Fitty of Pink: A Parody

by Faythe America

I watched and did nothing.

  I could not help him, where he was about to go. Into that cold, ruthless world of insider trading and backroom deals. I did not know what Mr. Pink had to do in the world to stay on top. To have the money he needed in order to have a secret lair and millions of ponies and everything else he possessed. He said he could buy the whole world if he wanted.

  But was that really what he wanted?

  Was Mr. Pink the sweet, innocent unicorn, frolicking in the valleys of vast, green forests and sparkly shit? Or was he the dark, tortured man, who would spend his life grasping for phantoms in his doomed search for happiness, as he decimates everything around him that he might have loved, had he not been so blind to his single-minded, self-destructive ambition?

  And God! More importantly, which one did I want him to be? The sweet-natured, happy, content, loving hippie, or a sociopath who could buy me everything I wanted?

  Double sparkly sociopathic fuck!

  Oh well. Didn’t have to answer that now. Fucking Bubble Boy was on!

  Fifteen minutes into the show, I realized something. Something that might hurt Mr. Pink’s chances of karate chopping that desk apart with his dick.

  He’d forgotten his unicorn key chain!

  Chapter 21

  Mr. Pink had already taken the Pinkmobile. Well fuck some crap! Okay, I guess since it was his car, that wasn’t too surprising that he took it. But that meant the only other car I could take that freaking Volva I’d tried to build myself like building a car was some arts-and-craft project you’d do at girlie scouts.

  Well, excuse me! I deserve three buttons, because building a motherfucking car is a lot harder than planting a fucking tree (but still not as hard as starting a fire with twigs)!

  I jumped in front of my car. Maybe, if I scared it a little, it would be-thefucking-have. And that totally didn’t look like ‘behave’ even though that was what I was going for, but rather ‘be’ and ‘have’, which are often the first words that you learn how to conjugate when you learn a foreign language.

  Fuck! Was the car trying to speak to me? What language did it speak? Wait, the key wasn’t in the ignition! It couldn’t speak! Was it trying to sign language at me? Fuck, it couldn’t even move without the key plugged in!

  Well I decided to put an end to its silence by getting the fuck in that car. I popped off the door.

  No, that wasn’t a typo. I didn’t pop the door, I popped it right the fuck off! God damn, was this thing street legal? Wait! Since when did I care about what the street thought of me? It was made of fucking pavement! Not flesh and blood! Fuck!

  “You can’t fool me, crazy street! Taste my burnt leather! I mean, my burnt rubber!” Fuck, I needed to get leather wheels so I could whip mouthy sidewalks when I drove up on them! Teach you to talk back to Mistress Sterling, bitch!

  Well, fortunately I was on my way, but unfortunately, I’d forgotten to do the most important thing! (Which was listening to what my car had to tell me.) What she was about to tell me was that she was about to break, but unfortunately I didn’t get it until she’d already fallen apart.

  I jumped out on top of her carcass and started beating my chest. “Why!” I screamed up at the sky. “Fuck, now you’re gonna rain, too? Why don’t you just—”

  “Stomp on my dick!” A voice next to me yelled.

  I looked over. Damn, that guy was smokin hot! Walking around with his shirt off! In nothing but his boxers! His caramel skin had caramel dripped all over it! Sticky fun yum! And his eyes…fuck! Just the way he looked at me, I could tell he was a real man.

  “Get over here!” He said, marking an ex over his bare chest. “This baby’s so hard the rain evaporates when it comes within six feet of it.”

  Fuck! So damn hot! My life with him would be perfect. But wait, who was he again? And why did he look so familiar? “Hey, who are you?” I asked.

  “What? You gotta be kiddin me, Maggie babe! It’s me, Jonas!”

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  Jonas.

  I tapped my thinking pointer finger to my thinking bubble, careful not to tap too heard so it wouldn’t pop. Jonas, Jonas…I thought and thought as my head started to pound from being prodded so much by my insistent finger.

  Oh, right. Jonas. My best friend. The guy I always told all of my troubles too. Who, after listening patiently for hours, and letting me use his favorite shirt to clean my two snot-holes from crying so hard and long, always bought me ice cream, or new shoes, or tickets to the opera. Fuck! Jonas! Who was always telling me I deserved better than assholes who treated me like shit! OH YEAH! Jonas!

