by Jeff Strand
“Trade Point University, a fine choice. I understand their cafeteria food has won some local awards. And what exactly are you planning to study there?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t decided on a major yet.”
“Well, that sucks silicone implants. We’re going to fix that little problem right now. What’s something you’re interested in?” The angel began humming the theme from Jeopardy as he waited for my response.
“I don’t know...I like to write...”
“Exactly! So major in English. And start writing, for gosh sake!”
“I am! Travis and I have been working on that book. Maybe we’ve slowed down a bit...a lot...but we’re still—”
“Listen, your gargantuan pile of pages is impressive, but honestly, who is ever going to read it but you and Travis?”
“Nobody,” I admitted. “If anybody ever did, we’d be unemployable for the rest of our lives.”
“Right. Now, there’s nothing wrong with writing just for yourself, but you’re the type of person who loves to get reactions! So start writing things that other people can read! Maybe that’s the career you’re looking for!”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, that’s settled. Now, Mr. Trexler, you wanna tell me why you’re eighteen and haven’t kissed a girl yet? What are you, some kind of homo?”
I blinked in surprise. “Shouldn’t an angel be more politically correct?”
“Ah, I can say whatever I want. After all, I’m not really here—I’m just an external representation of an internal conversation. Whoa-mama, look at the hooters on that bimbo in the fourth row! See?”
“I see.”
“Anyway, it’s time to quit being such a wuss. Your buddy Travis has done a few rounds of tongue wrestling, and it’s time for you to start practicing liposuction, too. Women don’t bite. At least not as long as you keep the muzzle on.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll try.”
“See that you do.” The angel glanced up at the keynote speaker. “Man, this guy has no intention of ever shutting up, does he? They’re gonna have to jab everyone in the butt with a cattle prod to get this place livened up again.”
I nodded my agreement. “So, do you have any more sage advice?”
The angel looked me directly in the eye. “You are meant for great things, Seth. Don’t waste your potential. Together you and that Travis guy are going to make something of yourselves—something big. And it’s going to happen soon.”
“How soon?”
“If I knew that, I’d be making big bucks with a psychic telephone hotline.” The angel pulled up his sleeve and checked his Rolex. “Look, I’ve got to go. If these metaphorical internal conversations go on too long you’ll start to develop Alzheimer’s.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” I told him.
“No problem. Your brain wasn’t being used for anything else important. Now, here’s one last piece of advice before I leave.”
“Yes?”
“If you ever write a book, don’t include a cheap gag where an angel says ‘Look at the hooters on that bimbo in the fourth row.’ It’s really tacky.” And with a twitch of his nose, the angel disappeared.
* * *
“I’m thirsty for a glass of milk,” said Travis after the ceremony was over. “Or maybe I’m in the mood for a hamburger.”
We’d managed to sneak away after posing for what felt like eight hundred pictures, twenty-four of which would contain my Uncle Jeremy’s thumb over the lens, and exactly one of which would feature Travis with his eyes open. I think deep inside he feared that photographs would steal his soul.
This was going to be the last time I’d get to see Travis for the next three months. The next morning he was leaving to stay with his grandparents in Montana, because he could make a lot more money there as a slave in his grandfather’s Probably Pig Parts factory. I wasn’t looking forward to an entire summer without my best friend, but it was made a lot more tolerable by the fact that we’d be roommates once college started and would have plenty of time to get violently sick of each other.
“Wow,” I said, leaning against the pillar under the bleachers in the football stadium. “We made it. We’re finally productive members of society.”
Travis put a hand to his ear. “Hear that? It’s the sound of society screaming in terror.”
“Listen, during the cow speech I was doing some heavy thinking, and it’s time we did something important.”
“Oh, absolutely. There’s nothing quite as fulfilling as doing something important. Let’s go visit a dairy and experience the pasteurization process firsthand!”
“Really, I’m serious,” I told him. “We’ve almost lived a quarter of our lives if we die when we’re supposed to, and what have we accomplished?”
“We’ve memorized a big chunk of the Trivial Pursuit cards so we can start playing for money.”
I sighed. “Travis, how often do I have a moment of serious introspection?”
“Never.”
“So when I’m having one of these moments, indulge me, okay?” Oh, how I longed for the days when I was more of a smart-ass than Travis.
“Okay. Preparing to indulge. Indulging.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome, I’m sure.”
Now that I’d set the stage for a serious conversation, I realized I needed to be a little more specific with my projected life goals than “do something important.”
And then the idea came to me.
But it was a stupid idea, so I discarded it and the world lost two potential belly dancers.
The second idea, however, came out of my mouth before I could decide if it was stupid or not.
“I think we should form a comedy group.”
Travis raised an eyebrow. “You mean like Laurel & Hardy? Can I be the fat one?”
“I don’t know what I mean, exactly. Maybe we could write skits and perform them at clubs, something like that.”
“That sounds like fun,” Travis admitted. “We’ll have to try it once we start school. You think Trade Point has any good comedy clubs?”
