Cecil’s office was three doors down from ours. I’d never been inside before. I was curious whether it was as pink as ours. No. It was pinker. How was that even possible?
“Cecil?” I called out from the doorway.
No answer. Where was he? I moved cautiously into his office in case it was booby-trapped. I giggled at my pun. Cecil was nowhere to be found. God, I hoped he wasn’t sick today . . .
The office was a mess. Stacks of paper everywhere. The walls were lined with bookshelves and every single inch of space was taken with notebooks and binders. How strange . . . I didn’t take Cecil for a slob or a hoarder, but impressions can be deceiving.
I’d leave him a note to come and find us. I waded through the pigsty to his desk and found a stack of magazines that made my eyes pop.
“Hmm,” I giggled, leafing through the catalog. I now knew what rocked Cecil’s world . . . There must have been at least forty plus-size women’s lingerie catalogs piled high on his desk.
He was not getting it on with Evangeline if he liked robust gals. The Viper was a bag of bones. Every other page was dog-eared and many items had been circled. He clearly liked his women in lacy purple undergarments. Crotchless teddies seemed to hold an appeal for him also. Who knew?
After writing a quick note for him to haul ass to our office ASAP, I turned and knocked a pile of notebooks to the ground. “Shit,” I groaned, bending down to pick them up. Paragraph after paragraph of Cecil’s neat handwriting covered the pages. What the hell was this?
My stomach dropped as I read. No fucking way. I dropped the notebook and picked up another . . . same thing, and another and another. All the notebooks were filled with his neat script. I tripped my way over to the bookshelf. Yanking several down, I opened them and read. The pages were covered with beautiful descriptions of lovers spurned and rejoined. Mind-boggling dialogue and hot, racy sex scenes were described in perfect detail . . . Notebook after notebook was filled with Cecil’s handwriting, telling stories I could never even hope to write. The binders were dated and labeled. They went back at least twenty years. First, second, third drafts of all the Viper’s novels . . . all in Cecil’s neat print.
I pulled down others and read more of the same quality writing. How was this possible? I glanced at the door. No one was there, thank you, Jesus. I would be killed if I got caught. This was bigger than salmonella-gate, much bigger . . . My knees buckled and I slid to the floor. Cecil was not the bad guy. No, my guess was that Cecil was in the same boat we were. Maybe worse . . . I’d bet my car and ten years of my salary that Cecil, the manservant, had been the one originally responsible for making Evangeline a New York Times best-selling romance author. Holy fuck.
“Shoshanna,” I gasped, fifty shades paler than when I left the room fifteen minutes ago. “I have to tell . . .”
“Hello ladies,” Evangeline purred. Her boobs, larger than ever, entered the room before she did.
I stared at her and tried to figure out what could have made her so damned hateful. Studying her at such a close range was alarming and made me realize I’d been wrong about something. Her neck did not resemble a rotted prune, it looked more like an elephant scrotum.
She wobbled her way to the computer and gave us a nasty leer. “I see you’ve read the exciting news. I believe we’re a bit behind schedule. I need the book by the middle of next week for formatting and pre-release to all the major reviewers in the country.”
Evangeline the Awful stood at the desk, trying to hold herself upright. She swayed to the left, then she swayed to the right. Was she drunk? It was only nine-thirty in the morning. WTF? Then it hit me . . . She had no balance because her bazooms were too heavy. That was why she walked so strangely and could barely stay on her feet. Holy shit.
“Impossible, you stinky whore,” Shoshanna muttered under her breath.
“Shokaka,” the odiferous streetwalker hissed, digging her nails into the desk. “When I say it will be done, it will be done.” Her voice got thin and shrill. “Do you understand me?”
We nodded mutely. I grabbed LeHump’s hand before she called the smelly ho anything else. I didn’t want the Viper to push the due date. What boggled my mind was her confidence in the brilliance of a story that hadn’t been written yet. Was she so out of touch that she couldn’t see that Pirate Dave sucked?