  Suddenly…………

  …….suddenly, suddenly………….

  ………………………..suddenly………………………………………..

  …………………….

  ………………………

  …………………………………………………

  ……….all those sexy thoughts about him, and me, and forever, all disappeared, because that guy was, like, embedded in the ‘friend zone.’

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Dude, you came at just the right time. I have to get to Mr. Pink ASAP!”

  “Why do you need to go to Mr. Pink?” He asked. “Why is it always Mr. Pink instead of me?”

  “I don’t know!” I yelled back. “I mean, fuck. Why did my car have to break down in the middle of the street? Why is everyone honking their horns at me? Why is a fucking grocery bag flailing in its death throes in the wind the most beautiful thing anyone has ever seen? Why? WHY? Fucking hot dogs!” I yelled, my voice blaring over the horns.

  “Hot dogs?” Jonas asked.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter. I need to get to Mr. Pink. Shit is about to go down, and he needs me. So take me there now!”

  Jonas put his hand on my arm to stop me. I guess he could have also done that to give me a message, or to push me, or to smear something sticky on me and then run away giggling because he was a practical prankster, but he decided to stop me with it. “I wish you would run to me the same way you are running to him. I wish you would…feel certain things for me.”

  “What things?” I asked. Fuck! How long was he gonna hog the spotlight? The relationship between me and Jonas was all about me and my feelings. Me and my wants. Me and my neurosis. Why was he trying to get me to listen to him? Just because he was my best friend and everything? Fuck that shit!

  Wait! Maybe he was just worried that I was going to like try to jump his bones and make a freaking xylophone with them. Bedroom black metal! Fuck, who borrowed my cowbell? I’m looking at you, rotting Christ! “Dude, it’s okay!” I grinned. “I just don’t really see you in a sexual way, you know? You’re my friend.”

  “Fuck!” He yelled.

  “My bentest—I mean, bestest—friend in the hole world!”

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t be together! I mean, we can still be best friends!”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh God!” he cried. “After all these years of following you around…I mean, I turned down a full ride to Harvard so I could follow you to Community College! I spent a year getting stoned off my ass in Amsterdam! I learned four different languages while we were there, so you could talk to the locals and make friends! I translated conversations for you that went on for hours and consisted entirely of:

  Oh my God, he didn’t!

  Oh yes he did!

  No way!

  Yes way!

  Shit!

  Fuck, I know.

  But seriously, oh my God, he didn’t!

  I LOVED you!”

  I looked at him. “What?”

  “I said, I love you,” he declared, taking my hands. “And I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy. I want to dedicate my life to your happiness. I want to make love to you, Maggie.”

  My heart melted. No, wait, he’d just gotten some of his caramel on my chest. Need a napkin, dude! Wait, no, he was saying something important! Something really special. I w
as feeling something. But was it love, or acid reflux?

  Here was a guy who wanted to make love to me! Who loved me!

  But…but…there was also Mr. Pink. A man who was incapable of love. A man who was bat-shit instead of kind. A man who’d once said: I don’t make love. I hump. Hard.

  And shit, no one could make you happier, or hump you harder, than a man incapable of love.

  I thought back over what Jonas had said. Wait, something there doesn’t make sense. Something was a little creepy.

  I gave him my best accusatory glare. “Wait Jonas. Did you say you followed me to Community College? I thought you turned down that Harvard scholarship because you really wanted to do pottery with me.”

  “Come on, Maggie! Obviously I followed you there! They have pottery at Harvard!”

  Well crap on a potter’s wheel and watch it spin around! No, wait, both of us took that class. Double crap!

  “I don’t know why you think ‘following’ me is okay, alright? That’s fucking creepy stalker behavior! I mean, sure, Mr. Pink stands in front of his computer monitor and watches me sleep every night via the hidden camera he tacked above my bed, and he stuck a tracer chip in my skull so if I ever tried to leave him he would find me. And yeah, sure, that chip is wedged into the area of my brain that controls my motor skills, so if I ever tried to remove it I’d end up paralyzed, and then I’d never, never, ever be able to leave him.”

