What happened to customer service? What happened to the customer is always right? It went the same way as all the big stores. All the supermarkets with their slick signs and cheap prices. It went away when mom and pop stores became a thing of the past.
Goddammit! He is just sick to death of the poor service, the poor selection. The poor attitude of kids barely out of high school rolling their eyes at him when he asks for help. He is going to go straight home and blog about this. Oh, he is going to unleash a world of hurt on this particular situation. Once he makes a stop of course; gotta check out a little hole. Gotta check it out and mark it off his map.
When thoughts of the map come to mind, he calms down a little.
The cashier rolls her eyes now as she speaks into her fancy cash register phone. She doesn’t even get her fat ass out of the seat; she just sits there and blah blah blahs about how he needs his newspaper.
She hangs up and smiles a tight little smile.
“They‘re bringing some over right now.” She stabs at the keys with her long nails. “Do you mind if some of the other customers pay while you wait?”
“Yes, I mind! I’ll stand over there like an idiot for five minutes before you remember me.”
The woman sighs, staring at him. He stands resolute. Screw this woman and her oh-so-important job. Probably has half a dozen kids at home and all by different men. Probably smokes crack around them. Passes the pipe around. Well he won’t be intimidated by her.
Customers shift, and a couple stomp off with heavy sighs to show their contempt. Yeah you sigh like I give a shit. Go on. Write about your ass too, see if I don’t.
After what seems like forever, a man finally shows up and hands over the stack of papers. He takes the old one out and sets it aside while Chuzz takes his and hands it to the woman. He smiles at the headline, which assures him the world is coming to an end.
“Will this be all?” The woman rolls her eyes, and Nathan Chuzzle wants to go Phil on her ass! Fucking Phil! He wants to jump up on the little conveyor belt and bash in her head with the cash register. Pick it up and smash her to the ground then jump up and down on her corpse. He wants to revel in her blood and splash it all over the damn place.
“That will be all, thank you very much,” he practically shouts then counts out the four dollars and eighty-two cents. He has two one-dollar bills, but it only takes a few minutes to stack up the nickels, dimes and pennies for the rest.
Goodies packed, he performs a mock bow for the woman and storms off while muttering about the disrespect some people show. The couple that made such a fuss is walking out of the self-pay section with bags in each hand. Chuzz hurries to pass them and then slows his walk when he reaches the door, forcing them to wait on him. The man fumes, but he won’t do anything, because no one messes with the Chuzz. No goddamn one!
Then the earth starts to shake. Chuzz looks around as the ground moves under him and decides that being in his mom’s car is preferable to staying here. The building might collapse and crush him. He breaks into a run, jumps into the beat-up automobile and screeches out of the parking lot the way he came in, this time taking part of the hedge with him.
The park is quiet. A few leaves fall here and there. Rain is pittering and thinking about doing a proper pattering. There were a few people here when he arrived, but they decided to move on when he sat with the windows rolled down for a good while. He stared at them. Just stared. At them and their grubby little kids. Sure way to clear out the park ladies and gents, make them think there is a crazy man interested in their children.
The river is unusually high, and when summer hits it will be filled with kids on inner tubes. Dogs will run around and shit on everything while their dopy masters follow them with plastic bags. Chuzz feels nothing but contempt for them. Go to a park with all the other dirty dirties. Yuck.
But he has a mission today. He checks his map and then the old wind-up watch on his arm. He checks them again and again, and when it draws close to two in the afternoon he gets out of the car, looks around as if he’s lost someone and then casually strolls to the bathroom.
The place reeks of years of piss and shit. There is an undercurrent of cleaning supplies, but they do little to alleviate the stench. Past the sinks with their grimy push-down hot and cold water dispensers. Past the urinals with their little white hockey pucks that are supposed to cover up the smell and clean the pisser but really just make good targets.
Past the first stall, which is empty. Past the second stall, which is also empty. He takes over the last one, the big sucker with a wheelchair sign on the door. He pulls out half a dozen toilet seat covers and uses them to make a chair. He doesn’t have to take a crap right now. He just has to wait. Oh, he is going to catch one now, oh yes he is!
