Oh, and before you get the wrong idea about me, I’m heading to a charity event tonight, after I eat. I work in advertising. In the daytime. At a reputable company. Deniro Touch, the account holder for Harold Computers, Banana Mobile Technologies, and Pisyelo-Cola, the eighteenth ranked cola in the country. Okay, you’ve probably never heard of any of those. That’s why we’re growing so slowly. But trust me, we’re reputable. We’re also hosting tonight’s charity event. We’re hoping it’ll land us better clients. We secured the Meyer’s Hotel’s convention hall for the event. That nearly tanked our budget. Tonight better be the most amazing of nights. We really need the clientele. I’m hoping we’ve attracted a handful of handsome billionaires to our cause. That would make everyone happy.
***
Detective Maniacal
I just caught a whiff of my least favorite perfume, Passion Lust and Cherry Heart, from someone in the crowd. So strong. So cloying. Powerful enough to stun a deer and mask the atmospheric aroma of the Honeycomb Diner’s famous burnt pancake dinner. I’d know that scent anywhere. Some of my least favorite people enjoy bathing themselves in that stuff, as if it improved on their desirability. I don’t think any of them realize that it’s slick advertising that makes it popular. It doesn’t actually attract anyone, except, perhaps, losers.
Needless to say, I can’t wait to get out of here. If there’s anything that can taint my feelings about the Honeycomb Diner, it’s that damn perfume. Reminds me of the worst nights of my life. Reminds me of her.
~~~~~
From “The Shampoo Conspiracy” (My First Mullet, Short Story #2)
Donnie Talcum threw the magazine across the room, vowing that it would be the last time he’d ever read that no-good Dapper and Amazing. As it slapped against the living room wall, he stomped over to his elliptical training machine and climbed onto the foot pedals.
“They’re not better than me,” he said, as he took the handgrips. “They are not better than me.”
He punched in the control buttons: manual, weight 150, resistance level 10, 60 minutes, pressing each one on muscle memory, not concentrated thought. Even with the first few gyrations of his knees bending and tightening, he was not aware of the actions he was performing. This was just the way he responded to each new weekly installment of his favorite magazine. It made him mad. Always. But he loved it.
Or, he did until today.
They were not better than him, and somehow, someway, he needed to show that to them. But thanks to this sharp betrayal coming on him so suddenly, he wasn’t quite up to speed with his own thoughts. Simmering beneath the surface, revenge was brewing on his mind. But how would he do it? Who or what would he target? As his joints bent with his rhythmic motions and his muscles tensed from the increasing speed of his legs, he began to sweat. Surely the plan that had yet to come to his mind would be a little risky. Would they catch him in the act? The idea of them screwing him over twice left him noticeably nervous. The thought of it made his armpits moist. He pushed harder, harder on the machine, harder until he could no longer feel his feet. The sweat was pouring down like rain. Revenge was the most nerve-racking concept in human planning. Anything could go wrong. And he had yet to begin a plan.
But with the passage of time comes the result of much thinking, and spending the time he had lost track of on that fat-burning cardio machine had allowed him the chance to think of something magnificent, something that was likely foolproof. Dangerous, maybe. Insane? Insanity was for losers. Revengerific, definitely. If everything were to go exactly as planned, he would get the recognition he deserved and put those double-dealing scammers in their places.
Once he felt sufficiently burned, as evidenced by the fact that his side was on fire and he could hardly breathe, he jumped off the elliptical and raced for the bathroom. He didn’t have to pee or anything, but he did have to enact his master plan. For something that took him just a few minutes to concoct, he was quite proud of his brilliance.
The first step in his plan was to restore his model good looks. Although he was certain he looked good anyway, he figured there was always room for improvement. So, his first job was to shower off his workout sweat and enact his semiweekly grooming ritual.
