on a deadline, and I don’t set the rules in that department.

  “You’ve got thirty minutes before I post,” I say. “It’s my editor’s call.”

  Chapter 44: Fuck embargoes

  “Too late,” Sunny says. “I published it, then tweeted the link. This is big news! It’s a scoop. Oz loves scoops. He told Rachel to spread the word.”

  “Rachel? But she’s a flak.”

  “Yes, Heywood,” Sunny says without trying to mask her disdain for my naïveté. “She’s our flak.”

  “Why do we have a flak? Wait. Never mind. We have to hold the story thirty minutes. I promised.”

  “That’s why I published it, because I didn’t make that promise,” Sunny says, hitting the word I a little harder than necessary.

  “But I promised a cop.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know, that seems important. Isn’t it bad to break a promise to a cop?”

  “It probably is, which is why you shouldn’t have made that promise.”

  “But I needed to promise...”

  “Heywood, you’re not authorized to make that kind of promise. That’s my job.”

  “OK.”

  “Now, stick around so you can get art of the arrest. This story could go viral and I want a picture.”

  “OK.”

  “And don’t forget to file your other stories. We still have a quota to m
ake today.”

  Chapter 45: All fucking hell breaks loose

  I return to a gangbang in chaos—a screaming vortex of nudity, junk food, and panic.

  Half-naked men are running into each other looking for their clothes and the nearest exit.

  The director is screaming something about a permit.

  An oblivious man with a Mohawk pounds Nina from behind, but she’s more concerned with technicalities. With only the two people having sex, the gangbang suddenly lacks credibility.

  “I need another dick pronto!” she screams out.

  Nina also needs a camera, but the cameramen are all in the process of breaking down their gear and put their hands up in the air.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see B Money casually dumping what looks like a baggie of weed in the trash. He opens a Dr Pepper can and pours it in for good measure, but I’m not sure why.

  I’m trying to put this scene together when I notice my real problem.

  Lucha Libre is hauling ass right for me like a Mexican freight train that overloaded on carbs and ran off the rails. His fat deposits seem to bounce and jiggle in slow motion as he yells for me to get out of his way.

  But I am stuck. I want to move, but my body is playing catch up and my mind is behind the curve.

  A tanned blur races past me. I can’t see the face, but somehow I know it’s Ron.

  My hand reaches for my phone to snap a photo because my mind knows this is important, even though my feet haven’t gotten the message that I need to get out of Lucha Libre’s way, when the masked pervert runs me over.

  That’s when I hear a gunshot.

  It sounds like it came from behind me, but maybe that’s just the echo.

  More shots follow. The bullets sound like they’re coming from somewhere behind Lucha Libra, who belly flops onto the floor and rolls toward me at surprising speed.

  I hurdle Lucha Libra, and in midair my thumb furiously taps my phone’s screen.

  I’m trying to get art of a fleeing murder suspect shooting it out with the cops, but my acrobatics make me feel like a Major League shortstop turning a double play, after a rough slide at second.

  A voice in the back of my head suggests that perhaps the photo and the photographer have lost perspective on this one. But that voice is quickly silenced by a bone-crushing pop.

  I land awkwardly on my shoulder, and know instantly that I am in trouble.

  I let out a cry of pain, but manage to secure the phone with my good arm.

  The shooting has stopped. Through the ringing in my ears, I hear cursing and angry voices.

  Another current of pain shoots down my arm. This one is more violent. It also feels permanent, like my world will forever be filtered through an excruciating prism of raw agony.

  I notice Boyd striding toward me. He’s yelling something about getting a chopper up ASAP.

  A white cop with a donut belly rips off Lucha Libre’s mask. Lucha Libre looks familiar, but I can’t place him.

  Another cop rushes over to me.

  “Get up, asshole!”

  My legs are fine, but I’m using all my strength to stomach the pain, so standing seems about as daunting as doing a gangbang.

  “I said get the fuck up, asshole!” the cop says again.

  He jerks me up by my bad shoulder. I let out a scream that echoes through the room and turns the cop a whiter shade of pale.

  I’m on my feet, and my shoulder is hanging from my socket in an unnatural position. The sight of my injury causes the cop to back away from me.

  I’m holding my shoulder when Boyd reaches me.

  “Heywood, you motherfucking chucklehead, you better know where he went.”

  “I need to get to a hospital,” I say.

  “You need to tell me where he went, or it’s your ass. I’m serious. You fucked me on this one. Fucked me like one of those sluts.”

  One of B Money’s girls takes slight offense at that remark. But B Money is nothing if not a consummate professional, and so he gently, but firmly, moves his outraged employee out of the way.

  “Why did you tip him off, numb nuts? Why would you do that?”

  “I didn’t,” I say. “My editor broke the embargo.”

  “What the shit is an embargo?”

  “You know, my promise not to publish for an hour.”

  “Oh, I never knew that was a real thing.”

