King of the Perverts

by Steve Lowe

  But do I let that stop me?

  Fuck no. I motion for our waitress and point at my near empty glass. “Hey, keep these coming, would ya?” I turn and point at Mongo over in the corner. “And put them on my comrade’s tab over there.”

  The waitress looks at Mongo, who waits for a second before nodding his ascension. The waitress just shrugs and grabs my empty glass. I turn my attention back to what’s-her-face Gloria something-or-other. She’s been going on about something in my ear, but I haven’t heard a word.

  I say to her, “So, Glenda, what do you like?”

  She smiles and says, “It’s Misty, and I like lots of things. I like muscle shirts. I like sleeve tattoos. I like chocolate sauce. I like full frontal nudity. I like my German Shepherd.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of stuff you like, Missy.” The waitress returns with a fresh V&T and I take a long pull from my glass.

  “What about Mexico? Do you like Mexico?”

  Interlude 6

  The Hospital

  The hospital?

  Why the fuck am I in the hospital?

  I try to sit up and a blinding pain knifes through the center of my brain. I feel nauseous and panic for somewhere to puke. Someone in the room plunks a plastic tray in my hand and I fill it up with vodka, tonic water, and what looks and smells like recently consumed summer sausage. Where the fuck did I get summer sausage?

  And why the fuck are the little puke trays in the hospital so goddamn little? Why would you give an upchucking patient a narrow, shallow plastic tray shaped like a smile? How about a big fucking bucket that I can bury my head in so I’m not sloshing vom all over everything? This stupid thing looks like you should be serving hotdogs in it, not catching ralph.

  I lie back on the bed and close my eyes, but the room just spins worse that way so I open them up and try to figure out what’s going on.

  I appear to be in an emergency room. I’m on a movable gurney bed thing in a very tight room with a drape for a door. My head hurts like hell, but it goes beyond the normal hangover headache. I touch the right side and feel a bandage there and massive pain when I poke it. Note to self: don’t poke your head bandage. It’s there for a reason, most likely to cover up a wound of some sort.

  So how the hell did I end up in the hospital with a head wound? And where the fuck is Mongo? And there was someone else from last night, too. What was her name? Mary, I think. Or Sissy? Mimi? Fuck, I don’t know.

  I sit up again, much slower this time to keep down the heave. A faint smell of ass in the air does not help. A nurse-type lady walks in as I’m swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

  “Morning, sunshine!” she says way too fucking loud and cheery. “How’s our favorite drunk ass patient doing?”

  “Ugh.”

  She laughs and flips through a chart. I look at her nametag and then ask Sarah, “How long have I been in here?”

  She flips to the first page of her stack and says, “Let’s see… you were a dump-and-run at four thirty-nine this morning.” She looks at her watch. “Which means you’ve been here for almost four hours.”

  “Dump-and-run?”

  Sarah sets my chart on the small desktop tucked in the corner of the room and looks me over. “Yeah, that’s what we call the drunks who get dropped outside the door by their friends who obviously don’t want to get in trouble, so they just dump ’em and then run off. Front desk security didn’t get a good look at your buddy, but a paramedic said she heard a stream of what sounded like angry Russian, and then there you were with a nasty cut on your head.”

  Shit, what the hell happened? I can’t remember a thing since the bar. I don’t remember leaving anywhere. Was there a bar fight? Did I get hit with a bottle? That doesn’t seem familiar at all.

  I can see stairs.

  Did I fall down stairs?

  And why do I still smell ass? Something in here definitely smells like a butt. I wonder if another patient in the ER has shit themselves, but Sarah sees me sniffing the air like I’m tracking foxes on a morning hunt. She solves the mystery for me by pointing at the tiny sink set in the wall next to the tiny desk.

  “That smell is you,” she says. “Wash your hands and face really well with that antibacterial soap. Wouldn’t want anybody getting E. coli because of you, Senior.”