“Aren’t you worried about the product?” I asked before I could stop myself. Shoshanna squeezed my hand so hard I heard something crunch.
“Very sneaky, Rudy, very sneaky,” she spat, “trying to convince me the book is bad so I’ll give it back to you. Never. Going. To. Happen.” Her voice got louder and more ear-piercing. “This is my masterpiece. Mine. People will know my name all over the world. I will have free fast food for the rest of my life! Companies will pay me to mention them in my works of art,” she was screaming now and I feared a puncture to my eardrum. “James Cameron can shove Titanic up his ass because I’m the new King of the World,” she shouted and practically fell on her face. LeHump and I didn’t move. There was no fucking way we were going to help her. I was kind of hoping she’d have a heart attack or a stroke after her screeching harangue. It would solve so many problems . . .
“You two worthless nothings will get back to work and finish my book or I will finish you.” So much venom spewed from her voice I felt dirty. “Oh, and Rita, to answer your question, I’m not at all worried about the product. Cecil tells me it’s the book that will change my life and he knows better than anyone,” she hissed, throwing her head back, tossing her overprocessed hair, and banging her skull thoroughly on the doorframe. It was all I could do to hold back the Inappropriate Laughing Monster. My lower lip was going to be a bloody mess. Shoshanna didn’t even try to hold back. She cackled so hard, I hoped she’d brought another pair of panties.
Evangeline did not look back. She left the room in a daze, hopefully a concussed daze. I’d be very happy if we didn’t have to see her again for the rest of the day.
“LeHump, get ahold of yourself. I have to tell you something important,” I said, attempting to wipe the grin off my face. She looked at me and dissolved into another bout of hysterics. “I’m serious,” I hissed, punching her in the arm.
“Oww,” she giggled, trying to compose herself.
“When I was in Cecil’s office, I found . . .”
“Shall we get started, ladies?” Cecil asked from the doorway.
“Holy hell,” I shrieked, slapping my hand over my mouth so hard I got a headache.
“I understand we have a new deadline. I would suggest we get to work,” he said, sitting down and pulling out his notebook and pen.
“Um, sure,” I said, “but I’d like to ask a few questions first.”
“As long as they are not work related, you may,” he answered matter-of-factly.
Crap, they were all work related. What else did I want to know?
“Oh, oh, oh, I’ve got one.” Shoshanna raised her hand. “What’s your real name? I’ve wanted to know that one for twenty years.”
“Fred.”
“Are you married?” I jumped in.
“No.”
“Girlfriend?” I tried again.
“No.”
“Boyfriend?” Shoshanna went for it.
“No.”
“Are you always this eloquent?” I inquired, racking my brain to find out something useful.
“Only when the occasion dictates,” he said with an eye roll.
I was pretty sure he’d just insulted me. “Fine, Fred, tell us something about yourself. Anything. We’ve been cooped up in this hellhole for a week and I don’t know the first thing about you. I’d like to know you better.”
He seemed surprised by my request and Shoshanna gave me an odd look. She didn’t know where I was going, but in true LeHump fashion, she blindly followed.
“Yeah, Fred, I might even find out I like you,” she added. I wasn’t sure if that helped or if it scared him to death.
His eyes were glued to his
notebook and his shoulders slumped forward. “My name is Fred Smith, and I’m fifty-eight years old. I live with my mother. She’s in fragile health, and I take care of her.” He sighed heavily and continued, “I don’t have many friends. They seem to drift away when you have no time for them. I work and tend to my mother. She loves me. I would rather die than embarrass her.” He raised his eyes from his notebook and held mine. “My salary pays for her medicine. Without my job, she would die.”
Oh my God. Was that what Evangeline had over him? His mother’s life? But that didn’t add up . . . had Fred’s mom been sick for twenty years? That was only part of the story. I’d bet Jack’s and my unborn children that there was more to this . . .
“But Fred . . .” I wanted the rest of the story.
“Let’s get to work,” he said firmly, opening his notebook and signaling an end to the cozy get-to-know-you chat. “I’m ready to be revolted by your colorful imagination.”