He looks at the toilet paper dispenser with its myriad numbers and scrawlings. One says, “For a good time call Shantay at fo fi fi fo fi na na.”
A few minutes later, footsteps shuffle in. Chuzz double checks that the lock is secure. The person who just entered pauses, maybe checking his hair. Probably not the right guy. Probably the wrong place. Sure, the telltale sign is here, but it doesn’t mean anything. Could just be a trick, and he can mark this place off his map.
No! He has to wait it out to be sure.
The feet shuffle again; this time they walk down the aisle and enter the shitter right next to Chuzz. He waits patiently for the person to sit down. He sits, but he doesn’t drop his pants. So this is the right place!
Feet shuffle on the ground back and forth as if he is shifting in his seat. Chuzz can’t wait anymore. He knows he has the right place!
He stands up and unbuttons his pants, which have confined a raging hard-on for the past half hour. He drops them. Puts his hands on the wall and then carefully inserts his member into the hole above the toilet paper.
A sigh from the other side but no words. Then a touch of rough hands. Chuzz sighs as well. Yep, this is the place.
Quick and Greasy Like a Truck Stop Whore
Leon wakes to a scream from the theater below him. His eyelids snap open, and his blue eyes dilate in the near-darkness of his room, which is lit by the soft glow of a Care Bears screensaver and two strings of multi-colored Christmas lights. The scream fades into moans and sighs of ecstasy. The bass turns up, and the moans are so low that a good portion of Leon’s collection of Bic lighters and wild-haired troll dolls spills off his nightstand to the trash-littered floor below.
“LICK IT!” he yells to the floor, but a chorus of groans and passionless grunts muffles him.
He scoots off his bed, his tighty whities drooping and stained. Leon walks across his room as the screams resume loud enough to set his one small window rattling. The sounds below fade into nothing, but the hum of speakers pushes to their maximum. Leon knows the silence is just the space between scenes, the calm before and the bloodcurdling war cry that will signal the next round of fucking. He recognizes the yell and knows Jerome is watching Ugandan Midget Gangbang (most likely volume 3 or 7).
Leon reaches into his drawers and gives his pud a few halfhearted tugs before he grabs both his pairs of overalls and looks them over. The white and black striped ones have more than one inconspicuous stain, while the muddy green ones have only one. He smiles and drops the striped ones back onto the pile on the floor. He climbs into his green overalls and digs through the collection of rock tee shirts conveniently piled next to the door. He settles on his faded and worn White Lion shirt from ’87, and he slides his bare feet into his work boots.
Leon sweeps the fallen lighters and trolls into a pile and drops them back on his nightstand. He sets one troll upright, but the screams of two females send the lighters and dolls tumbling back to the floor. Leon recognizes the shouts of ecstasy from a scene in which two midget ladies pleasure three tribesmen hung like rhinos while bouncing ass to ass on a seven-inch-thick double dildo. Yup, Leon thinks, Volume 7, before opening the door and heading down to the theater.
Leon clomps down th
e narrow staircase between his apartment and the busy porn shop/theater below. Jerome waddles out of the big theater buckling his pants. Leon’s beer-bellied boss shoots him a smug grin. “Do you love that scene as much as I do, Leon?”
Leon rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Just because he still jerks off to it every now and then doesn’t mean he entirely enjoys the scene. He is sick of waking up to the same midget screams every morning.
Jerome smiles and asks Bud the same question.
Bud doesn’t look up from the Daily Gab spread out on the glass case containing the flavored anal lubes and beads. He turns the page lazily and tells Jerome, “Nope.”
Jerome grunts and asks, “How ya doin’ this morning, Leon?”
Leon walks down the last step and replies, “Cock cock Jesus cock.”
Jerome adjusts his crotch and laughs, “Jesus cock you’re weird, Leon.”
“Sins sheep blowjob lamb,” Leon tells him and then makes his way to the peep show hallway where his janitor closet and mop bucket await him.
“Mornin’, Leon,” Bud says without looking up.
