The other night was fucked. I went to a bunch of different bars around the Big Funky, I'm not sure how many exactly but I think it was nearing infinity. I found myself sitting in an extremely dark bar with Plug, Hooter, and some people I didn't know as the liquor in my veins took a stronger grasp of my faculties. The bar had many peculiarities such as unbelievable small Mexican busboys and a door which beckoned to be opened as if certain doom lay just beyond. These Lilliputian busboys were often seen coming and going through a doorway draped in velvet, Plug and I investigated the opening to find that on the other side of the velvet curtain the temperature was like that of a blast furnace. Plug, having a moderate grasp on el Spanish, asked a busboy about the unnatural temperature in the room beyond the curtain. The busboy explained to Plug that the room was so hot due to the ice maker within. Sweet irony! Plug then began asking all the busboys if they could understand the irony of a room being held at such extreme heat due to an ice maker, "¿puede usted ver la ironía?" None of the busboys understood what Plug was getting at. In frustration Plug bade me follow him through the door that had beckoned us since our arrival. We passed through the door and an alarm didn't sound despite warnings to the contrary, nor was certain doom on the other side of the door to my great chagrin. In fact it was just a fire escape stairwell and as such lacked door knobs on the doors that would allow us to reenter the bar. We knocked on the door hoping Hooter would hear us and open the door to let us back in but the door didn't open. With my ear to the door I listened for the sound of anyone approaching but all I could discern over the roar of the crowd was Hooter cackling on the other side. Conceding defeat, we went to the bottom floor exit and opened it expecting to be dumped on the street. Except the door didn't dump us onto the street but into an underground labyrinth with a seemingly endless number of twists and turns that led to concrete hallway after concrete hallway. Expecting the Minotaur to greet us around every bend, Plug and I wandered through the maze of concrete corridors until we found a hole that had been cut out of the concrete floor. Dropping into an even lower tunnel we managed to find a door that opened onto the street. We were a 3 wood from the entrance to the bar, what kind of fucked up escape tunnel was that?
Unwilling, for some unknown reason, to go back inside and collect Hooter, Plug and I jumped in my unit and began driving to yet another bar. Plug had his window rolled down and we were arguing about the quality of street-corner pizza establishments while we waited at a stop light. During a lull in the argument I could hear the pulsing bass of dance music. Plug and I peered past his window to see where the sound was coming from. On the corner next to us was an older building that appeared to be a run down clothing store, lights could be seen flashing on the inside of the building and outside stood a lone Rastafarian in a bright red suit. Plug suggested we check it out, but I had seen 'Marked for Death' and I knew what those fucking Rastafarians do to white boys. Plug kept pushing on me to check it out so I relented and pulled my unit around back, I guess it was as good a night as any to die a voodoo death. The Rasta man seemed pleased to see us which further suggested to me that I was about to be carved up into appetizers for Satan. We were ushered inside to see that the clothing store had been gutted with only the concrete walls remaining. Where the goats, chicken, and candles should have been were about 40 people dancing or just hanging out and a DJ was positioned against one wall. Wandering through the crowd we ran into a couple girls we know: Amazon and Turtledove. How the fuck, in all the Big Funky, could we run into 2 girls we know at a no name, run down, clothing store rave? Then we discovered that the DJ who was spinning was D:Fuse a guy who used to spin at a club Plug and I frequented during our sojourn in Austin who has since signed with uber DJ Paul Oakenfold. When I see coincidences like this unfolding I like to back up to the nearest wall and keep my eyes watchful for the telltale glint of light off shiv.
Time seemed to pass quickly with me keeping an ever vigilant eye on my surroundings and Plug darting in and out of the crowd. I looked at my watch and it was 2:45 in the morning, when I looked up I saw two jimmies getting beers from a bartender so I wandered over to the bar hoping to partake in some taboo late night liquor consumption. When the bartender looked at me I asked, "can I get a Miller Light, please?" "It's after 2! Go the fuck home!", was his response as he wandered away. At first I didn't think I had heard him correctly and I tilted my head up a bit and mouthed what he had said to me to see if it had actually made sense. The bartender saw me do this and walked back over to say, "I said, it's after 2! Go the fuck home!" I had heard him correctly…. Mildly agitated that there was no one around I could pay to cut that fucking bartender's head from his shoulders and mount it in my apartment I wandered back to my wall to let the Trance set back in. Just as I was thinking about going back over to the bar and throwing up on the bartender, Plug hopped out of the crowd. "Jesus, look outside!" he said. I wandered through the crowd to see 3 cops standing outside apparently holding back a mob of people trying to enter the clothing store. Just then a hiss came from behind me and the room began filling with smoke. "They're fucking gassing us!" I screamed to Plug. "Just my fucking luck", I thought, "I get tricked into wandering around a labyrinth only to end up at some kind of fucked up Voodoo rave that's the target of a police sting operation." The smoke began rising up around our waists. I turned to Plug about to explain to him how I didn't appreciate this fucking that he was solely responsible for giving me, but the smoke covered our heads and I couldn't help but breathe in.
Everything was darkness. I couldn't see my hands in front of my face for all the smoke, and yet I hadn't passed out. The Trance continued to thump and I began to see bodies gyrating through the smoke, it seems I hadn't been gassed; the fucking clothing store had just let out a fuck load of smoke from their smoke generator. Plug plunged through the smoke, grabbing me by the shoulders, "we're in the fucking Matrix, yo!" he screamed. With all the fucked up shit going on that night it certainly seemed like we were in the Matrix and I chuckled at Plug's statement, then I was sad because I wished I was an Agent. By 3:45 all the encores were over and the lights were on in the clothing store, the place looked just as disgusting as any other bar with the lights on, and with the cold reality of sobriety lurking just around the corner Plug and I wandered back to my unit and then home.