His shower was specially designed to moisturize his skin. Instead of standing in a small box with a weak showerhead, like the knuckle-scraping cretins would do, he had a marble basin that he’d fill up to his ankles with piping hot water and plunge down on his back before it had a chance to cool. The water would often come close to burning his skin, but he saw it as a process for rebirth: he wasn’t destroying good skin; he was liberating it from the dead skin on the surface. By the time the water would cool, his skin would have absorbed enough of it to prune, and he would be ready for the next phase of his primping.
Once the basin was full, he’d turn off the shower so that he could conserve water while he soaked. But once his skin was pruned, it was time to drain the basin and get the shower up and steaming again. At this point he would strip down to his underwear and toss his wet clothes onto the two-foot pile beneath the shower rod. (He believed bathing in his clothes allowed them to trap water to his skin better.) Then he’d stand under the showerhead–making sure the head was set for “typhoon” speed–and slide the bathtub door closed. Now he was surrounded by mirrors on all sides, not just the usual three.
Overhead was a heat lamp and four ultraviolet lights that pointed at each of the four mirrors around him. Whenever Donnie turned on the lamp, he would get the bathroom temperature up to a hundred degrees. Combining this with the billowing steam and reflecting mirrors, which redirected the ultraviolet light onto his almost bare body, his skin would turn to butter. At that point he could soap off his funk and adequately prepare for his next stage of grooming.
While still dripping wet, Donnie would reach into his medicine cabinet for his razor and shaving cream. Part of successful modeling is to look proper for those you need to impress, and Donnie’s master plan required impression of the strongest variety. So, he uncapped his shaving cream and began to massage it into his softening skin. Even though he could probably dry shave at this point, he was so well-conditioned, he wanted to avoid the possibility of razor burn, so he spread a thin, yet foamy layer of mint-flavored cream all over the target areas. Then he took the razor and stepped into the tub. With the showerhead pointing straight down to avoid soaking him twice–he still wanted the room steamy–he put the razor to his shins and began to shave.
His legs were silk about ten minutes later.
Getting dressed was the next important part of his plan. Like showering and shaving, it was a great way to buy some time while he thought about the intricate details necessary to fulfill his mission. It was easy to concoct a half-baked idea and screw it up if trying to enact it without baking the other half. Dressing gave him the opportunity to think about the pros and cons of his scheme.
Donnie didn’t believe in towels, so the transition from shower to bedroom left him exposed to the harsh conditions of the air-conditioner. Normally he would shiver all the way to the underwear drawer, but he had spent the last week better preparing himself. He grabbed his jacket from the bathroom door, donned it over his shoulders, and headed across the faux wood floor. With his jacket on, he could safely change his shorts without risk of being seen. There was no telling how many spies had surveillance on his apartment.
Once he felt secure in his drier undergarments, he opened the door beside his bed to a small closet and removed his jacket, hanging it up next to several other jackets. Then he opened the door at the other end of the coat closet to reveal his actual closet. Inside were two racks stretching twelve feet from wall to wall.
He knew his mission required the perfect threads, so he skimmed the rack on the right where he kept his classiest slacks, button-ups, ties, and loafers to make sure that what he needed wasn’t on that side. Satisfied with his skills of organization, Donnie switched focus to the left rack where he sifted through one unique item after anoth
er, searching for that perfect match between character and goal. Once he found what he was looking for, he then had to find the best shoes to match. His mission to reclaim his rightful spot on the cover of Dapper and Amazing hinged entirely on how well he could dress for success. He could not screw this up. He picked his outfit carefully.
***
The catcalls had been consistent from the moment he had stepped onto the bus until he entered the lobby for Hot Messaging Media Enterprises, owner and operator of several fashion magazines that included Happy Dance, Catfishing Quarterly, and Dapper and Amazing. Normally he might’ve taken offense, but this time he could only take it as a compliment. The whistles and hoots gave him that boost of confidence he needed to guarantee his plan would work. His only worry was of possibly missing an important detail and that none of the bus people had noticed since the majority of them were over fifty and not wearing glasses. But then he remembered his target and decided that he was ready enough.
