Wet Schemes
As Frank pulled into the parking lot, which looked like something that would be converted into a future filming location of yet another Mad Max film, he had to admit he was far from impressed.
The bar Simon was over the moon about was attached to a damn-near empty strip mall. Unless you counted the large array of homeless residing in the nearby woods.
Frank approached the idiotically named superhero bar, which looked like some pedophile’s wet dream; he nearly avoided stepping in a pile of what he guessed to be human shit. Apparently nature called merely steps from a restroom in the lovely cartoon-esque-looking bar. Frank opened the door to be met by what appeared to be Cindy Lauper’s lard-ass lost twin.
“I can’t believe it! Frank Murphy is actually here!”
The woman dressed like some arts and craft project gone horribly wrong grabbed Frank without warning, squeezing him like a fucking orange. Frank silently prayed to himself it wasn’t her feeding time.
“Jesus Christ, big country! A little over enthused, are we?”
The woman just looked at Frank, laughing. “Oh you’re just how I imagined you to be. We’re so happy you’re finally here!”
Frank stopped the woman as she reached out to grasp him in her death grip yet once again.
“Sweetheart, I’m flattered, but where is Simon?”
“Hey man, damn glad you finally made it. Let me buy you a drink.” The curly haired loon of an agent called out, waving him over to a dimly lit corner booth.
Frank looked around, noting that this place looked like a mix of Chuck E. Cheese and a very sad toy collector’s wet dream. As toys seemed to fill every corner as the weird mix of dork action figures and stuffed animals just freaked Frank out in this weird blacked out window bar clubhouse nobody in their right mind desired to be a member of.
Frank began to go sit with his loony ass former agent as suddenly the rotund woman grasped his arm. She said, “I’m sorry sweetie but you need to purchase a wrist band first.”
She pointed to some very highly unimpressed kid behind a desk playing a video game. Frank figured this kid apparently was paid to play video games and tend the counter, though found it more important to finish his game of Halo before tending to this very hungover customer. At last, he turned from the TV screen to look at Frank.
“Yeah?”
“Umm, sorry to bother you, oh great wizard, but apparently I need a wristband. I mean, I hate not to be one of the not so cool kids and all.”
The kid just stared at him, clearly annoyed, as he handed him a neon pink colored wrist band.
“Thirty bucks, dude.”
“Wow, just the color to match my sparkling personality. So this includes….?”
The little ray of sunshine behind the counter looked extremely annoyed. “Yeah dude, like you can play all the games. Shit, man, what else you want, a fucking blowjob or some shit?”
“You sir, are clearly upper management material. I will pass on the blow job and the video games being I am over twelve, but you have a great day and enjoy commanding your troops in your quest to avoid pussy at all costs.”
Frank didn’t wait for the lovely millennial’s reply as he joined Simon in the dingy little booth.
“Wow, kid, love the fucking decor. What, you decorate this place from shit you grabbed from Michael Jackson’s estate sale?”
“Fuck you man! I knew you were going to give me shit over how the bar looks, but I didn’t design it. I am just buying it, man. I think it’s got real potential.”
Frank fought the urge not to burst out laughing as some homeless dude had whipped out his cock and was going to town on himself right in front of the widow where Frank and Simon were sitting.
“Dammit! Shirley, that guy’s at it again.” Simon called out as he slapped the glass. The clearly out of gourd dude trying to free Wilile just stared up as if God himself was trying to communicate with him.
A little Latina waitress made her way to the table, handing them both menus that looked as though they were made by a first grader.
The drinks all had bizarre names. Frank didn’t bother reading the visual bukake, he just ordered his usual Jim Beam and Coke to which he was surprised he didn’t have to tell this barely legal barmaid what went into the drink.
As he noticed his former agent’s eyes clearly fixated upon that said young lady’s non-existent ass.
“You know kid, you truly are a fucking idiot!”
“What the hell man, what did I do now?” Simon replied befuddled at his former client’s statement.
“You’re buying this pedo palace to get a piece of ass goddamn. Now I’ve truly heard it all!”
“It’s not that man. I mean, yeah, she is hot. I mean, she is really cool, man. You will dig her. Just don’t take a shit on this please, man. Okay?”
Frank bit his tongue as best he could knowing the kid was hell bent on this shit storm of a wet dream. He also noticed his new stalking victim making goo goo eyes at some weirdo with a rose neck tattoo behind the bar who occasionally cut his eyes back at Simon and Frank.
“Hey slapnuts, who’s the weirdo tending bar?”
“Oh, that’s just Tate, man.”
“Seems awfully friendly with your girl there, Romeo.”
Simon kept staring back at his soon to be employees and wistful love interest. “He is a bit of a dick man. Honestly, when the paperwork goes through I will probably give him the ax. Dude, he’s really odd and annoying as fuck.”
“Yeah, and boning your chick so…yeah, smart move, Count Dingleberry.”
The evening kept rolling as Frank and his former agent held court at the back booth and the place remained as empty as when he first arrived. But his friend was burnt out from his former job and simply burnt out from Frank himself and he fully understood that.
Although Frank was old enough to be his only true friend’s father he understood he had to have something more than the shit show it was being caught up in the publishing machine. So, while he thought it was a terrible idea to lend him the bank to buy this craptastic place, he knew he would do it simply for the fact he at least owed the kid that much.
As Frank excused himself to see a man about a horse, he made his way into the cramped little restroom. Some weird looking kid washing his hands at the sink glared at him. He oddly enough remained at the sink as Frank finished up taking a piss.
“You know, he’s not into you.”