I woke up on Saturday around brunchtime and while I have no proof I think someone from the management at my apartment complex snuck into my room in the morning and farted in my mouth. Like I said there's no proof, but wild accusations are my bread and butter. After a rinse in the shower and heavily self medicating I sat down in front of my computer to play Unreal Tournament 2k4 and talk shit to the thirteen year olds playing against me. The day wore on and after several calls to both Hooter and Plug it was apparent that they weren't entirely up for another evening of liquor over consumption. Plug was still weak from our escapades the previous night and Hooter was on a covert mission to destroy two lives. Normally I would have gladly accompanied Hooter on his quest but I was still feeling a bit under the weather myself despite all the help of Monsieur's Ibuprofen and Valium and I knew Sunday was going to be a rough day. The following day Il Duce and my mother intended to travel to their lake house in Austin and I was expected to travel with them. Day turned to night and I had broken the spirit of pretty much all the thirteen year olds still playing Unreal Tournament 2k4 so I slipped into my kitchen and began drinking cold Miller Lights. If I wasn't going to be doing anything then I might as well get a little sauced and slip into the biscuit early. Just drinking by myself was a bit boring and boredom doesn't sit well with me so after 6 beers I downed a couple Tylenol PMs in order to speed up the process. Within the hour I was laying in bed with the room spinning. It was a test to time closing my eyes long enough to go to sleep without throwing up but I eventually made it.
Sunday found me hungover again and trapped in the backseat of my parent's car. With me trapped as I was my mother took the opportunity to grill me on subjects I consider to be of the utmost privacy: "what did you do this weekend?", "How's [Plug]?", "What do you want to eat for dinner?" Stoically, I remained silent besides the occasional grunt, letting her know that no one pushes on me. Four hours later, we arrived at the lake house and I immediately went to bed and pretended to be asleep.
On Monday morning Il Duce and I drove into town for a closing leaving my mother at the lake house. We were not at the law offices we normally close at that have the ice cold beverages, hot food, sluty copier girls, and rampant racism. Instead we were at the Law Offices of Suck and Suck. The fucking place was cramped, had inadequate internet access (I actually had to go to CompUSA and buy a network switch), inadequate power outlets, a poor selection of lukewarm beverages (Diet Randall's Cola is not fucking Diet Coke assholes!), and worst of all no sluts or obvious racism. Everyone was cramped into 2 small conference rooms which raised the temperature to uncomfortable balmy heights a side effect of which was rich, wet, pungent farts everywhere. It was disgusting and I couldn't have been happier when we were finished for the day. Il Duce had been so uncomfortable that he left for the hotel almost an hour before I managed to get out.
At the hotel I followed my baggage host to the suite Il Duce and I frequent. Il Duce and I have permanent arrangements at the hotel since we stay there so much and I was looking forward to getting inside a familiar setting and rolling a thick deuce I'd been steaming since early morning. I walked into the room and found myself facing not only Il Duce but also my mother. Things were fucking amiss here. I couldn't roll this deuce with my mother in the room, what with all the screaming and moaning involved. She wasn't staying at the hotel was she? Was I expected to sleep in the same room with my mother? The roll away bed was in place but not an indication that my mother would be staying with us since I always sleep on a roll away, Il Duce needing a kingsize bed to himself and all. My baggage host was putting my effects away in the closet and I noticed some of my mother's clothes there as well. "Abomination!" I said. "What?", asked my mother? I turned and noticed everyone looking at me. "Oh…nothing, I was talking to myself…" What the fuck? Sleeping in the same room with my mother? If there's not a law about that kind of shit then there should be. What if I woke up and caught my parents having sex? What then? Or what if my mother caught me throwing up in the shower or crying in the closet with those clips on my dove-sack, what then? I thought being hotboxed in the fucking car and asked about dinner was the ultimate invasion of privacy but finding my mother in our room made me realize I was wrong. My parents were just sitting around as I went through all the possible eventualities including a preemptive shiving, then I realized something else was amiss. "Umm, why aren't we at the bar?", I asked Il Duce. "You're sister's coming to the hotel to meet us and we're waiting on her", answered my mother. Before I could say anything about women needing to be seen and not heard, the reality of her comment sunk in. "My sister is coming here?" I thought, "why would she do that, she's never done it before… and why is my mother here?" Again, more coincidences… I positioned my back to the corner of the room and crinkled my eyes into slits. Moments later Il Duce received a phone call, even by only hearing his half of the conversation I knew my sister had arrived. "You want me to do what? … No, I'm not coming down there. … You just tell the valet that [Il Duce] will get him next time I see him. Wait, where's your money? … You don't want to break a ten?" The phone call ended abruptly and I used my advantage to stoke the flames of Il Duce's growing anger, "What the fuck did that bitch want you to fuckin' do?" Oops… "Don't you ever talk about your sister that way!", stormed my mother. "Fuck all but I forgot she was fucking here" I thought, "this is going to be a long night." Thankfully, we left the room to go down to the bar. I find myself to be a more reasonable person when my thoughts are drowned in alcohol.