  •

  About an hour later, a really young doctor named Singh gives me a final check, waving his pen back and forth and up and down and holding it in my peripheral vision. He has me do a few simple balance tests, which I guess I pass because he signs my chart and tells me I don’t appear to have a concussion. He’s got dark circles under his eyes and that malnourished look of a resident nearing the end of a twenty-hour shift, which might explain why I’m being sent out the door so quickly. I don’t think Dr. Singh knows if he’s coming or going.

  So now I’m standing in the lobby of the ER, wondering exactly where I am, where I’m going, where Mongo is, if he’s skipped town after dumping me in front of the hospital, what happened to last night’s challenge. Though by the smell of me, I have a feeling something went down, and that it got a little messy. Fuck, I don’t even want to think about it.

  I’m about to head outside and find a bus stop when I hear, “Dennis?”

  I look around but don’t see her until she’s standing right in front of me. Even then I don’t recognize her at first. The last time I saw her, she was wearing nothing but a thong and her hair was done up different. Right now her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, she’s wearing scrubs, and her face looks to be pretty much clear of any makeup at all. I’m struck by how naturally beautiful she is.

  “Wow, Tricia?”

  “Yeah, hi!” She turns and tells her other scrub-clad companions she’ll catch up with them in a little bit.

  “What are you doing here?” she says to me.

  “Um, I’m not sure.”

  She looks at the bandage on my head. “Oh my gosh, are you OK? What happened?”

  “Again, not really sure. I guess I took a tumble and hit my head last night. I honestly can’t really remember.”

  “Jesus, do you have a concussion or anything?”

  “Not according to the sleep-deprived kid who just released me.”

  She shakes her head and pulls at my arm. “You have to watch out for those residents sometimes.”

  “What are you doing here?” I look her up and down. “Are you a nurse or something?”

  She shakes her head again. “No, I’m a radiology tech.”

  “Oh. I thought you were still in school.”

  “I graduated last May. This is my first job.” She pulls me toward a café on the far side of the hospital lobby. “You look like you could use some coffee, and I have a few minutes before my shift begins. Come on.”

  •

  After ten minutes of talking to Tricia, I’ve forgotten about my head. I’ve pretty much forgotten about everything. I’m kind of lost in her right now. I love hearing her talk. Her voice soothes my aching body and mind. Hearing about her life takes me away from what mine has become.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I haven’t stopped talking since we sat down.”

  I smile and wave a hand at her. “No, I don’t want you to stop. It makes my head feel better.”

  She looks concerned, her eyebrows knitting together in the cutest way when she looks at my bandaged noggin. “Are you sure you’re going to be OK?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I don’t sound very convincing. I suck at lying.

  Tricia sets her cup down and looks at her phone. “Shit, my shift starts in two minutes.” She stands and shoulders her purse. She looks me over again, her concern turning to consternation. “Is there something going on with you that I should know?”

  There’s not enough time in the day to answer that question properly. And I don’t have the energy to try and lie. “Maybe we can get together again to talk some time when you don’t have to go into work and I’m not recovering from a recent head injury.”


  That brings out a smile, but it’s a small one, like my suggestion is not enough to ease her mind. “I think we should. There’s a lot about you that I don’t know yet.”

  “And you want to actually find it out?”

  She pauses as though truly contemplating that question and I think I fall a little bit in love with her right there. “Yes,” she says. “I think I do want to find out. There’s something about you that I find … intriguing. Something in your eyes that’s compelling, like you have a really long and interesting story to tell and you’re dying to unload it. When will you call me?”

  I don’t know what to say. I can’t exactly be going out on dates with this girl while I’m trying to lure bar tramps back to the rape cave to pull stupid stunts on them in bed. But I also have no clue how much longer this fucking show is going to go on. At last check I was halfway to the end, but it seems I’ve only gotten this far on my own dumb luck. How much longer would that luck last? And why am I even still in this thing anyway?