“Anal twins hail Mary, Bud,” Leon says with a nod and a smile.
Jerome waddles past a display of Jaime St. Pucker Pocket Pussies (his current bestseller) to Bud at the counter. “I don’t get it. Leon don’t act retarded, but he talks like some sacrilege pervert.”
“Are you kidding me?” Bud’s bloodshot eyes glare at Jerome over his skinny-rimmed glasses.
Jerome huffs and stares at Bud with confusion etched on his fat face.
“You are slowly frying his fucking brain, you asshole,” Bud says with a look of disgust. “You and your fucking bathtub acid. You use his straw to stir every batch of that shit …”
“Whoa,” Jerome says and raises a hand to silence Bud. “First of all, you shitbag, it ain’t ‘shit.’ It is every bit as potent as real LSD and made almost entirely of things you can find around your house.”
Bud scoffs. “Yeah, if you live in a crack house with The Merry Pranksters and have a pharmacy for your basement.”
Jerome hitches up his pants and frowns at Bud’s interruption. “And I don’t just stir it, Bud, I straight dose Leon every fucking morning. Well, except Sundays. Because of church and all.”
Bud’s jaw drops open and his eyes twitch. He can’t find the words to describe what a greasy shit stain Jerome is.
Jerome misinterprets Bud’s silence. “I know, right?!?!”
Bud’s self-control loses the battle with his outrage, and he shouts, “You are a greasy shit stain, Jerome! Your bathtub acid is full of fucking household poisons. You’ll fucking kill him!”
Jerome waves his fat hand in the air as if to wipe away Bud’s words. “What the fuck ever. It kicks ass.” He chuckles and it shakes him like a bowl of moldy Jell-o. “Just ask Leon!”
As he says it, Jerome remembers he has a batch in the back-up mop bucket in Leon’s closet. Leon hardly ever changes buckets, but if he notices the oily acid, he might dump it down the drain.
“Shit!” He waddles as fast as he can to the peep show hallway, yelling Leon’s name as he goes.
Leon has the door to his closet open, but he hasn’t yet grabbed his mop and bucket when Jerome rolls around the corner into the darkened jerk-off hallway, clutching his chest and wheezing like the dying. The fat man’s face has turned blue.
Jerome gasps, “Leon … *gag* … some ass … *raspy breath* … hole … *gag* … unsealed … *raspy breath into gag* … the … *deep breath* … motha’ fuckin’ … *cough, cough, gag* … glory hole… *gag, choke, spit, and sigh*… between booths fifteen and fourteen.”
Leon looks down the hallway, which is lit only by the large case showing the current assortment of porn playing in the booths, to booth 15 at the hall’s dark end. A chill shakes him, and nervousness clouds his eyes.
He looks to the still-wheezing Jerome and says, “Glory hole … nononono.”
“Oh yeah,” Jerome adds, reaching past Leon into the closet, “and take this.”
He hands Leon an old and rusted half-empty toolbox. Leon sighs and walks down the dark hallway, never even turning to see what movie he would choose to spank off to before he goes to his next job. Most likely that new Hindu/sacred cow/bestiality DVD Jerome showed him two days ago. Then he could watch it in the privacy of his own small room rather than one of the crowded cum-smelling booths he cleans to pay his rent.
While Leon walks down the hall, lost in thoughts of swinging cow balls, Jerome ducks back into the janitor closet. He grabs the straw from Leon’s favorite mug in one fat fist and pulls it out with a slurping sound. He chuckles, fat and wet, while he stirs the small tub of homemade LSD with Leon’s straw.
Leon opens the door to booth 14. So far in his employ at Jerome’s EXXXtreme Theater and Sex Shop, Leon has never been inside booth 15. It is the darkest booth in the entire hallway and the most popular. It has only one neighbor and gives a half-assed impression of privacy to businessmen as they take mid-afternoon wank breaks. Something about booth 15 always sets the hair on the back of Leon’s neck on end. When the glory hole appeared between booths 14 and 15, Leon got his first views of the creepy area through the dick-shaped hole. Leon has sealed the hole up at least a dozen times, but someone (or in Leon’s mind something) keeps tearing the block away.