Walking into the bar we selected a table and sat down, well, I sat down. My parents were positioning a fifth chair at the table. I absently watched what was going on as I ordered a Miller Light. Then time slowed down as realization struck me like a horse's hoof to my solar plexus. One, two, three, four, five chairs. Me, one. Il Duce, two. Mother, three. Sister, four. Four people, five chairs. Fifth person… who? My mind reeled. Then I remembered a conversation that I had blocked out a week before with my mother, something about my sister's new boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend, five? Yes! Il Duce at hotel, Mother at hotel, Sister at hotel. The new hoof was being presented to Il Duce and my mother with me an unwitting accomplice to the awkward meeting to come. I abruptly stood up, a sharp cry escaping my lips, and took a step towards the bar exit. Too late, my sister entered with new boyfriend in tow. I sat back down, furious I had been so duped. I stared down my sister's hoof, inspecting him for flaws I could not wait to inflate and exaggerate before filing him away in my hatebox. He was tall, which isn't a deficit, though he was extremely thin, the human counterpart to Jack Skellington from the Nightmare Before Christmas. As he drew closer I noticed his facial hair. He was shaven albeit far from clean shaven. His five o'clock shadow was apparent even with his blonde hair, acceptable since it was almost 6pm. What drew my attention was the area between his lips and his nose, the mustache area, where he appeared to be courting a 2 or 3 day growth of stache. Was this guy fucking serious? A fucking mustache? He was either growing a mustache or his mustache grew at an alarming rate, regardless we were off to a bad start since I can only bear a mustache in my presence for so long. Introductions were made and then my sister and Mustache were invited to order a cocktail. Mustache looked at me, then at my Miller Light, then turned to the waitress and ordered a Miller Light. If I weren't such a classy guy I would have sliced his face up with my pocket razor, I like brown-nosing as much as the next guy but this felt more like Mustache was pushing on me. I spent the rest of our time at the bar staring at Mustache and nodding my head, I was telling him with my body language, "You want beef with me? Eh? Break yourself!" I was highly satisfied with my mean-on and before I knew it we were leaving the bar to meet the rest of the closing "team" at a restaurant down the street. Normally I really enjoy these closing dinners since the bills are usually outrageous which fits nicely with my ostentatious-pissing-away-of-money fetish, plus the wait staff have grown to enjoy my presence due to my nearly endless supply of dick jokes once I'm all fucked up on wine but this time I was concerned about the presence of my mother, my sister, and Mustache. Would this extra baggage ruin my good time?
This particular closing that was going on had all the big players involved. Touchdown, of the last Treasures incident, was there. Kong, of the last Vegas trip, was in attendance. Lloyd Banks was there along with Gang Bang and Teddy Acapulco. Of course The Suck was there too with a team of assholes. Fortunately, the assholes are mostly lawyers and keep their fucking mouths shut, plus they leave after dinner instead of boozing it up downtown. Once at the restaurant an amazing thing happened, bringing my mother, Mustache, and my sister meant we had too many people to sit at the 2 tables prepared for us and we had to expand to a third. The third table was occupied by the last people to make it to the dining room from the restaurant bar, ie: the cool people. So it was me, Lloyd Banks, Touchdown, Gang Bang, and Teddy Acapulco kickin' it at the third table. Unfortunately, Kong and Il Duce were stuck at the other tables but fuck 'em, dems tha breaks. I was so happy not to have to sit with my mother and Mustache, the relief washed over me along with the refreshing flow of wine down my word hole. I watched Lloyd Banks order a 12 ounce filet with 6 fried shrimp on top, Touchdown and I talked mad shit about Mustache and threw olives at him, and we hoodwinked the other tables by ordering more expensive wine just for ourselves. It was fucking awesome. One of the chefs I knew came out to make sure I was enjoying myself, he's a cool guy when he lays off the heroin. Before we left the restaurant I capped off the meal with a vivid retelling of D-Funk's tapeworm story, it was fucking off the chain, yo!
After dinner we cut the wheat from the chaff and sent the lawyers packing then we headed to a bar down the street: Buffalo Billiards. We arrived and I mentioned to the group that I was up for kicking somebody's teeth in at Golden Tee. Lloyd Banks obliged me claiming to be an aficionado at the links. As Lloyd Banks and I walked off I heard Il Duce order drinks for Touchdown, Kong, Gang Bang, and Teddy Acapulco and begin his speech about the Chinese buying up all America's steel for some ill conceived Communist plot. Il Duce is extremely fond of wild theories predominantly those he's crafted himself. Me, I was particularly glad to miss out on the steel talk since it's been in heavy rotation at the office. Il Duce hates phone calls on a land line that he doesn't originate himself but even with his distaste for such calls he invariably gets the steel speech out before the poor fool on the other end can hang up. Lloyd Banks and I began playing Golden Tee and we were putting on the second hole when Mustache rolled up and began pushing on us. At first I didn't know what was going on since he was slurring his speech and making wild hand gestures. When I concentrated on what he was saying I realized he was talking shit about how good he was at the game and perhaps we needed to play for cigarettes later. I told Mustache that I don't smoke, his reply was something to the affect of "it doesn't matter if you don't smoke since you'd be the one buying me cigarettes." Lloyd Banks just starred at him and I shook my head and turned back to my game. I guess Mustache was really fucked up since after he pushed on Lloyd Banks and me he began scaring girls at the pool tables around us. Nice bullshit dude, scaring girls… I thought about asking Lloyd Banks if he was as good at disappearing a body as he was at Golden Tee but decided the value of Mustache keeping my sister busy was worth swallowing a few drunken insults. In retrospect Lloyd Banks and I probably should have dragged Mustache out into the street and snapped his legs for him. Oh well, hindsight's 20/20. I do wish Il Duce had seen Mustache trying to hustle girls at pool though it was truly sick, unfortunately I could hear Il Duce deep into his "the homeless should be locked up in camps" oration.