That was the second time he’d dodged me in five minutes, but the twinkle in his eye made his insult seem almost endearing.
“You asked for it.” I grinned and started talking.
Chapter 18
Pirate Dave stared at the hat full of assholes and wondered who had sent him such a lovely and unusual gift. He considered trying to fuck them, but since they weren’t attached to anything, he decided against it.
Apparently he had a secret admirer.
He’d received daily gifts for a week. Shirley was fit to be tied. She’d tried to tempt him away from thoughts of his admirer by swinging naked from the chandelier in the galley. Bad fucking move on Shirley’s part. During her buck-ass naked extravaganza, she’d accidentally blinded six crew members standing nearby when she gouged their eyes out with her toe.
Her lack of remorse was a huge turn-on for Pirate Dave, but she only had one vagina. Pirate Dave ripped open a box of Salty Skeeboodles and shoved them in his mouth. He left the crumbs from his snack embedded in his chest fur. Lice need to eat, too.
He looked down at his expanding stomach and realized he couldn’t see his peckers anymore. His inability to find a fuck buddy with two lady holes had led him to eat. A lot. He cared not that his once nicely indented ass had turned as flabby as Poseidon’s.
Feeling nauseous and horny, Pirate Dave formed a plan. He would stay awake until he caught his secret admirer. Anyone thoughtful enough to leave him a hat full of assholes deserved a garlic press.
A nasty storm brewed on the horizon. The wind whistled ominously and blinding streaks of lightning ripped through the sky, tearing the darkness apart like a go-cart at a monster truck rally. The ship tossed and turned, causing Dave’s triple bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, and fish sandwich to threaten a reappearance.
“Goddamnit,” Pirate Dave railed against the howling gale, “I hate getting wet.”
Pirate Dave’s head drooped and his shoulders sagged, for Dave had become too fat to fit through the cabin doors. He’d been relegated to living on the deck, becoming one with the motherfucking elements.
If only that shit-ass little troll hadn’t lopped his wanker off, none of this would have happened. He’d be happily porking Shirley. A gag and duct tape had solved the voice problem. He really did love her as long as she didn’t speak, but . . . Laverne had given him a boner numerous times, too. Her violent murderous streak made his johnsons stand at attention. What to do . . .
“Who’s the secret admirer?” Shoshanna asked, shell-shocked from the words that had just passed my lips.
“I have no idea,” I told her truthfully. I figured Cecil-Fred had realized by now that I was pulling everything out of my butt, so hiding my ignorance of the upcoming plot didn’t faze me.
“Can I take a shot at it?” Shoshanna asked.
I heard Cecil-Fred’s sharp intake of breath. Clearly, the thought of LeHump adding her own brand of crazy to the mix frightened him. “Be my guest,” I said, a little bit afraid myself.
The storm picked up and Pirate Dave realized the rain might shrink his ass-less leather chaps. He loved his leather chaps. They’d become slightly uncomfortable due to his double cocks, but his vanity overruled his comfort. Of course his recent hundred-pound weight gain didn’t help, but that wasn’t his fault. It was the fault of the formerly blind stupid fucktard troll.
He looked down at his wrists and shook his head in disgust. Mr. Smee had lost the key to the furry handcuffs and now he was stuck wearing pink fur and metal until someone could saw it off without removing his hands.
He tightened his braided leather vest. He was so glad it kind of still fit. He needed the support for his new man-boobs. He decided to shave his chest and pubic area. Of course not being able to see his scrotum made this a dangerous venture, but Dave liked living on the edge. Unfortunately the only razor he could find was dull and rusty . . . Oh well, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.
He raised the razor to the Heavens for that fat bastard, Poseidon’s blessing. Closing his eyes, he brought the razor down to his . . .
“Um, Shoshanna,” I stopped her before she could cut Pirate Dave’s double ding-dong off, forcing him to grow back four. I was surprised I could speak. My mouth had dropped to the floor and Cecil-Fred was an ungodly shade of red.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Well, yeah. If you castrate him again, four more will grow back.” How was I having this conversation?