The only real problem he could foresee was his insatiable desire to empty his bladder. He was in such a hurry to start his plan that he had ignored the growing pressure he’d felt, and now it was affecting his concentration. But he had to suppress it for now. Relief wasn’t important yet.
Once inside the lobby, he scanned the floor for the elevators. Then he circled the benches near the entrance as he studied the security desk. Two guards were busy checking registers and handing out name tags. Donnie mentally tagged them as bouncers. Bouncers could be bought.
His pink four-inch heels were murder on his calves, but he endured the slow walk toward the desk, trying desperately not to think about his bladder. With his yellow sundress swishing around his knees and his bare shoulders pulled in tight to his neck, he reached for his blond wig, gave it a tug to ensure its secure position, and told himself he looked marvelous. The more he convinced himself, the more he could convince them the same.
The guards looked up at him when he approached. They were expressionless. He smiled as he crossed his wrists and pressed his hands upside down onto the desk.
“Here to see Michael Abervanor,” he said with a coo. His voice was naturally deep, so he had to strain his vocal chords to sound like a woman. He could feel the blood coming up his throat into the back of his mouth. Or, that could’ve just been his imagination.
The guards eyed him suspiciously.
“Mister Abervanor has requested no visitors,” said the guard on the left, an overweight man with an overweight mustache. “Did you request an appointment?”
The other guard, a woman of barely five feet, had already skimmed half the list.
“Says here his scheduled appointments have already been filled,” she said. “What did you say your name was?”
Donnie couldn’t help but squeeze his eyes shut. It suddenly donned on him that he was moments away from wetting himself. That might’ve ruined the plan. He forced a smile. As a male model, he hated smiling, but as an actor, he did it anyway.
“I’m not gonna be on your silly little list. You see…” He touched his hip to the low wall around the guard station. He tried to slide on top, but it was too high for him to succeed without creating a new incident. So he leaned his elbow against it instead. “I’m not the kind of girl he wants records of coming to visit him, you catch my drift?”
The overweight guard raised his left eyebrow and smirked. He understood perfectly.
“I promise you he’s expecting me.”
The female guard, however, was not taking the bait.
“Sorry, honey,” she said, “but we have strict orders to keep everyone out who doesn’t have an official appointment. If you need to rendezvous with Mister Abervanor for some secret special meeting, you’re gonna have to make that appointment afterhours. We get too many scammers attempting to breach to the higher floors. Eventually the higher-ups will start cracking down if we keep allowing them through. Sorry. And, not to pry, but I think you need a cough drop. I have a bag of them if you’d like one.”
Donnie’s smile grew into a show of teeth. He really hated it when he showed teeth. Teeth are the model’s nemesis.
“It’s okay, honey,” he said. “I understand your rules. I’ll just show up at his house tonight when he’s about to sit down with his wife and kids for dinner and tell him to enjoy our special time there. His wife won’t mind setting an extra spot at the table for a mistress, right?” Donnie leaned in as close as he could. “Right?”
The woman shrugged.
“Only one way to find out,” she said.
Donnie’s shoulders sagged a bit. This woman was iron. Then he felt a shift on his chest and it caused him to jerk upright. He cupped the rolled socks that were down his blouse in his hands and readjusted them, worried they would fall out. The overweight guard took notice. His mustache twitched as Donnie spent several seconds fake-fondling himself.
It was enough to get the overweight guard on his side.
“Look, Diane,” he said to the other guard, “this woman is clearly trying to save our dear CEO some face. Maybe we should let her attend her undocumented meeting.” The guard leaned forward and winked at him. “You’re not packing heat, right ma’am? We’re not gonna have to call the paramedic to remove our boss’s dead body after you go up there, right?”
Donnie didn’t laugh. Didn’t think it was funny. He just stared at the man with the dark humor, stared long enough to push him back into his seat. The guard lost the twinkle in his eye rather quickly.