After the game I saw that the waiters from the restaurant we had just eaten at were hanging around at the bar. I strolled over and caroused with them for an hour or so. I like hanging out with service industry personnel for a couple of reasons. One, I like to try and be friends with anyone who could easily poison my food or stab me in the brain while feigning service. Two, I have some literature that argues most waiters piss or jerk off in the restaurant's soup, salad, dessert, etc. and if I have to drink a dude's piss I want to know the mother fucker since I'm not some fucking slut who runs around drinking the piss of dudes I don't even know. Some time later I looked around and realized none of my party remained at the bar. I decided to bid the wait staff my fond adieu and try to get back to the hotel without being taken advantage of or raped.
I made it to the hotel safely and staggered to the elevators praying the whole way Il Duce didn't leave a sock on the door knob. Thankfully, the door was unmarked and I slipped inside the room. Boozed up and famished I tore open the room's minibar grabbing handfuls of party favor sized candy bars trying to be quiet enough so as not to wake my parents. Excited about the candy bars I instinctively went for the clips and the inviting closet but I thought better of it and just climbed under the sheets of my roll away and ate the candy bars there like a rat in his den.
I woke up with an excruciating head ache. I didn't know what time it was except that it was still dark, looking over at the bedside clock it read 5 am. At first I wasn't sure what had driven me from my liquor induced slumber and then I felt a powerful urge overtaking me, not to vomit but to deuce. The thundering pain in my skull whispered to me, "don't get up… I'll only make the pain worse if you do… just go back to sleep…" The words made sense, and I wanted to do what they said but the urge to shit was overwhelming. I rolled out of the bed and stumbled towards the bathroom. True to his word my brain unleashed a river of crippling pain that made my eyes roll up in my head.
I want to alert everyone that what happens next in this story is deeply, deeply troubling. At once, both one of my weakest and strongest moments. There will be some unavoidably graphic discussion of doodoo feces. While this is the climax of the story, and in many ways the climax of the sinking ship that is my life, if you have a weak stomach for this kind of thing just go ahead and stop reading now.
In the bathroom I shut the door hoping not to wake my parents and flipped on the bathroom light for just an instant so as to get my bearings. Having the light on, boring into my brain, would have finished me. I perched myself on the toilet and began some deep breathing exercises. I was a bit concerned because there have been more than a few instances, at this hotel, in the past where my man-sized deuces don't like to flush down the toilets but instead prefer to clog things up and throw fits. I didn't have much choice though, the deuce was coming out and it was coming out right then. I won't go into details about the birthing of this deuce but suffice is to say I cried throughout its passing. I flushed before, during, and afterwards too so as to make sure I got the fucker flushed out. Unfortunately, the last flush didn't deliver that vacuumed pipe sound indicating a complete flush. I had grabbed the toilet paper to begin cleanup activities on and around my brown hole but I didn't want to be tossing TP into the commode if the deuce had already clogged it up. I didn't have a choice, I had to turn on the lights and see if the toilet was clogged. I put my right hand over my eyes, flipped on the light, then slowly removed my hand helping my eyes adjust to the light a little better. What I saw scares me to this day. The deuce had definitely not gone down. It looked like a football was sitting in the toilet, except it was bigger and had barnacles on it. I've never seen the likes of something like this before. That I could produce something this foul lends further proof to the idea that my insides are dead. I stared at the uber log and tried to think about my options. There was no way that beast would flush the way it was. I definitely had to flush the fucker though since I still had to wipe my business, plus my parents would both need to use the toilet later that morning. I knew from previous experience the hotel didn't have in-room plungers so the obvious choice was out. My brain was screaming at me, the pain was brutal. Standing before the toilet, naked, I poured some water from the faucet into a glass to wet my parched tongue hoping to quell my thirst and give me a chance to come up with a solution. I needed to break the uber deuce up somehow since it wasn't going to flush whole. I looked around for a tool that could help me but could find nothing. I could waddle out to the closet and grab a coat hanger, but having to explain the coat hanger later and the chance of getting caught by my mother waddling around naked with the shit-ass killed that idea. I was stumped. How fucking terrible was this? Why can't his shit happen to someone else? Or, at least let it happen when I'm sober and can fucking think! Stuck in a hotel room with my parents, hung over like a mother fucker, an ass covered in shit, and a toilet clogged with a child sized crap in it and no tools available to me except my bare hands. My hands… I looked at my hands, my hands that know me better than anyone, my hands that are always there for me, my only available tools. "Do it" said the sibilant voice in my brain, "fear, does not exist in this dojo, does it?" No sinse! This, this was my moment of manhood. All my achievements up to this point, including the time Mr. Pickles and I made ourselves throw up in the County Line bathrooms so we could try and eat our own weight in bar-b-que, including the time I told my professor that both my parents died in the World Trade Center during 9/11 to get out of some homework, all my achievements were as nothing up to this point. You've got the tools, you've got the talent. Do it. It's go time. Resolved, I bent over the toilet, thrust out my right arm, and grasped the deuce in my hand. The urge to vomit was nearly overpowering. I squeezed my hand, breaking the uber deuce into pieces, feeling it slip and slide around my fingers. I felt something hard and gagged. Satisfied I had done what needed to be done I used my left hand to flush the commode. Nothing. My efforts had failed. Apparently there was a second, unseen, phantom deuce that had clogged the toilet before the one I had just broken up with my hand. Now the toilet water was up to the brim and pieces of shit were floating everywhere. I extracted my hand from the toilet and washed it off in the sink. The hand just looked at me, insulted, like I had just pimped it out to a drug dealer to feed my meth habit. Things would never be the same between us.