“I was only going to cut off one,” she explained.
“Yes,” Cecil chimed in, turning a deeper shade of red, “but if you do that, he’ll have three.”
“How’s that?” Shoshanna asked, confused.
“If you cut both of them off, four will grow back. But if you only cut one off, two will grow back, leaving him with three,” I informed her logically.
“Oh my God!” She nodded in understanding. “That didn’t occur to me. Other than that, what did you think?”
I paused for a moment, wondering how much detail I should go into. I decided none. “I loved it.” And I did. It added a hideous flavor I never would have come up with. “Fred, what’s your take?”
“First of all, ladies, you must call me Cecil. The Madame is not aware that you know my real name and I prefer to keep it that way. As far as the story goes”—he took a deep breath and blushed a little more—“I think it will serve the purpose for which it’s intended very well.”
“Cecil”—Shoshanna slapped him on the back—“I never thought I’d say this to you, but welcome to the club, my friend. Welcome to the club.”
After one of the most exhausting days of my life, I still had a long and bizarre evening ahead. Thankfully I’d gotten ahold of my only friend at the accounting firm and she’d agreed to take on the Poppy Harriet/Walter Garski case. Her discreet nature and sense of humor were the reasons I knew I could trust her with the delicate matter; plus I’d saved her ass multiple times. Once her hysterical laughter had died down, she promised to have it fixed within the week. I would owe her big-time, but the deadline on Pirate Dave meant I couldn’t focus on anything else.
Cecil stayed with us the entire day, giving me no time to share my discovery with Shoshanna. He might have planted himself so I wouldn’t say anything, but we did get a lot done and he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. There was something missing from the blackmail plot against him. I knew asking would lead nowhere. I’d have to discover it myself.
The suckiest part was that Jack and I had played phone tag all day. I couldn’t believe how empty I felt at the thought of not seeing him until Thursday. Although knowing his grandpa was doing well made me happy. Thinking about Jack made me happy. Hearing his voice-mail message made me and my lady bits happy. Everything about him made me happy. WTF? Was it possible to fall for someone this fast? Or did the fact that I wanted to see him naked have anything to do with it? I decided to file those thoughts away until I had the time and energy to figure it out. I didn’t have the time or energy to even grab anything to eat . . . As promised, in exch
ange for the car money, I was taking Aunt Phyllis to her first Bigfoot meeting tonight. Fuck.
Chapter 19
The dark, dank back room of the community center smelled like rotten eggs, wet dog, and poopy diapers, or maybe it was the attendees. I couldn’t be sure. The ride over to the center consisted of Aunt Phyllis repeatedly apologizing for drugging me with her tranquilizers. No matter how many times I told her not to worry about it, she insisted on apologizing again.
“Aunt Phyllis”—I blew out an exasperated sigh as we tried to find someplace to sit in the crowded room—“I swear to God I will flush all your Martians down the toilet if you don’t stop saying you’re sorry.”
She giggled and pushed me down onto a seat in the front row. “They love the sewer system,” she whispered. “If you really want to screw with them, play Céline Dion. They hate that shit.”
Oh my God. I knew I didn’t fit in here, but I began to wonder if maybe Aunt Phyllis did . . .
A man and a woman entered the room in full camouflage. Their faces were painted green and black, and they carried cameras and camcorders strapped to their backs like weapons. The crowd went nuts as they made their way to the front of the room. I clapped so I wouldn’t stand out, but keeping my eyes from rolling was impossible.
“Hi everybody,” the woman yelled above the roar of Sasquatch believers. She then bent her knees, lifted her hands like they were claws, and growled at the audience. All around me people lifted their own hand-claws and growled back.
“Is that the secret fucking handshake?” I asked my aunt, laughing until I realized she too had her claws in the air. She elbowed me and gave me “the look.” I shook my head, thanking Buddha, Jesus, Allah, Zeus, all the angels and saints, and Brett Favre that I didn’t know anyone there. I raised my claws and gave a very halfhearted growl.
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