by Borne Wilder
A smile twisted at Baal’s lips. “Ah yes, well that sheds a bit of light on things. A physical enhancement is one of our more requested forms of service.” Baal turned on his stubby legs and waddled off toward the back of the shop. “Follow me, if you will.” He said, no longer bothering to direct the words at Nolte.” I don’t usually make, what you might call; ‘two for one’ deals, but I found your presentation to be quite humorous, Sir.”
The tiny man took off toward the back of the shop. Had the man’s legs been any longer, Nolte was quite sure, there would have been a swish in his step. Nolte followed the midget obediently, trying, in vain, not to envision the tiny man with a foot of Plaquemines nigger dick up his ass.
Baal pointed a stub of a finger, directing Nolte to what looked to be a podium on four long legs. Atop it, in the center, was a single sheet of blank paper, an inkwell and a large quill.
“Please stand to one side for a moment.” Nolte quickly jumped back, the tiny fag had almost touched him. He moved around the podium, allowing Baal to slide a small wooden stepstool around to the front of the tall table.
“It would suit me to better to use a shorter signing platform, but my boss directed me to this acquisition many, many years ago.” He climbed up the two steps of the small ladder and smoothed his hand across the table’s well-worn surface and smiled.” This bimah was constructed by the Christ, himself. It is said that he read from the book of Isaiah on it, on the day his friends and neighbors tried to stone him to death. One cannot find this level of craftsmanship these days, can one?” Baal looked up at Nolte, his crooked smile dripping with sarcasm. “My boss thought it added a nice touch, given the currency exchanged here.” Baal’s look became dire.” You do understand the currency exchanged here, don’t you?”
Nolte nodded.” You want my soul.”
“Yes, that is our required method of payment. Of course, we only collect, when you are ‘finished with it’ so to speak.” Turning his attention to the paper in front of him, Ball began to scribble frantically. After a few minutes, Baal lifted his head to look at Nolte. “The paper you have given me makes no mention of a larger penis. Might I inquire as to the length and girth you seek, so that I might specify it in the contract?”
“Twice as long, and twice as big around…Make it look like a tall can of corn.” Nolte’s grin spread from ear to ear. He had already forgotten about his big new dick. He hoped like hell, the shit the witch had given him wasn’t permanent. A big dick wouldn’t do him any good if he was too stupid to use it, and at the moment, he felt a few beers shy of a six-pack.
Several minutes later, Baal finished the contract by documenting the time and date. He sprinkled a fine powder over the wet ink and blew it off carefully with soft puffs. He smiled at Nolte and gestured to the powder. “The pounce we use is ground from the bones of children.” His smile grew. “The children were not sacrificed of course. Their bodies were donated, one might say.” His smile grew even larger as he recalled a day, not long past, by Baal’s measure of time, when humans had thrown infants into white hot cauldrons, to sizzle and pop, in praise of his name. Fond memories, fond memories indeed, he thought.
Baal climbed down the step stool, scooted it back around to the side of the table and again climbed the two steps. “Please step forward, read carefully what I have written, and if you are in agreement with the terms, initial above ‘tall can of corn’ and sign the contract using your first name only, at the bottom of the papyrus, near the X.”
Nolte reached for the paper in front of him and received a light slap to the back of his hand, from Baal. “Please do not touch the document until you have read it thoroughly and signed. You must understand and agree with the terms before you come in contact with the papyrus.” Baal scolded.
“How in the fuck do I sign my name?” Nolte looked confused.
“With care, sir, with much care,” Baal told him, his round, childlike face showed no emotion. The jovial expression brought on by the lighthearted trip down memory lane and thoughts of burning children had been replaced with a more serious demeanor. One better suited to the task at hand.
“Don’t we need to poke my finger, so I can sign this in blood?” Nolte asked.
“You have seen too many motion pictures, sir. We have never done that. Our word is our bond.” His impression of the man standing before him led Baal to believe, that the concept of bonding could not be explained, without a great deal of effort.