I should have gotten in the shower for a little "Elizabeth-Shue-after-the-anal-gangbang-slash-rape-in-Leaving-Las-Vegas"-esque action. I should have, but I didn't. I pulled on my shorts, shit-ass and all, waddled to the roll away. I lay on my side hoping to keep my shit-ass off anything, and put my throbbing head down to rest on the pillow in somber defeat.
I woke up to a scream from my mother in the bathroom. All the lights were on and the television was blaring the cackle of Regis Philbin as he described how unbelievable his toast at breakfast was. You see, when my parents wake up they like to turn on all the lights and televisions so as to make sure no one trying to sleep can do so. My mother called out my name and I just pulled the sheets over my head the shame of the situation too colossal to bear.
Unwilling, for some unknown reason, to go back inside and collect Hooter, Plug and I jumped in my unit and began driving to yet another bar. Plug had his window rolled down and we were arguing about the quality of street-corner pizza establishments while we waited at a stop light. During a lull in the argument I could hear the pulsing bass of dance music. Plug and I peered past his window to see where the sound was coming from. On the corner next to us was an older building that appeared to be a run down clothing store, lights could be seen flashing on the inside of the building and outside stood a lone Rastafarian in a bright red suit. Plug suggested we check it out, but I had seen 'Marked for Death' and I knew what those fucking Rastafarians do to white boys. Plug kept pushing on me to check it out so I relented and pulled my unit around back, I guess it was as good a night as any to die a voodoo death. The Rasta man seemed pleased to see us which further suggested to me that I was about to be carved up into appetizers for Satan. We were ushered inside to see that the clothing store had been gutted with only the concrete walls remaining. Where the goats, chicken, and candles should have been were about 40 people dancing or just hanging out and a DJ was positioned against one wall. Wandering through the crowd we ran into a couple girls we know: Amazon and Turtledove. How the fuck, in all the Big Funky, could we run into 2 girls we know at a no name, run down, clothing store rave? Then we discovered that the DJ who was spinning was D:Fuse a guy who used to spin at a club Plug and I frequented during our sojourn in Austin who has since signed with uber DJ Paul Oakenfold. When I see coincidences like this unfolding I like to back up to the nearest wall and keep my eyes watchful for the telltale glint of light off shiv.
Time seemed to pass quickly with me keeping an ever vigilant eye on my surroundings and Plug darting in and out of the crowd. I looked at my watch and it was 2:45 in the morning, when I looked up I saw two jimmies getting beers from a bartender so I wandered over to the bar hoping to partake in some taboo late night liquor consumption. When the bartender looked at me I asked, "can I get a Miller Light, please?" "It's after 2! Go the fuck home!", was his response as he wandered away. At first I didn't think I had heard him correctly and I tilted my head up a bit and mouthed what he had said to me to see if it had actually made sense. The bartender saw me do this and walked back over to say, "I said, it's after 2! Go the fuck home!" I had heard him correctly…. Mildly agitated that there was no one around I could pay to cut that fucking bartender's head from his shoulders and mount it in my apartment I wandered back to my wall to let the Trance set back in. Just as I was thinking about going back over to the bar and throwing up on the bartender, Plug hopped out of the crowd. "Jesus, look outside!" he said. I wandered through the crowd to see 3 cops standing outside apparently holding back a mob of people trying to enter the clothing store. Just then a hiss came from behind me and the room began filling with smoke. "They're fucking gassing us!" I screamed to Plug. "Just my fucking luck", I thought, "I get tricked into wandering around a labyrinth only to end up at some kind of fucked up Voodoo rave that's the target of a police sting operation." The smoke began rising up around our waists. I turned to Plug about to explain to him how I didn't appreciate this fucking that he was solely responsible for giving me, but the smoke covered our heads and I couldn't help but breathe in.
Everything was darkness. I couldn't see my hands in front of my face for all the smoke, and yet I hadn't passed out. The Trance continued to thump and I began to see bodies gyrating through the smoke, it seems I hadn't been gassed; the fucking clothing store had just let out a fuck load of smoke from their smoke generator. Plug plunged through the smoke, grabbing me by the shoulders, "we're in the fucking Matrix, yo!" he screamed. With all the fucked up shit going on that night it certainly seemed like we were in the Matrix and I chuckled at Plug's statement, then I was sad because I wished I was an Agent. By 3:45 all the encores were over and the lights were on in the clothing store, the place looked just as disgusting as any other bar with the lights on, and with the cold reality of sobriety lurking just around the corner Plug and I wandered back to my unit and then home.
I woke up on Saturday around brunchtime and while I have no proof I think someone from the management at my apartment complex snuck into my room in the morning and farted in my mouth. Like I said there's no proof, but wild accusations are my bread and butter. After a rinse in the shower and heavily self medicating I sat down in front of my computer to play Unreal Tournament 2k4 and talk shit to the thirteen year olds playing against me. The day wore on and after several calls to both Hooter and Plug it was apparent that they weren't entirely up for another evening of liquor over consumption. Plug was still weak from our escapades the previous night and Hooter was on a covert mission to destroy two lives. Normally I would have gladly accompanied Hooter on his quest but I was still feeling a bit under the weather myself despite all the help of Monsieur's Ibuprofen and Valium and I knew Sunday was going to be a rough day. The following day Il Duce and my mother intended to travel to their lake house in Austin and I was expected to travel with them. Day turned to night and I had broken the spirit of pretty much all the thirteen year olds still playing Unreal Tournament 2k4 so I slipped into my kitchen and began drinking cold Miller Lights. If I wasn't going to be doing anything then I might as well get a little sauced and slip into the biscuit early. Just drinking by myself was a bit boring and boredom doesn't sit well with me so after 6 beers I downed a couple Tylenol PMs in order to speed up the process. Within the hour I was laying in bed with the room spinning. It was a test to time closing my eyes long enough to go to sleep without throwing up but I eventually made it.