He digs in his pocket for his employee coin, which he drops in the coin slot. The screen clicks to life as the coin drops out of the return. A blonde with double D titties is getting pounded from behind on the screen, but Leon pays her little attention. He likes the noise, as it keeps his mind from wandering about the horrors of booth 15. He kneels, opens his toolbox, and digs for the flathead screwdriver.
The screen in booth 15 clicks to life. Leon jumps a little at the sound, but he glances to the blonde on screen. After watching her tits bounce for a second, Leon turns his attention back to his screwdriver search. He hears a deep moan from booth 15, and he mutters “titty fuck” under his breath. He wraps his shaking fingers around the screwdriver. As he turns to stand, a giant black dick flops through the glory hole and smacks him hard across his face.
Leon tips backward, hand on cheek. He stares at the dick (which is big enough to have starred in Ugandan Midget Gangbang volumes 1 through 9), and it bounces playfully inches from his stinging cheek. Leon reacts instinctively by hammering the offending prick with the hard plastic handle of the screwdriver before grabbing his tool box. He rubs his cheek and smashes the rusty toolbox against the huge prick before fleeing the horror of the massive face-slapping schlong.
The owner of the beaten dick howls and crashes against the walls of booth 15, shaking the doors to all the booths on the same side of the hallway, but Leon doesn’t look back. He opens the door to his janitor closet and throws the toolbox to the floor harder than he means to. The man in booth 15 is cursing and threatening lives in a deep angry voice, but he doesn’t open the door before Leon grabs his mug and leaves the hallway behind him.
Jerome eyes Leon suspiciously as he hauls ass out of the hallway.
“Whoa, Leon,” Jerome says while leaning forward on the glass case. The case whines under his weight, and he leans back, “What happened?”
Leon shouts, “Monster cock vengeful God!” before bolting out the door and disappearing into the bright sunlight of the Nevada morning.
Antichrist Comes a-Callin’
Lorna Jean Swallows is having a shitty day. Rose from 212 stopped by earlier and asked if she could borrow some sugar, just a half cup. Lorna is used to the frequent requests and gave her some. The old bat stops by at least three times a week, and she is sick and goddamn tired of it.
So today she went off on a rant about how her friend should quit mooching off her all of the time. How she should plan ahead and keep stuff in her cupboard. Then she remembered that Rose is senile and can barely recall what she baked yesterday. She has been losing it for about a year now. Should get tested for Alzheimer’s, that bastard disease, but Rose can’t remember lo
ng enough to make the appointment.
Lorna has been knitting a little sweater for her dog, Buttchunk, for a few days while the programs play on television. His lazy English bulldog eyes roll around when she holds it against his side like he is saying, “If you dress me in that thing, I will crap in your shoes.” But she knows the old boy will put up with it; he has for many years.
It’s later in the day when, still knitting and with yarn in hand, she wanders down to Rose’s apartment. She wishes she could step outside for some fresh air, but the blazing sun over Las Vegas is an inferno that would send her panting to her air-conditioned room in about fifteen seconds.
She strolls past Reverend Danske with his pipe hanging out of his mouth. Damn thing hasn’t had tobacco in it in an age, but he sucks on it just the same. He offers her a fine day and she offers him a blowjob. He declines, as always. Too bad; she hears from her male friends that her dentureless mouth is like a fine slice of heaven.
The carpet has been freshly cleaned since Leonard Shelton went and had his little accident. Not much of an accident; he got himself one of those crazy spells and ran up the hallway with shit pouring out of his backside. Made the whole wing smell to high heaven.
The shit stink still permeates the hallway, she swears it does. They need to pull out the drapes and hang them outside for a day. Let the scent of old Leonard’s crap filter out. But does anyone listen to her? No they do not, and if anyone in God’s waiting room knows how to get smells out of stuff, it is Lorna. She and Dan ran their bed and breakfast for almost thirty years before he keeled over from a massive coronary after taking up with cocaine at the ripe old age of eighty-one.
Wacktards of the Apocalypse Page 7