Nolte took the faggoty looking feather pen and dipped the tip in the inkwell. He looked over at Baal. “Now you’ll give me the money, and I go and get the coin, right”
“Read the document. I included every request, which was written on the paper you handed me.”
Nolte nodded. “And when should I expect the bigger dick?”
“Read the document, sir, it’s all in there, however, you should start seeing results, within the hour.”
Putting the fancy pen to the paper, Nolte signed his name with two Ts, purposely misspelling it. He smiled to himself, inside, get them on a technicality, he thought. Nolte watched as the ink swirled around on the paper and snaked itself into the correct spelling.
“That will not work, Mr. Nolte. If I only had a farthing for every time someone has attempted that.” Baal’s look turned to utter contempt. “Our word is our bond, Mr. Nolte.”
“Why are you calling by my name all of a sudden?” Nolte asked suspiciously.
“I had to wait until you wrote it out for me. Though our organization has had our eye on you for a long time, Mr. Nolte, you are a man of misdeeds and absolutely devoid of character. One way or another, our paths would have crossed, but you never really existed to us, in a business sense, until the moment you signed the papyrus.”
Baal took the quill from Nolte and removed the contract from the table. “We came to the conclusion long ago Mr. Nolte, that forgiveness can happen when you least expect it. So many have asked for it at the very last moment of their life and received it, cutting us out of the picture entirely. We stopped taking one’s word alone and began to include the written and signed agreement. Though it is no guarantee, it seems to reduce dishonesty. Dishonesty aside, the contract is iron clad and does hold water, at even the highest levels of management.” Baal grinned at Nolte. “We no longer need to worry about any of that forgiveness nonsense with you now, do we, Mr. Nolte?”
“No sir, you don’t shorty.” Nolte reached down and squeezed his dick through his pants. To his delight, it felt thicker.
6
Ron sat on the edge of his bed rubbing his face; there was a time when his circulation didn’t require coaxing. A time when losing a few hours of sleep didn’t destroy an entire day. As far as bucket lists went, his was quite lengthy and aging wasn’t on it.
Old age could kiss his ass, and he took offense at the very idea of it. You’re only as old as you feel. Whoever came up with that could kiss his ass too. Ron hated people that spoke in catchphrases and old sayings, but that didn’t keep them from dancing around in his own head, perhaps, that’s why he hated them. You’re only as old as you feel. Ron felt somewhere in his late nineties or early hundreds, lack of sleep usually added five or six decades to the old saying, when it applied to him.
Writing a best-selling, self-help book was on his bucket list, and what better subject than anti-aging theories, or a complete history of idiots and their catchphrases.
Though he didn’t qualify as a spring chicken anymore, he was a far cry from being old. He ran his hand through his hair; he had his hair going for him. It wasn’t receding, it was the same hairline he’d had in high school, and the fact, that none of it was gray took some of the creak out of his bones. He combed it back with his fingers, patting down some of the more unruly tufts. The importance of hair would have to be stressed in his book, the self-help book, not the one about catchphrases. While he waited for the creaks in his legs to get the news, that he still had all his hair, he wondered what in the hell a spring chicken was, and who was the i
diot that saw fit to relate one to human aging.
This day had gone to hell in a handbasket, in a hurry. The last thing he had wanted to wake up to was a dead Nolte; even though it came as no surprise, he’d rather have put the matter off indefinitely, or entirely. Several times, especially lately, he’d told himself, he would just ignore the news when it came, and carry on as if nothing had happened. He felt he had no horse in the race. Not my circus, not my monkeys. He had never liked the man, much less, loved him and he was pretty sure the feelings were reciprocal. It was no sweat off either’s nose, according to both, whether the other lived or died.
Ron and his brother Charlie had been painted out of the family portrait by Nolte’s second attempt at family life; an arrangement that suited the brothers, just fine. Neither needed a constant reminder of whence they came nor wanted to deal with the embarrassment, such an intimate association to an asshole provided. “You’re Nolte’s kid, ain'tcha?” was always accompanied by the facial expression: 'There’s a pubic hair in my soup.'