Sunday found me hungover again and trapped in the backseat of my parent's car. With me trapped as I was my mother took the opportunity to grill me on subjects I consider to be of the utmost privacy: "what did you do this weekend?", "How's [Plug]?", "What do you want to eat for dinner?" Stoically, I remained silent besides the occasional grunt, letting her know that no one pushes on me. Four hours later, we arrived at the lake house and I immediately went to bed and pretended to be asleep.
On Monday morning Il Duce and I drove into town for a closing leaving my mother at the lake house. We were not at the law offices we normally close at that have the ice cold beverages, hot food, sluty copier girls, and rampant racism. Instead we were at the Law Offices of Suck and Suck. The fucking place was cramped, had inadequate internet access (I actually had to go to CompUSA and buy a network switch), inadequate power outlets, a poor selection of lukewarm beverages (Diet Randall's Cola is not fucking Diet Coke assholes!), and worst of all no sluts or obvious racism. Everyone was cramped into 2 small conference rooms which raised the temperature to uncomfortable balmy heights a side effect of which was rich, wet, pungent farts everywhere. It was disgusting and I couldn't have been happier when we were finished for the day. Il Duce had been so uncomfortable that he left for the hotel almost an hour before I managed to get out.
At the hotel I followed my baggage host to the suite Il Duce and I frequent. Il Duce and I have permanent arrangements at the hotel since we stay there so much and I was looking forward to getting inside a familiar setting and rolling a thick deuce I'd been steaming since early morning. I walked into the room and found myself facing not only Il Duce but also my mother. Things were fucking amiss here. I couldn't roll this deuce with my mother in the room, what with all the screaming and moaning involved. She wasn't staying at the hotel was she? Was I expected to sleep in the same room with my mother? The roll away bed was in place but not an indication that my mother would be staying with us since I always sleep on a roll away, Il Duce needing a kingsize bed to himself and all. My baggage host was putting my effects away in the closet and I noticed some of my mother's clothes there as well. "Abomination!" I said. "What?", asked my mother? I turned and noticed everyone looking at me. "Oh…nothing, I was talking to myself…" What the fuck? Sleeping in the same room with my mother? If there's not a law about that kind of shit then there should be. What if I woke up and caught my parents having sex? What then? Or what if my mother caught me throwing up in the shower or crying in the closet with those clips on my dove-sack, what then? I thought being hotboxed in the fucking car and asked about dinner was the ultimate invasion of privacy but finding my mother in our room made me realize I was wrong. My parents were just sitting around as I went through all the possible eventualities including a preemptive shiving, then I realized something else was amiss. "Umm, why aren't we at the bar?", I asked Il Duce. "You're sister's coming to the hotel to meet us and we're waiting on her", answered my mother. Before I could say anything about women needing to be seen and not heard, the reality of her comment sunk in. "My sister is coming here?" I thought, "why would she do that, she's never done it before… and why is my mother here?" Again, more coincidences… I positioned my back to the corner of the room and crinkled my eyes into slits. Moments later Il Duce received a phone call, even by only hearing his half of the conversation I knew my sister had arrived. "You want me to do what? … No, I'm not coming down there. … You just tell the valet that [Il Duce] will get him next time I see him. Wait, where's your money? … You don't want to break a ten?" The phone call ended abruptly and I used my advantage to stoke the flames of Il Duce's growing anger, "What the fuck did that bitch want you to fuckin' do?" Oops… "Don't you ever talk about your sister that way!", stormed my mother. "Fuck all but I forgot she was fucking here" I thought, "this is going to be a long night." Thankfully, we left the room to go down to the bar. I find myself to be a more reasonable person when my thoughts are drowned in alcohol.