I shrugged. “I just think it’s time we used our powers for something substantial instead of goofing around. I’m going to start writing—seriously writing—this summer.”
“What kind of writing?”
“The skits, like I said, and maybe other stuff. I guess just whatever I can get done.”
“Well, hey, I wish you luck. I mean it.”
“And I think we should end ‘Travis & Seth’s Story,’” I said. “We’ve pretty much abandoned it anyway, so I think we should write a dramatic ending and let it symbolize the end of this chapter of our lives.”
Travis considered that. Then he considered it some more. Finally he’d considered it enough to respond. “Okay. How about we write ‘And then a magic fairy appeared and made everyone live happily ever after, whether they wanted to or not.’?”
“Sure, why not?”
Travis glanced at his watch. “We’d better get back now. It’s about time for my grandpa to start talking about steamrolling commies and I don’t want to miss it.”
I nodded and we began to walk from under the bleachers. “Three months until I get to kick you in the face every night to stop your snoring,” I remarked.
“Three months until I get to take a chainsaw to your stereo for playing that lousy Invalid Crones tape.”
“Three months until the party!”
Chapter Eight
“Solving the World’s Problems Through Really Violent Comedy Skits”
“...and that was Hey, We’re a Band!, with their classic single ‘Spank Me, Spank Me, Spank Me, Spank Me.’ You’re listening to WART radio—crank it up, and watch your pets explode! And now here’s the latest from Grrrrrrrrr, their hit ‘Roasting Weenies By Hellfire’...”
I turned up the volume and stared at the blank monitor. I’d received the computer as a graduation present from my parents, and it was certain to be helpful with my new resolu
tion to get a lot of writing done. It was also harmful in that my other gift was a computer game entitled Squish The Mousie, which involved all manner of rodent destruction. It started out as a nice little diversion, but quickly became an addiction. The more mice I destroyed, the more I wanted to destroy, the more I had to destroy, until my obsession with sending those bastards straight to rat hell got out of hand. I found myself staying up until four in the morning searching for the hidden levels containing ultra-powerful mouse destruction weapons, and once my mom even caught me whispering “Die, you sons of bitches, die like the accursed vermin that you are!” which I don’t need to tell you was kind of embarrassing. When I began to hear the theme from Willard inside my head, I decided it was time to quit playing for a while.
There I sat, hands in perfect typing position, waiting patiently for my brain to think of a word for them to type. I had four hours of writing time until I had to go to work, at the fine dining establishment/hellhole known as the Twin Streams Lodge. I was a dishwasher, a job that I’d received through a rigorous interview:
“And what makes you think you’ve got what it takes to wash dishes here at the Twin Streams Lodge?”
“I don’t like to eat off dirty plates.”
“Okay, you’re hired.”
Since the restaurant was an elegant place to dine, I’d been under the impression that it would be a prestigious place to be a dishwasher. As it turned out, there wasn’t a whole lot of difference between washing cheap gook off dishes and expensive gook off dishes. And I had to work with this fourteen-year-old power-hungry twerp named Larry, also known as The-Weasel-Faced-Kid-I’d-Really-Like-to-Asphyxiate. If nothing else, washing dishes at the place made me certain that pursuing higher education was going to be a good thing.
I cracked my knuckles in that way that always made onlookers cringe, then returned my hands to the typing position. After a few moments of staring at the screen some more, inspiration struck, and I began to type:
The
At least the screen wasn’t blank anymore. I continued to stare at the screen, waiting for my muse to get its butt in gear. An idea formed, didn’t dissipate instantly like so many others, and my fingers began typing in a flurry of motion.
The man
Now I had a main character. All I needed was a verb, and I’d be well on my way. I thought. I sighed. I thought. I groaned. I thought. I scratched myself. I thought. I slammed my head against six or seven blunt objects. I thought. I typed.
The man ran into the highway, letting a hailstorm of bullets jettison from his submachine gun, causing death and destruction everywhere his merciless gaze fell. Oh, what toll on humanity he wreaked! Oh, how could he be stopped?
I thought about it, then decided it needed a bit of editing.
The man ran
Okay, obviously I was doing something wrong. I needed some kind of starting point. What was I going to write? A short story? A novel? A haiku?
No, a comedy skit.
Now I needed a subject. Women having trouble deciding what to wear? Really stupid people? Mindless violence?
Mindless violence sounded good.
Now I was cooking.
And two-and-a-half hours later, I had something to show for my time.
[ Margaret’s office, where she sits typing at the computer. Howie enters. ]
HOWIE: Hi there, Margaret. Working hard, or hardly working? Tee-hee!
MARGARET: Hi, Howie. Boy, it’s been an awful day. I might just have to take out a machine gun and kill the boss and anyone else who gets in my path of destruction.
[ She takes a machine gun out of her briefcase. ]
MARGARET: Starting with you.
HOWIE: Oh no!
SOUND EFFECTS: Ratatatatatatatatatat!!! Spurt, spurt!