The old man had been banging pretty hard on death’s door for the last month or so, something Ron’s stepsisters saw fit to remind him of as often as possible. Their calls usually came back to back, within minutes of each other, each update identical in every way to the last, including the level of guilt they intended to inflict.
Guilt was the sole objective of the phone calls. The sisters knew that he really couldn’t care less about Nolte’s condition and by providing Ron with details of the dying man’s condition, he would be prompted to reflect on how little he really cared, thus producing his guilt.
Their actions were quite devious, and Ron was left with no other choice, but to applaud their ingenuity. However, the frequency, in which they indulged in their twisted behavior, really pissed him off. They had tried their mind game on Charlie once, but he had immediately posted their phone numbers in the Craigslist personals, along with a brief description of their hungry, cock-craving mouths. Charlie never received another guilt call.
The last month had seen the geezer fade fast, and provided the girls with a fount of opportunities to dabble in their insidious phone perversion. One of the more fervent attempts at making Ron feel like shit had been the diaper update. Back to back phone calls, explaining in great detail, the unexpected arrival of Nolte’s incontinence, and the enormous effort suddenly required in sustaining the old man’s cleanliness.
It had been reiterated many times on each phone call, how neither of them had signed on for that specific inconvenience. It had also been hinted at, that, if conscience allowed, a monetary donation from Ron might ease the burden, or at least make the unholy task less loathsome. Ron of course, ignored the hints; he felt the conniving bitches were getting their just deserts, besides; he was desperate to retaliate for the guilt calls. There was also no doubt in his mind; Nolte was shitting himself on purpose, just so he might get his stinger rubbed with a washcloth, and he wasn’t about to pay for the old man’s hand-jobs.
The old man had outlasted the doctors’ predictions, and relatively speaking, was puttering along quite nicely, not accounting for soiled diapers, but Nolte was a creature of habit, and any deviation in his routine spoke volumes to anyone paying attention. The recent reduction in his alcohol intake gave Ron the heads-up.
Nolte had always said, “You’ll have to pry it from my cold dead fingers.” Most of the time, ‘it’ meant a bottle of mescal, but sometimes it referred to his gun or his dick. However, it was clear to anyone remotely familiar with the old coot, the end was drawing near. If not the cancer, sobriety would surely kill him.
The sisters, however, felt differently, perhaps feared is a better word. They worried the old fart would live on forever. This was best evidenced by the relief on their faces when each time the doctor updated Nolte’s prognosis, he would leave out the R-word. Both sisters might have been emotionally destroyed, had the doctor even hinted at remission. It would have had the same effect, as not only telling a small child there was no Santa but showing the kid a red-suited corpse, face down and bleeding in the snow.
Ron was pretty sure, one of the reasons the old man had lasted as long as he did, was to inflict as much emotional suffering on the sisters as he possibly could. Nolte was all about getting his money’s worth, he called it his inheritance tax.
The last time they had spoken on the phone, the old man sounded tired and frail. Ron suspected, deep down, Nolte knew the end was coming, but by all accounts of the exchange, the irredeemable heathen seemed unconcerned with his approaching demise. He had made it clear, he had no intention of making his peace with God, nor did he indicate any regard, whatsoever, for his final destination. “It is what it is.” He’d said. To hear a lifetime of debauchery and perversion put into such a simplistic phrase, with no acknowledgment, or acceptance of responsibility had chilled Ron to his core, he had never known how truly soulless and hollow the old man was, until that very moment.
It was better for all concerned, that Nolte was dead. Even for Nolte. Maybe not for Nolte, he might be revising his views on, ‘it is what it is.’ Ron was sure, that if Nolte had gone to Heaven, he would have been kicked out within an hour or so, for trying to fuck cupids in the ass.