Walking into the bar we selected a table and sat down, well, I sat down. My parents were positioning a fifth chair at the table. I absently watched what was going on as I ordered a Miller Light. Then time slowed down as realization struck me like a horse's hoof to my solar plexus. One, two, three, four, five chairs. Me, one. Il Duce, two. Mother, three. Sister, four. Four people, five chairs. Fifth person… who? My mind reeled. Then I remembered a conversation that I had blocked out a week before with my mother, something about my sister's new boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend, five? Yes! Il Duce at hotel, Mother at hotel, Sister at hotel. The new hoof was being presented to Il Duce and my mother with me an unwitting accomplice to the awkward meeting to come. I abruptly stood up, a sharp cry escaping my lips, and took a step towards the bar exit. Too late, my sister entered with new boyfriend in tow. I sat back down, furious I had been so duped. I stared down my sister's hoof, inspecting him for flaws I could not wait to inflate and exaggerate before filing him away in my hatebox. He was tall, which isn't a deficit, though he was extremely thin, the human counterpart to Jack Skellington from the Nightmare Before Christmas. As he drew closer I noticed his facial hair. He was shaven albeit far from clean shaven. His five o'clock shadow was apparent even with his blonde hair, acceptable since it was almost 6pm. What drew my attention was the area between his lips and his nose, the mustache area, where he appeared to be courting a 2 or 3 day growth of stache. Was this guy fucking serious? A fucking mustache? He was either growing a mustache or his mustache grew at an alarming rate, regardless we were off to a bad start since I can only bear a mustache in my presence for so long. Introductions were made and then my sister and Mustache were invited to order a cocktail. Mustache looked at me, then at my Miller Light, then turned to the waitress and ordered a Miller Light. If I weren't such a classy guy I would have sliced his face up with my pocket razor, I like brown-nosing as much as the next guy but this felt more like Mustache was pushing on me. I spent the rest of our time at the bar staring at Mustache and nodding my head, I was telling him with my body language, "You want beef with me? Eh? Break yourself!" I was highly satisfied with my mean-on and before I knew it we were leaving the bar to meet the rest of the closing "team" at a restaurant down the street. Normally I really enjoy these closing dinners since the bills are usually outrageous which fits nicely with my ostentatious-pissing-away-of-money fetish, plus the wait staff have grown to enjoy my presence due to my nearly endless supply of dick jokes once I'm all fucked up on wine but this time I was concerned about the presence of my mother, my sister, and Mustache. Would this extra baggage ruin my good time?
This particular closing that was going on had all the big players involved. Touchdown, of the last Treasures incident, was there. Kong, of the last Vegas trip, was in attendance. Lloyd Banks was there along with Gang Bang and Teddy Acapulco. Of course The Suck was there too with a team of assholes. Fortunately, the assholes are mostly lawyers and keep their fucking mouths shut, plus they leave after dinner instead of boozing it up downtown. Once at the restaurant an amazing thing happened, bringing my mother, Mustache, and my sister meant we had too many people to sit at the 2 tables prepared for us and we had to expand to a third. The third table was occupied by the last people to make it to the dining room from the restaurant bar, ie: the cool people. So it was me, Lloyd Banks, Touchdown, Gang Bang, and Teddy Acapulco kickin' it at the third table. Unfortunately, Kong and Il Duce were stuck at the other tables but fuck 'em, dems tha breaks. I was so happy not to have to sit with my mother and Mustache, the relief washed over me along with the refreshing flow of wine down my word hole. I watched Lloyd Banks order a 12 ounce filet with 6 fried shrimp on top, Touchdown and I talked mad shit about Mustache and threw olives at him, and we hoodwinked the other tables by ordering more expensive wine just for ourselves. It was fucking awesome. One of the chefs I knew came out to make sure I was enjoying myself, he's a cool guy when he lays off the heroin. Before we left the restaurant I capped off the meal with a vivid retelling of D-Funk's tapeworm story, it was fucking off the chain, yo!
After dinner we cut the wheat from the chaff and sent the lawyers packing then we headed to a bar down the street: Buffalo Billiards. We arrived and I mentioned to the group that I was up for kicking somebody's teeth in at Golden Tee. Lloyd Banks obliged me claiming to be an aficionado at the links. As Lloyd Banks and I walked off I heard Il Duce order drinks for Touchdown, Kong, Gang Bang, and Teddy Acapulco and begin his speech about the Chinese buying up all America's steel for some ill conceived Communist plot. Il Duce is extremely fond of wild theories predominantly those he's crafted himself. Me, I was particularly glad to miss out on the steel talk since it's been in heavy rotation at the office. Il Duce hates phone calls on a land line that he doesn't originate himself but even with his distaste for such calls he invariably gets the steel speech out before the poor fool on the other end can hang up. Lloyd Banks and I began playing Golden Tee and we were putting on the second hole when Mustache rolled up and began pushing on us. At first I didn't know what was going on since he was slurring his speech and making wild hand gestures. When I concentrated on what he was saying I realized he was talking shit about how good he was at the game and perhaps we needed to play for cigarettes later. I told Mustache that I don't smoke, his reply was something to the affect of "it doesn't matter if you don't smoke since you'd be the one buying me cigarettes." Lloyd Banks just starred at him and I shook my head and turned back to my game. I guess Mustache was really fucked up since after he pushed on Lloyd Banks and me he began scaring girls at the pool tables around us. Nice bullshit dude, scaring girls… I thought about asking Lloyd Banks if he was as good at disappearing a body as he was at Golden Tee but decided the value of Mustache keeping my sister busy was worth swallowing a few drunken insults. In retrospect Lloyd Banks and I probably should have dragged Mustache out into the street and snapped his legs for him. Oh well, hindsight's 20/20. I do wish Il Duce had seen Mustache trying to hustle girls at pool though it was truly sick, unfortunately I could hear Il Duce deep into his "the homeless should be locked up in camps" oration.
After the game I saw that the waiters from the restaurant we had just eaten at were hanging around at the bar. I strolled over and caroused with them for an hour or so. I like hanging out with service industry personnel for a couple of reasons. One, I like to try and be friends with anyone who could easily poison my food or stab me in the brain while feigning service. Two, I have some literature that argues most waiters piss or jerk off in the restaurant's soup, salad, dessert, etc. and if I have to drink a dude's piss I want to know the mother fucker since I'm not some fucking slut who runs around drinking the piss of dudes I don't even know. Some time later I looked around and realized none of my party remained at the bar. I decided to bid the wait staff my fond adieu and try to get back to the hotel without being taken advantage of or raped.
