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?

Pick Your Poison

“Good morning, sir.” A portly fellow with a dark mustache and a bad combover stood behind the counter. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a nice plant for my wife,” I said. As much as I loved flowers, they often wilted and died within days, so I wanted something that would last. 

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. What’s the occasion?”

I hesitated, debating whether or not to lie. In the end, I figured the man would never see me again, so it wouldn’t hurt to tell the truth. 

“Well, to be honest, I upset my wife earlier, and now I need to make it up to her.”

A chuckle escaped the man’s lips. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d be a millionaire.”

“I can imagine. Any suggestions?”

The man pivoted and rubbed his chin, eyeing several plants along the wall behind the counter. “This Creeping Zinnia is nice.”

“Creeping Zinnia?”

The man turned to me and nodded. “Yeah. If you touch the leaves of the plant and then rub your eyes, it will cause you to go blind.” 

My brow furrowed. 

“Or maybe this Skunk Hair,” the man said, moving along to another. “When the temperature gets too hot or too cold, it will release a putrid toxin that will cause your body to convulse.”

Was this guy for real? 

“So, these are poisonous plants?” I said. 

“Yes.”

“But I’m looking for a harmless plant.”

“Unfortunately, all of the plants in my store are poisonous. Or, at least, dangerous in some way.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I think I made a mistake.” I spun around and walked toward the exit. When I put my hand to the door knob, it wouldn’t budge. “What the hell?” I muttered. 

“It’s locked,” the man said. 

I turned to him. “Why?”

“Because you haven’t bought anything yet. I have a button under the counter, and I locked the door after you entered the store. Without any other customers to bother us, you have my undivided attention. Now that’s service. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Are you serious? You can’t keep me here. I’m calling the cops.”

I slid a hand into my pants pocket, ready to pull my phone from it. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” the man said, a sly smile stretching across his face. 

“And why’s that?”

“See those vines overhead?”

I tilted my head back. Vines practically covered the ceiling, some of them hanging only a few feet from my head. 

“They can release flesh-eating spores,” he said. “At my command.”

This guy was crazier than I thought. 

“Really?” I said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “First of all, I don’t know of any plant that releases flesh-eating spores. And even if it is capable of doing that, how could you possibly control it?”

The man shrugged. “Many people call me the plant whisperer. I have a way with them. They’re like my children. Sometimes they don’t listen to me, but they’ll do as I say most of the time.”

A thought came to me. “So, you’d risk exposing yourself to the spores just to punish me for not buying a plant?”

He removed something from under the counter and held it up. “That’s why I have this umbrella. Just in case.”

I doubted an umbrella would completely protect him, but I wasn’t about to debate it.

“This is ludicrous!” I shouted. 

“Maybe, but do you really want to take the chance that I’m right?”

I mulled it over, then approached the counter. “I find it hard to believe that people haven’t complained about what you’re doing here. Whether it’s to the Better Business Bureau or The Department of Health. Even the police. How are you still in business?”

“You’d be surprised. I have connections all over town. And in high places, too.”

“And what’s to keep me from blabbing when I leave? I can urge everyone I know not to come here.”

“Plants are sensitive to human emotion. They can pick up on the slightest vibe. And if you’ve been badmouthing me, your plant will know it.”

I swallowed. “What are you implying?”

“It will take defensive measures. Which will be unpleasant for you and your wife. And anyone else in your household.”

“Then what’s to stop me from throwing it in the trash once I leave here?”

“The same. It will consider it a threat and take action. Plants can communicate with one another, and all of its buddies will make your life a living hell.”

I was about to call his bluff when something tickled my cheek. I flinched at the vine. It had lowered itself from the ceiling, then quickly recoiled like a snake. 

“Do you believe me now?” the man asked. 

I let out a frustrated breath. “Look. What if I pay for a plant but don’t actually take one?”

The man shook his head. “The whole point is to find loving homes for these plants. I don’t do it for the money. In fact, I’m barely breaking even running this business. It may be hard to believe, but these plants will grow on you. No pun intended. Anyway, if you love them, you have nothing to fear.”

I deliberated. “Fine. Do you have a plant that’s a little friendlier than the ones you already mentioned?”

“It depends on your definition of friendly.” He turned to another plant behind him. “For example, take this Spotted Redbrush. It has a better temperament. You really have to piss it off for it to retaliate. But if you anger it, you’ll have the most agonizing rash for weeks.”