  Stupid question. There’s a million reasons why. So far my moral debasement has not been enough to top that pile of cash waiting for me if I win. But what about now? What about this girl across from me? She’s clearly interested, and she gives me that magic bubbles feeling in the pit of my stomach. I really want to get to know her. But if I make her wait for a week, three weeks, two months, what will happen?

  Is she enough to make me walk away from a million dollars?

  I tell her, “Soon. I’ll call you real soon.”

  She seems to accept this, but the worry is still etched in her face. She knows something is up. I stand and step around the table and she leans in for a quick, unexpected hug. God, she smells so good.

  She pulls back and touches my face just below the bandage, mindful not to hurt me. “Please be careful,” she says. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Before I can respond, Tricia turns and walks out of the café. I watch her go, mesmerized by the movement of her body even underneath those modest scrub pants. I wonder if she’s wearing that thong again. I wonder if she’s wearing anything at all under those scrubs. My mind reels at the possibilities. I stand there watching until she’s out of sight. Then I slowly return to the world around me.

  That’s when I finally notice Mongo, sitting two tables away.

  Something snaps in me when I see him. A sea of boiling anger, at him, at myself for what I’m doing, at everything about what is happening in my life right now, it just explodes. I stomp over to his table and stand much closer to him than I probably should, but I don’t care because I’ve already decided that if he makes one move at me, I’m smashing in his stupid, fat, Slovakian face.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I’m hovering over him, trying my best to be menacing, which basically consists of clenched fists and a snarl. I realize the bandage on my head and the hospital bracelet around my wrist don’t make me look very tough. Probably more like I’ve just escaped from a mental facility.

  Mongo looks over his shoulder, in the direction that Tricia went, and returns my snarl with his trademark molester smile. “Is lovely little lady you are talking to. She looks very familiar to me.”

  It takes everything I have in me not to kick his teeth in. “Fuck you, Mongo. You stay the hell away from her.”

  Mongo points at the seat opposite him. “Why not have seat and talk like civilized person.” It’s not a suggestion. I hesitate before sliding into the chair, never taking my eyes off him.

  “How is superstar?” he says. “Head is feeling better, yes?”

  “I repeat, fuck you, Mongo. Why did you dump me off and split? What the hell happened last night?”

  “You are not remembering Misty girl and the sanchez?”

  “What happened to my head, dude?”

  “Ah, well, you took tumble down steps outside. Was a wonderful session, was very funny. Your dirty sanchez was perfect. Finger insertion was deep in anus, lip swipe was perfectly placed, shit mustache came out beautifully. But you were very drunk and stumbled out of room and down steps to ground. Not a pretty sight. I think you are dead, so I take you to hospital. I don’t stay and hold your hand because I can’t have police asking me questions, especially if you end up as corpse. That, and you smell like shit.”

  The anger swells in me at the thought of the dirty sanchez, of me wiping that poor, unsuspecting Misty girl’s own feces across her upper lip. The fury kicks up stomach bile which lingers in the back of my throat and I feel like I’m going to puke again. “That’s it, Mongo. This is over.”

  Mongo’s smile dissolves. “What are you talking about?”

  “This, you dickhead. Everything. The show, the girls, these stupid fucking challenges. I’m done with it all and I’m going home.”

  Mongo’s voice drops to just above a whisper and there’s acid in his words. “Nothing is over, little homosexual asshole. We are winning contest, and you are giving me half of money. Be grateful I don’t make you give me all.”

  I guess the head injury has given me some unknown fount of courage because I lean over the table and hiss right back at the Russian bear. “Fuck you, Commie. I’m not giving you shit. You can take this contest and that money and shove it all up your ass.”

  Mongo’s upper lip quivers ever so slightly and his eyes burn with murder. Then he smiles and leans back and looks like we’re having just the most pleasant conversation. He pulls his cell phone from his coat pocket and sets it on the table.