Frank looked at the kid, questioning if Simon had employed this entire place from rejects from Houston state psych ward.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, you look alright, but he’s not into guys. At least that’s what he tells me after he led me on; he is so clearly repressed.”
“Look, I just want to use the sink, okay dude.”
The kid simply rolled his eyes heading out the restroom as Frank quickly washed his hands and got the fuck out of there. He paused at the bar to order yet another round from the neck tattooed prick who had been glaring at himself and Simon for a large part of the evening.
“You know dude, I have to admit I don’t get what folks see in your writing. It’s so, like, cliche and all. I mean, don’t take that wrong, I’m no critic or anything.”
“Yeah, I mean, kinda beats working a dead end job in a place that looks like a thrift store got butt fucked by deranged circus clown, but hey, nice neck tattoo. You know, you should get one on your forehead that reads This Space For Rent. I’m just saying you got some issues pal.” Frank replied. Simon’s favorite barmaid and the thousand tons-of-fun soon-to-be former owner cracked up while the weirdo with rose tattoo umm yeah not so much.
“Hey kid, great atmosphere in the men’s room. Really dig your fanclub. God, that dude weirded me out.”
“Oh, that’s just Ritchie; he busses tables occasionally and helps out in the kitchen. I don’t pay him all that much. Kinda has a weird crush on me, man. He brought his entire family to meet me. It was like The Hills Have Eyes or some shit really was awkward.”
Frank didn’t even bother entertaining the pointless conversation as the time slowly passed. The occasional customer staggered in looking around questioning just what the fuck they stepped into.
At last, against his better judgment, Simon introduced him properly to Sofia who Frank had already by this stage in drunkenness renamed Chi Chi Rodriguez. At least behind her back, that is. Like the refined gentleman pervert he truly was.
As they all joked, Frank made the usual expected ass of himself. Simon’s quasi girlfriend excused herself from the booth to grab more drinks while Simon continued his perpetual future sexual harassment lawsuit in the making stare.
“You know there, Casanova, it would be far cheaper to just pay to fuck her than buy an entire whatever the fuck you call this weirdo’s wet dream to get in her pants.”
“Quit busting my fucking balls, you prick, and please don’t fuck this up, man. I get it if you don’t want to loan me the money, but for once just be my damn friend, you asshole!” Simon, now on his tenth gin and tonic, snapped.
Frank knew not to press his favorite verbal punching bag too much, not because he feared him getting pissed; he just hated the thought of hearing him cry over how he had cost yet another failed attempt at hopeless romance.
The girl oddly looked like Simon in drag which threw Frank off a bit and really made him question if telling his former agent to go fuck himself all through the years had truly sunk in by default.
Sofia brought a tray of drinks and one for herself, which was some ungodly concoction called The Rainbow. Which, yeah, Frank had no reason to comment on, but as they continued their conversation Simon occasionally shot Frank a look that the demon’s that possessed his permanently charred soul could not resist in having a little fun on the nearest victim’s behalf.
“So Sofia, can I ask you a very simple question?”
“Of course, feel free to ask me anything, Frankie.” Sofia quickly replied as Simon just glared.
“Well, sweetheart, would you sleep with a guy for five million dollars?”
Simon did a spit take as his gal pal didn’t hesitate in her reply.
“Oh hells yeah!”
Frank flashed his legendary shit eating grin. “Well what about five hundred?”
Sofia glared at Frank, her demeanor instantly turning south.
“What, you think I’m some kind of whore!?’
“Well, honey, I think we already determined that; I was just trying to negotiate a price for my sex deprived friend here.”
“Fuck you, asshole!”
Sofia instantly shouted, throwing her ungodly concoction in Frank’s face then turned and smacked Simon in the face. She strutted off as Frank just sat there.
“You know, kid, I really think she’s a keeper and I got to admit after tasting the rainbow I have to say it’s a tad bit surgery for me. Yeah, not a fan.”
Simon yelled at Frank, and as he made his exit, his former agent was chasing behind his barmaid’s boney ass.
Frank was on the first flight he could grab back to the Carolinas.
He sat there a week later looking at the blank screen feeling that emptiness that had become his continual existence.
Frank had the money transferred. He knew it was a hopeless investment but, after all, wasn’t it always a shit bet when you banked on anything involving the heart.
The kid had his whacked-out bar, the girl had run off with the deuce with neck tattoo and apparently he had to ban Ritchie from the premises over a rather awkward incident in the walk-in box.
The business would go belly up a few months later. Yeah, Frank took a hit, but he always enjoyed penning and now financing his former associate’s unhappy ending.
He looked at the news, a storm was barreling in towards Kill Devil Hills, yet again. Frank could ride it out, but instead he booked a trip to the Big Easy because kicking back a hurricane seemed far more appealing than eating crow or sipping a rainbow over the Lone Star state any day of the week.
A cold beer will always beat a warm heart. Yeah, Frank hated to admit there was so much truth to that saying and bad memories attached to that title. Even he had to kick himself in the ass but life has a funny way of busting your balls if you live long enough.
We all have to pay that fiddler one day, but at least in Frank’s case it thankfully wasn’t today.
Greetings from Carolina. The beer’s cold and the weather is shitty. I hope all of you out there are as well. Frank typed the words upon the computer screen and left the laptop open as he headed out the door.
The storm could have the house and the computer to the bottle. Much like Frank’s nonexistent heart was strictly off limits, as were his deepest of thoughts. After all, a scoundrel must have his secrets.
The party was never relegated to a specific place. As Frank never cared for the window dressing as one floor, no matter how clean, was just like the next. As long as ice was available with plenty of mixers and some rented companionship, who gave a damn about the address? The party was always overrated, but, then again, aren’t they all?
Horror Sleaze Trash 