[ Margaret steps out into the hallway. The boss is standing there. ]
BOSS: Margaret! Whatever are you doing with that unregistered weapon?
[ Margaret squeezes the trigger, sending a burst of machine gun fire across her boss’ legs. A beautiful crimson spray jettisons from the multiple agonizing wounds as he cries out, his scream a chorus of sinners begging for forgiveness. As his body pitches forward, Margaret pumps more bullets into his chest, releasing an unbearably painful gout of marvelous scarlet life force. As his shrieks increase in intensity, so does the rapidity of the machine gun fire, tearing his flesh apart in a gruesome display of vengeance, but not granting merciful death. He falls to the floor, moaning, as Margaret points the barrel of the gun at his head and— ]
BOSS: Wake up! You’re fantasizing on the job!
MARGARET: My goodness, it was all a daydream! Good. Double the pleasure.
[ She takes out a machine gun and opens fire, ripping a ruby path across his waist. As he staggers back, she lowers the angle of the bullets, wiping out his infrequently-used manhood with a victorious grin. As the rapid fire continues, his arms are torn from their sockets and his kneecaps are pulverized into a reddish-whitish pulp. He smashes through the window and plummets sixteen stories into an open manhole cover, where he dies amongst the sewage he has helped to create. ]
HOWIE: Hello? Earth to Margaret?
MARGARET: Huh? What?
HOWIE: You just blew away the boss with a machine gun. Maybe you should run or something.
MARGARET: Oh, yeah, thanks. Got a little distracted there.
[ She kills Howie with another burst of gunfire, then runs out into the hall, dealing death and destruction left and right. An announcer steps out of one of the offices and addresses the viewer. ]
ANNOUNCER: My, this certainly is a violent little skit, isn’t it? The author sure has gotten carried away with this one. But you know what? That’s okay, because violent entertainment can curb violent tendencies in those who experience it. Isn’t that right, Susan?
[ Susan steps out of her office. ]
SUSAN: Indeed it is. I am a very unsatisfied employee at a law firm. My boss is a wiener from hell. But by watching this skit, I am able to live vicariously through it, and thus feel no need to personally murder my own boss and subject myself to the irritating legal penalties that would result from such an act.
ANNOUNCER: Exactly. And what do you think, Charles?
[ Charles steps out of his office. ]
CHARLES: If I hadn’t seen this skit, I’d be out there with a hunting knife and fish scaler right now. I owe my status as a free man to it. Thanks, Mr. Writer! My wife thanks you too!
ANNOUNCER: Yes, it appears that the author has done the world quite a favor by writing this skit. But material with such value to humankind doesn’t come cheap. That’s why we’re asking you to open your purses and wallets and give the money that you saved by not murdering your boss to the Save The World Through Violent Comedy Skits Foundation. What problem might he solve next? War? AIDS? The possibilities are endless, but he can’t do it without your help!
CHARLES: I’m going to give him my entire paycheck. The kids can sleep in boxes, which are, after all, in plentiful supply. Corrugated cardboard is a perfect insulator, and lacks all the maintenance hassles of an apartment or home.
ANNOUNCER: Absolutely! And isn’t it true that food can be widely found in garbage dumpsters?
CHARLES: That it can.
ANNOUNCER: So please, give everything you have! The world will be a much better place for it.
SUSAN: I just gave $5,000, enabling the great author to come up with a punch line to this very skit!
[ Margaret walks back into the hallway, mowing down Susan, Charles, and the announcer with machine gun fire. ]
MARGARET: The End.
Almost makes you want to weep, doesn’t it?
I printed it out on my brand spanking new printer, revised it to get rid of the typos, printed it out again, and took it to my mom to read. Now, I knew my mom well enough to realize that she probably wasn’t going to appreciate the humor inherent in a man graphically shredding his co-workers, regardless of how lighthearted the situation might be. But I was her only child,
and she deserved to see the product of my creation.
“It was...interesting...” she said after reading the entire piece with her lips pressed together tight enough to form a thin white line across her face. I’ve heard the “it was interesting” reaction enough times since then to know its true meaning: “You sick, sick deviant.”
“Have you showed this to your father?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Are you going to?”
“Yeah.”
“Seth, have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the chair next to her at the kitchen table. “There’s something you need to know about your father. He’s, how can I put this, not quite as... comfortable with your mental health as he’d like to be.”
“Oh, I know that.”
“He deals with it very well. I almost never hear him muttering any more. But if you let him read this, and give him proof positive that thoughts like these really do exist in your head, it might be too disturbing for him to handle.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s always liked being right about things.”
“Son, I don’t want to lessen your respect for me by pleading, but...”
“I guess I could do a censored version.”
My mom glanced at the printout again. “I don’t think so.”
“All right, I’ll keep it hidden. So, did you like the fish scaler gag?”
“It was interesting.”
“Well, I’ve still got time to write some more before work, so I’ll get back to it.”
“Okay. You know I always support you in anything you do.” The way she said it, it sounded like a mantra.