  “The more you know,” I say, trying to smile through the pain.

  “Want me to take him into custody, Detective?” the uniformed cop asks.

  “No,” Boyd says. “This chucklehead will just write some bullshit about police brutality.”

  Boyd walks off, leaving me there with the bewildered cop.

  “You really made him mad,” the cop says.

  “Hey Officer, can I get a ride to the hospital?”

  “I don’t think I should,” he says. “It’s not a good idea to fuck with Detective Boyd.”

  Chapter 46: Reservoir liars

  Maybe it’s the Percocet, but Miles is starting to make sense. He’s driving me home because the hospital won’t let you drive yourself home after they pump you full of painkillers. Something about lawsuits.

  “Let’s run the timeline once more,” Miles says.

  Miles is a firm believer in the power of cinema, and he’s certain that if we can replay the events chronologically, our intuition and media savvy will tell us something we didn’t know before.

  Frankly, I think Miles has seen too many movies. Worse, he’s a little too into his sidekick role. While waiting for the doctor to jam my shoulder back into its socket, Miles told me that he’s been “crushing Red Bulls and burning blunts” in order to hammer out a draft of the script. He doesn’t know how the story is going to end, but he’s pretty sure his character will be pivotal and that the writing will attract either Bradley Cooper or James Franco to play Miles. Unless, of course, the studio wants someone older and more diverse, in which case Miles insists that it just has to be Taye Diggs.

  With that kind of talk it would be easy to ignore Miles. But I humor him and his latest theory because arguing feels as futile as a porn director asking his actors to find the emotional subtext of the scene. So, for the fourth time I repeat the sequence of events after my bizarre interview with Ron.

  “The cops,” Miles says when I finish, a hint of intrigue in his voice.

  “Yeah, there were a lot of cops,” I say staring out the car window. “So what?”

  Miles ignores me. He’s busy putting the pieces of his theory together in his mind as we coast through the darkness. Los Angeles on the second to last night of the year is a cold and lonely place, and the holiday lights that no longer serve their intended purpose only remind me just how alone you can be in a city of millions.

  We’re stopped at a light near the Sherman Oaks Fashion Square. I’m reading electric Christmas decorations in English and Spanish when Miles pounces.

  “How did that many cops get there that quickly?” he asks. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “They’re cops, they drive fast.”

  “Or they were waiting,” Miles suggests in a tone that might land him a role in a shitty made-for-TV thriller.

  “What? How?”

  “I don’t know how, but they were waiting,” Miles says with certainty. “You called Boyd, then you called Sunny right after that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you spoke to her for what, five minutes?”

  “Yeah, about that. Probably less.”

  “And then you went back to the gangbang?”

  “Yes, Inspector Clouseau. I returned to the gangbang immediately.”

  “And you didn’t tell Boyd where you were, your location?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying they were waiting to take down Johnny Toxic’s killer before you filed your story. It’s just like in Reservoir Dogs! When Mr. Blonde joins Mr. Pink and Mr. White at the warehouse...Don’t yo
u see?”

  “Sort of,” I say. “No, not really.”

  “The timing doesn’t add up,” Miles says. “Someone had to have tipped Boyd off, the timing just doesn’t work. Somehow he knew where you were, Heywood.”

  The idea that the cops are keeping an eye on me freaks me the fuck out. But thanks to the painkillers pumping through my blood, I’m as cool as the other side of the pillow.

  Chapter 47: End of day

  Sunny doesn’t like the idea of me filing my remaining stories from home, but she’s more concerned about being named in a workman’s comp lawsuit.

  “I don’t care if you sue Oz for your shoulder, but you leave my name out of it, you got that?”

  “OK,” I say, not bothering to ask why she’s talking about a lawsuit that was never threatened.

  “So you’ll file your stories tonight?”

  “Yes,” I say, not bothering to explain that the painkillers aren’t likely to help the copy.

  “OK,” she says. “Tomorrow is a half day. Oz wants everyone to go home and get ready for our industry New Year’s Eve party.”

  “Industry New Year’s Eve party?”

  “Yeah, check your inbox, there’s a press release on it from Rachel.”

  “OK.”

  “I need you to turn that into a quickie story too and run that tonight,” Sunny says before hanging up.

  Chapter 47: Double Western Percocet burger

  Some days go down better with barbecue sauce. This is one of them, so I ask Miles to run out and pick up burgers from Carl’s Jr. for dinner.

  Miles calls Carl’s Jr. “fart-food in a bag,” but after a few bong hits and some local TV news, he’s forgotten all about his fealty to In-N-Out. It helps that the local news keeps teasing the “porn set shoot-out” and then going to commercial breaks that feature Carl’s Jr. spots wherein a scantily clad woman devours a sloppy burger with the same appetite for depravity that Nina Wild showed Lucha Libre and the seventy-plus perverts who had nothing better to do that day. Such is the slight difference between a model in a racy fast-food ad and a porn star in a gangbang.