  “I knew you were pussy,” he says. “This was anticipated. I try to think of motivation for you when you get to this point. Honestly, I am surprise you make it this far. Did not have much faith in you. At first, I think great re-motivator would be threaten to sell you to sadist friends of mine to use in next snuff film if you try to back out.”

  I have no doubt this bastard not only knows the kind of people that make such films, but he also wouldn’t hesitate to do it. I lick my lips nervously and fight to maintain my fading defiance. “Try it, asshole. This hospital is full of people. Try getting past the cops at the front door with me yelling my head off. You can’t do shit to me right now. This is over.”

  Mongo nods and says, “True, you could scream like girl and cause big scene, but you still have to leave here and go home. You will never be able to relax again, don’t you see? You would not even know who to watch for. Is not me who would come for you. Could be short, fat man, could be tall, bald black woman. Point is you never know.”

  He lets me think about that a minute before continuing. “But then I think is messy plan and can be expensive pain in ass to do it this way. So I have better idea.”

  Mongo picks up his phone and holds it out to me and I notice the display is lit up, that it’s already connected to another line.

  “What’s this shit?”

  He pushes it closer to me. “You have important phone call. Someone wishing to speak with you.”

  I don’t know what to do. I’m suddenly very scared, struck with an awful realization. He sat there the whole time watching Tricia and I, and he must know it was her I talked to on the phone the day before. Is it possible Mongo could pull this off so quickly? I just saw Tricia walk out of here and head for the bank of elevators at the other end of the lobby. How the hell could this big bastard and his Soviet goon buddies have gotten to her so fast? Were they waiting in the elevator for her? I’m filled with such a sense of dread looking at the phone, knowing that I’ll hear Tricia’s frightened, tearful voice on the other end and it will be all my fault. What the hell have I gotten us into here?

  I reach a shaky hand out and grab the phone. I place it by my ear and listen for a second before saying, “Hello?”

  A familiar voice replies, “Dennis?”

  It’s definitely not the voice I was expecting. Not at all.

  “Dennis, what the hell are you doing?”

  What the fuck?

  “Carrie? Is that you?”

  A World of Shit:

  The Final Sequence
>
  “Take pill and drink this.”

  In the rental car, Mongo hands me a blue pill and a cup. “What the fuck is this?”

  “Is Daddy’s Little Helper. Down it and empty cup now or I get back on phone and bad things will happen to ex-wife.”

  I’m tempted to toss it out the window but I take it. As much as I hated Carrie, it’s not like I really want her to get hurt. Especially because of me. I imagine her sitting on Mongo’s bed back at the motel, handcuffed to the railing, her eyes red and her cheeks streaked with mascara from crying. I can’t get the image out of my head and the gravity of this situation hits me full-on.

  The hospital is a ten minute drive away from our base of operations at the motel, Pervert Central, and I watch Mongo the whole way. He’s folded into the driver seat of the little rented economy car, looking completely incongruous. Here’s this hulk of a brute from some far off corner of Chechnya or wherever, a place I imagined was always cold, gray, and in the throes of one revolution or another, a man who seemed to have no compassion for other people, particularly if they happened to be of the female persuasion, simply a horrid example of humanity, stuffed behind the wheel of a Ford Festiva. And he made sure to buckle his seat belt and check his blind spot before changing lanes.

  How can someone appear so normal and so evil at the same time? How does that person reconcile one side of his personality with the other? Mongo’s very existence is a contradiction of epic proportions, both physically and in the abstract. I don’t know how to compute this in my head. Is it because I’m too black-and-white? Am I too rigid in my thinking, that a person is either one thing or the other? Was Carrie right about me this whole time? I can’t seem to come to terms with a person’s ability to be so genial and banal at one moment and so depraved and unconscionable in the next.

  I don’t want to think about this right now. I can try to figure out the why later, but first I have to make sure there is a later for me, and for Carrie and Tricia and anyone else who might get caught up with this bastard. Now is the time to survive and avoid becoming the unwilling masochistic star of an underground rape film.