Nolte had been a first class asshole, and as far as Ron knew, that sentiment was widely held by everyone who had come in contact with the man, yet, there were still times, when Ron had felt sorry for him. It wasn’t that the geezer had no friends, which drew Ron’s sympathy, he had earned that. It wasn’t that the cretin had no family who could stomach him for more than an hour at a time; he had earned that, also. Nolte deserved every ounce of animosity ever directed at him; Ron had even encouraged enmity in others, as a way to help justify his own bitterness. It wasn’t that no one liked Nolte that bothered Ron; it was that Nolte didn’t seem to notice it. He seemed clueless to the reality, that he was utterly alone and completely unloved.
Maybe he was wrong, maybe Nolte just didn’t want to be loved. Had Ron been forced to walk in Nolte’s shoes, he would have killed himself long ago, (if he hadn’t died of shame first) but if Nolte had ever contemplated ending it all, he’d never let on, at least not to Ron. In fact, if drunk enough, the old man would babble incessantly about eternal life. Though Ron never came out and said it, he knew a fart in a whirlwind had a better shot at eternity, than Nolte. At least the old man didn’t waste away in total regret like a lot of people do. Ron couldn’t decide which would be worse, dying unloved, or bleeding out from remorse.
Around the same time Nolte announced his cancer; an eccentric old woman in the Big Easy, (New Orleans for those who hadn’t contemplated attending Mardi Gras as often as Ron thought about it) had contacted Ron. Actually, some Dewey, Cheatum and Howe type law firm had contacted him, wanting to buy a coin from Nolte’s collection. When the lawyer told him the woman had put a spell on the coin, which would ward off death and allow Nolte to rise up on the third day following his passing, Ron hung up the phone.
For the next few days, the law office blew his phone up, sometimes as many as twenty calls in a single day. Even some of Ron’s, more insane, stalker girlfriends didn’t have as much persistence. Some girls are blessed, Ron surmised, with a foresight that told them which men had potential, and they would latch on to those men like starving Honey Badgers. Ron considered himself to be dripping with potential and if one were to judge by the number of crazies he had to hide from, Ron was truly dripping with something.
It wasn’t until a messenger arrived at his door, with five thousand dollars’ cash in an envelope, did Ron consider having a conversation with the legal whack-jobs. All he had to do was, call the attorney and hear him out and the cash was his. Cash had always been able to reduce Ron’s skepticism, and open him up to new and exciting ideas.
The messenger exchanged a code word with the lawyer at the beginning of the call, and confirmation that he had fulfilled his obligation at the end, but in-between, was fifteen minutes of some of the most absurd shit Ron had ever allowed into
his ears. The cut and dried, matter-of-fact manner of the lawyer had made it sound even more ridiculous. Ron had only heard of one man who had come back from the dead, though he had serious doubts about the veracity of that tale, he was damn sure, Nolte and Jesus didn’t fit in the same category. He was also certain, had Jesus heard his name mentioned in the same sentence as Nolte, he would climb down from the cross and slap the taste out of the mouth of whoever had spoken the abomination.
What would make a reasonable professional, with extensive sacrifice to higher education, say such shit? Ron had asked the man, using those very words. Money was what. The crazy old woman was willing to pay one and a half million dollars for the coin.
Ron was to say nothing to Nolte and contact their offices immediately upon Nolte’s death. The lawyer had made it crystal clear that time was of the essence once physical death occurred, and time was money, and it was the money that had made Ron say, “Okeydokey, artichokey.”, Besides, he had seen the coin, he knew it existed, whether or not it was magical, really didn’t matter, at a million five.
The finer things in life had always appealed to Ron, not just finer, but the best, the most expensive, the rarest. Over the years, he had collected some of them, and though they had kept him a little in the red, he considered them an investment in life. To him, to go through life without experiencing what it truly had to offer was the unforgivable sin. Some of his collectibles were tangible, like his Mercedes or his Rolex, but some were no more than cherished memories. For instance, consuming a thousand-dollar bottle of wine, a wedge of aged brie and a Miami Dolphins’ cheerleader, on a foggy pier in the Florida Keys, to Ron, was as real as the Renoir etching he had hanging over his couch.