I made it to the hotel safely and staggered to the elevators praying the whole way Il Duce didn't leave a sock on the door knob. Thankfully, the door was unmarked and I slipped inside the room. Boozed up and famished I tore open the room's minibar grabbing handfuls of party favor sized candy bars trying to be quiet enough so as not to wake my parents. Excited about the candy bars I instinctively went for the clips and the inviting closet but I thought better of it and just climbed under the sheets of my roll away and ate the candy bars there like a rat in his den.
I woke up with an excruciating head ache. I didn't know what time it was except that it was still dark, looking over at the bedside clock it read 5 am. At first I wasn't sure what had driven me from my liquor induced slumber and then I felt a powerful urge overtaking me, not to vomit but to deuce. The thundering pain in my skull whispered to me, "don't get up… I'll only make the pain worse if you do… just go back to sleep…" The words made sense, and I wanted to do what they said but the urge to shit was overwhelming. I rolled out of the bed and stumbled towards the bathroom. True to his word my brain unleashed a river of crippling pain that made my eyes roll up in my head.
I want to alert everyone that what happens next in this story is deeply, deeply troubling. At once, both one of my weakest and strongest moments. There will be some unavoidably graphic discussion of doodoo feces. While this is the climax of the story, and in many ways the climax of the sinking ship that is my life, if you have a weak stomach for this kind of thing just go ahead and stop reading now.
In the bathroom I shut the door hoping not to wake my parents and flipped on the bathroom light for just an instant so as to get my bearings. Having the light on, boring into my brain, would have finished me. I perched myself on the toilet and began some deep breathing exercises. I was a bit concerned because there have been more than a few instances, at this hotel, in the past where my man-sized deuces don't like to flush down the toilets but instead prefer to clog things up and throw fits. I didn't have much choice though, the deuce was coming out and it was coming out right then. I won't go into details about the birthing of this deuce but suffice is to say I cried throughout its passing. I flushed before, during, and afterwards too so as to make sure I got the fucker flushed out. Unfortunately, the last flush didn't deliver that vacuumed pipe sound indicating a complete flush. I had grabbed the toilet paper to begin cleanup activities on and around my brown hole but I didn't want to be tossing TP into the commode if the deuce had already clogged it up. I didn't have a choice, I had to turn on the lights and see if the toilet was clogged. I put my right hand over my eyes, flipped on the light, then slowly removed my hand helping my eyes adjust to the light a little better. What I saw scares me to this day. The deuce had definitely not gone down. It looked like a football was sitting in the toilet, except it was bigger and had barnacles on it. I've never seen the likes of something like this before. That I could produce something this foul lends further proof to the idea that my insides are dead. I stared at the uber log and tried to think about my options. There was no way that beast would flush the way it was. I definitely had to flush the fucker though since I still had to wipe my business, plus my parents would both need to use the toilet later that morning. I knew from previous experience the hotel didn't have in-room plungers so the obvious choice was out. My brain was screaming at me, the pain was brutal. Standing before the toilet, naked, I poured some water from the faucet into a glass to wet my parched tongue hoping to quell my thirst and give me a chance to come up with a solution. I needed to break the uber deuce up somehow since it wasn't going to flush whole. I looked around for a tool that could help me but could find nothing. I could waddle out to the closet and grab a coat hanger, but having to explain the coat hanger later and the chance of getting caught by my mother waddling around naked with the shit-ass killed that idea. I was stumped. How fucking terrible was this? Why can't his shit happen to someone else? Or, at least let it happen when I'm sober and can fucking think! Stuck in a hotel room with my parents, hung over like a mother fucker, an ass covered in shit, and a toilet clogged with a child sized crap in it and no tools available to me except my bare hands. My hands… I looked at my hands, my hands that know me better than anyone, my hands that are always there for me, my only available tools. "Do it" said the sibilant voice in my brain, "fear, does not exist in this dojo, does it?" No sinse! This, this was my moment of manhood. All my achievements up to this point, including the time Mr. Pickles and I made ourselves throw up in the County Line bathrooms so we could try and eat our own weight in bar-b-que, including the time I told my professor that both my parents died in the World Trade Center during 9/11 to get out of some homework, all my achievements were as nothing up to this point. You've got the tools, you've got the talent. Do it. It's go time. Resolved, I bent over the toilet, thrust out my right arm, and grasped the deuce in my hand. The urge to vomit was nearly overpowering. I squeezed my hand, breaking the uber deuce into pieces, feeling it slip and slide around my fingers. I felt something hard and gagged. Satisfied I had done what needed to be done I used my left hand to flush the commode. Nothing. My efforts had failed. Apparently there was a second, unseen, phantom deuce that had clogged the toilet before the one I had just broken up with my hand. Now the toilet water was up to the brim and pieces of shit were floating everywhere. I extracted my hand from the toilet and washed it off in the sink. The hand just looked at me, insulted, like I had just pimped it out to a drug dealer to feed my meth habit. Things would never be the same between us.
I should have gotten in the shower for a little "Elizabeth-Shue-after-the-anal-gangbang-slash-rape-in-Leaving-Las-Vegas"-esque action. I should have, but I didn't. I pulled on my shorts, shit-ass and all, waddled to the roll away. I lay on my side hoping to keep my shit-ass off anything, and put my throbbing head down to rest on the pillow in somber defeat.
I woke up to a scream from my mother in the bathroom. All the lights were on and the television was blaring the cackle of Regis Philbin as he described how unbelievable his toast at breakfast was. You see, when my parents wake up they like to turn on all the lights and televisions so as to make sure no one trying to sleep can do so. My mother called out my name and I just pulled the sheets over my head the shame of the situation too colossal to bear.