“So, may I see Mister Abervanor now?” Donnie asked with no hint of emotion in his voice. He was done being friendly with these two. They were wasting his time.
The overweight guard tilted his head toward the elevator, a sideways nod. The female guard stared at her desk partner with contempt. Neither one of them seemed too comfortable with the other anymore.
***
The first thing he did when stepping off the elevator onto the twelfth floor was seek out the restrooms. His seductive sashay had transformed into a bull-legged walk from the swelling pain he felt in his bladder. The old men in the hall continued to take notice of the unknown blonde gracing their presence, but he was no longer playing the role. He had already passed the first leg of his mission. He wasn’t here to see the CEO of Hot Messaging Media, Michael Abervanor, or to ruin the man’s career. No, he had bigger fish to fry. He wasn’t even sure where the CEO’s office lay, nor cared.
He found the restroom block beside the waiting room for Hot Messaging Media’s magazine division, just beyond a bank of fake potted plants. The men in the waiting room again took notice, but he didn’t feel the need to impress them, nor did he check their expressions when he entered the men’s room. The only indication of criticism he had was from the sudden cries of pain that simultaneously gurgled out of several old men’s throats as he pressed against the door and stepped inside.
He passed another surprised businessman on his way to the toilets. A second man was checking himself out in the mirror, but immediately switched focus to the blonde walking by. Donnie considered entering a stall, just to keep the guys guessing–after all, any one of these people could’ve been his next target–but decided that his bladder was the only thing in control of the situation. He knew he would have to visit whatever was closest.
A third man was standing at the urinal, unsure whether to zip up, wink at the blond woman in the yellow sundress approaching him, or just keep pissing. Donnie was in pain by now, but something about that dress kept him hanging onto his role–he was an actor, after all.
“What’s up, sexy?” he said to the man at the urinal, in the most feminine voice he could muster. He figured anyone willing to leer at a blonde while standing at a urinal deserved to have his world rocked a little.
The man was too shy to respond. Probably wasn’t sure how to respond. Even as Donnie hoisted the front of his dress up and took the stall immediately next to him, the man seemed not to know what to do. It was the sudden sound of water splashing against the urinal and Donnie’s s
oft cries of relief and his eyes rolling up in ecstasy that finally brought the man into action. His neighbor flinched from the urinal and ran for the door before he’d finished zipping up. The urinal flushed itself a moment later.
When Donnie felt sufficiently drained of pressure, he stepped back, let the dress fall in place, and headed for the sink. It seemed the other men in the restroom had already vacated the premises while he was squealing with delight. Hopefully none of them would recognize him later.
He had kept an oversized purse hanging from his shoulders since walking in, and now it was time to unarm it. He placed it on the counter and opened it up. Inside was his favorite pair of slacks–a gray iron-free–and a white silk shirt. Another man walked in as he started stripping off the dress, but that guy turned right back around as soon as Donnie was topless and the socks fell to the floor. Donnie was a fan of full-body shaving, but he did like to keep a little bit of chest hair to remind him that he was not a metrosexual. The guy who had come in probably wasn’t as big of a fan.
The last stage of metamorphosis required shedding the blond wig. Once that was in the bag, he could properly rebuild himself as a successful male model, with the right build and body for menswear. Once the wig was stowed in the purse, along with the sundress and boob socks, he combed his natural dark hair with his fingers, rolling them against his tight bangs and pulling them down his flowing locks past the back of his scalp to his neck and shoulders. He shook his head just to adopt a wild nature. He definitely looked rugged there in his dry boxers and bare, patchy-haired chest. But he couldn’t visit his target in his underwear, not without a formal invitation at least. He needed to present himself as a confident businessman who also could ham it up for the camera. The slacks and silk shirt were necessary now. The only thing he really needed to give thought to was whether or not to remove his blush and eye shadow. Sometimes they liked it when their businessmen models come in looking like David Bowie. This could’ve been one of those moments.
Shell Out Page 8