  Jonas’ face was no longer red. It was white. “Oh my God, he did that? Maggie, listen to me, that is seriously fucked up. You can’t see that guy anymore! I mean, fuck! I think we need to call the cops!”

  I balled my hands into fists! How dare he talk poorly of Mr. Pink? He was just jealous, because he wasn’t as sexy or successful! “No, Jonas. Mr. Pink is just worried about my safety, okay? Do you know what’s fucked up? Giving up your dreams just for a chance with a girl, you creepy psycho!” I swallowed. “Besides, we can’t date. If I did, and we broke up, who would comfort me?” I explained to him when he frowned. “Now, BFFM, that’s Best-Friend-Forever-Man, alright? The traffic is jammed all the way across the bridge because of me. How will I ever make it to him now?”

  Jonas started to weep very manly, restrained tears. Or maybe he was just holding one in a big one.

  That’s just another reason why I love Mr. Pink, I realized. We don’t hold anything back from each other. If we want to express our feelings through our ‘other mouth,’ we do, and partake in that language only those desensitized connoisseurs can savor.

  “Do you really love him?” Jonas asked.

  “Yes,” I said. I mean, we’d fucked like three times already, and once on my period. If that wasn’t love, I didn’t want to know what was.

  Jonas sighed. “Alright. I’ll be here for you now, and forever, but when you and Mr. Pink break up, I think I deserve a pity fuck.”

  Pity fuck? Well, isn’t he cheeky! Mmmm…Wonder what he wants me to do to his ass cheeks. Maybe his real name is maroon. Or black and blue. Oh wait man! Golden grape fuck! He’s ‘friend’ material, NOT ‘boyfriend’ material! “I’ll consider it,” I mused.

  His eyes lit up. “Really?”

  “Yes. I will really consider it.”

  “Wow. I never thought I’d hear those words from your mouth!”

  I pressed my hand over his mouth as he started to lean in for a quickie. Gotta be slicker than that, slick! “I said maybe. In the future. I will consider. Now, how are we gonna get me out of here?”

  Techno music blasted from the speakers of one of the nearby, angry cars. Jonas flexed his pecks to the beat. “Tell me why I should help you if sex isn’t a guarantee.”

  “Because you’re my bestest best friend after Faythe—!”

  “No. A real reason. That weird ass guy has moved your heart.” He grabbed my hand and stuck it over his chest. “Now you have to move mine.”

  I bit my lip. Double dummy! I mean, the reason why might embarrass Mr. Pink if it ever came to light. What if Jonas let it out that Mr. Pink was only such a fucking stud because of a unicorn toy?

  But if he doesn’t have that toy, today, at the meeting, he might be….impotent!

  “Look,” I said, pulling out the key chain. “I have to give this to Mr. Pink.”

  Jonas raised his brows. “Uh, that’s it? That fucking girl’s toy?”

  “You don’t understand! This isn’t just a toy to him! Unicorns are to Mr. Pink what spinach is to Popeye!” God! Why wouldn’t the world understand! Why did I keep using words to describe things? Ugh! I hate words! It takes so much time to say shit! Time that could be spent doing things, like falling on my face!

  Oh my dearest me! That reminded me of Mr. Pink, and how I totally fell in front of him. That busted lip was the beginning of our tender love.

  “Please, help me Jonas! You’re my only hope!”

  Jonas rolled his eyes and his hands in his mouth and let out an umpire whistle. Oh wait, umpires already have, like, whistling tools that are called whistles. Well, like how an umpire might whistle if he lost his whistle, unless, of course, umpires have lost the knowledge of their ancient art form of whistling. Damn, regular whistle tools! We were losing our ability to whistle on our own with you around!

  Anyways, Jonas totally still possessed this ability.

  Just then, a white horse flew over the bridge. Whoa! Double crap! Hope it’s not horse crap, though! It stopped once it reached Jonas, and put its white, beautiful nose against Jonas’ totally fab abs.

  “Your ride awaits, my lady,” Jonas said.

  The horse took one look at me and shook hits head, hiding its nose in Jonas’ armpit.

  “Come on, Jelly Button! You have to let her ride you.”

  The horse shook itself.

  “No, she’s a very special girl! You have to treat her nicely!”

  The horse gave me a weird look again.

  “Dude, I don’t think your horse likes me. And why the fuck do you have a horse?”

  “This was my great grandfather’s horse. And my great-great grandfather’s horse. She’s been in the family for generations. Hell, she practically raised me. She’s the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever known.”

  “Fuck. I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, well, not everyone thinks that horses are fit to raise children,” he said.

  I squinted. “Fuck that’s deep.”

  “It’s real shit, man.”

  “I know.”

  “No, by your foot,” he amended.

  “Oh crap!” I jumped away.

  “I think she likes you,” Jonas said, grinning.

  Really? She’d just tried to take a dump on my foot! “I think that actually means she doesn’t like me.”

  “Oh, come now.” He petted the horse’s nose. “Now, you treat her well, you hear? If everything goes well, she might give me a pity fuck.” He turned his attention back to me. “Alright Maggie. Time to hop on.”

  “Uh, am I supposed to ride this thing alone?”

  “Yes,” Jonas said.

  “But I’ve never ridden a horse before.”

  “It’s really easy,” he said. “Just scratch her left ear when you want to turn left, and her right ear when you want to turn right. When you want to stop, say, ‘don’t go eaten all my jellies, yo!’ and she will stop.” He licked his finger and held it up to the sky. “Fuck. If you don’t leave now, the meeting’s gonna be over!”

  “Shit!” I screeched. Guess I had no choice but to ride the pony!

  Chapter 22

  So I was totally right and Jonas was totally wrong. The horse hated my guts. Guys are often like that, you know? I mean, sometimes they are right, but sometimes they are wrong too. But still, I think this is an important issue to bring up. However, the philosophical quandary that question posed was certainly less pressing than the teensy, weensy problem I faced at that moment: How the FUCK to get off a crazy ass insane horse!

  I mean, alright. Last night, I had said that I bucked like a bronco. But there wa
s no comparison! This thing bucked like a nest of angry wasps that were really freaking angry! Like each one of those angry wasps was bucking! Like you were a little wasp flea on one of their backs and had to hold onto them while they went berserk, trying to kill everything around you! It was climbing on cars like it was in a music video!

  Ding-dong!

  Every time I scratched its right ear it went left. Every time I scratched its left ear it body-slammed (or is it torso slammed? horsy slammed?) me into a Merabies. Fuck! I hated those damn luxury cars! Like freaking luxury crackers! Only taste good when you put them with fancy ass cheese! On their own they taste like wet noodle cardboard!

  And then it saw some kid eat ice cream.

  Oh man hole fuck!

  Its nostrils flared. It bared its teeth. It blew air through its lips, and while that may sound pretty innocent to you, trust me it isn’t! There’s nothing freakier than watching stale, horse-breath air blow through a horse’s thin lips! It’s like watching a sheet dry on a laundry line on a windy day! Only it’s a horse! Fuck! And while you may not think that’s too freaky, that kid totally agreed with me.

  The little shit screamed, her pigtails flying up towards the sky as if they, too, were praying to God to help her. But He didn’t listen. No one did, as the horse charged forward, beady, demonic eyes locked on that ice cream.

  The kid seemed to notice the horse’s single one-on-one obsession with her freaky sugary cone and threw it up into the air. The horse leaped up to get it, clearing her. The ice cream fell on its head.

  Shit! Now what?

  The horse freaked. It wanted that ice cream more than anything else. It wanted that ice cream so bad that it went crazy. And this was a problem because that ice cream was so damn close, but yet so far away! I mean, I could have reached up and given it to the horse, but I was too scared because an essential part of my character was being too scared to do anything when it was convenient for the plot!

  Anyways, eventually we somehow reached the pink tower. Probably because the pink tower was pink, and white horses freaking love that color. Also, towers. Saving damsels in distress is ingrained into their blood. They had to do it so much in the Victorian’s romantic reimagining of the Middle Ages that they fucking charge towards pink towers every time they see one at this point, similar to how baby birds know how to peck out of their eggs, or recently hatched sea turtles know to haul ass towards that ocean.