That didn’t sound appealing to me in the least. 

I pointed to one on my left. “What about that one?”

The owner moved toward the plant. “This one?”

I nodded.

“That’s the Brown-Eyed Common Alder,” he said. 

“And what does it do?”

“It can put you to sleep.”

My lips stretched into a grin. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It wouldn’t be if that’s all it did. You’ll also experience vivid nightmares, and you’ll be vomiting for hours once you wake.”

I cringed at the thought, and my shoulders slumped in disappointment. 

“I can sense your indecision,” the man said. 

“Is it that obvious?” I took a breath. “Do you mind if I have a look around?”

“Be my guest.”

I perused the store, the owner hovering behind me the entire time. Then I spotted one. It resembled a small basil plant. It looked innocent enough. Then again, I’d come to realize that appearances could be deceiving. 

“You like that one?” the man inquired. 

“Maybe. I’m afraid to ask about it though.”

“It’s a Healing Ribwort. It’s called that because it can regenerate itself after being damaged. It’s one of the most resilient plants I know of.”

“But?”

“I’m not going to lie,” the owner said. “It’s partial to women. It tends to lash out more at men. But only if you give it a reason to. It can make one of your appendages go limp.”

My eyes bulged. “You mean—”

“Yeah. That appendage.”

I nearly choked on my saliva as I swallowed. I pondered for a moment, ultimately coming to a decision. 

“I’ll take it,” I said. 

The man raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah. I figure there’s even more incentive for me to treat it well. And if I happen to anger it for some reason, at least it will take it out on me and not my wife.”

“Makes sense. So, how would you like to pay? Cash or charge?”

“Cash,” I said. “I’d rather my wife not know how much I’m spending on a flaccid penis plant.”

Deep Fried

Another shitty end to another shitty day. Noah was clopening, again, even though he was pretty sure it violated some OSHA bullshit that he had to be at work five hours after clocking out. Why did McBiggies even stay open this late? No one in this shit-for-brains town went out after ten, but the owner insisted they stay open until two in the morning just in case some big-rig trucker got the hankering for midnight diarrhea. Whatever. Noah put in his earbuds, turned them up full-blast, and mopped the floor to music most people he knew would classify as “Satanic.”

It was essential that Noah closed the front of house as quickly as possible, not because he was a particularly loyal minimum wage employee committed to avoiding time theft – fuck that – but because he was closing with Jeff. Jeff was the living embodiment of everything wrong with the world. Dropout, pot-smoker, rape-joker, ass-smacker, shrimp-dick motherfucker who, for some ungodly reason, thought he was the hottest shit to ever hit the pavement. Jeff could go choke on his light beer and chicken wings. Jeff could go take an Ambien and lie sideways on the train tracks. Jeff could go hang himself with his grandma’s shit-stained panties. Jeff could go—

“Becca, will you turn that shit down? I can hear it from the walk-in.”

Noah’s dream sequence of increasingly humiliating and painful ends to the boil that was Jeff shattered, and right when they were getting good. Noah ripped out an ear bud, whipping around and wishing to God he had a weapon of some kind. No one would miss this imbecile, this veritable worm, this Jeff.

“That’s not my name, Jeff,” Noah spit. He didn’t even bother making eye contact. He put his ear bud back in, punched the volume knob on his phone, even though it was already maxed out, and mopped like he was trying to scrape the tiles off the floor.

What a piece of shit, what a cretin. These idiots have no idea what’s coming. When the grid dropped and chaos reigned supreme, Noah would laugh as Jeff and the mealworms like him begged for water, for shelter, for their puny lives while he sat on a throne of—

“Don’t touch me!” Noah shouted, dropping his mop and pushing Jeff away with both hands. The fucker had snuck up behind Noah and ripped out his ear buds with the typical audacity of a cis, straight, white guy. 

“Jesus, calm down, groomer,” Jeff retorted with great intelligence. “Keep it down or I’ll bitch about you to Janice, again. One more complaint and you get fired, right?”

Empires were burned to the ground with less fury than that which Jeff’s shit-eating grin stirred up in Noah. What made it worse, Jeff was right. Noah had already been warned by the owner, Janice, in a one-on-one last week that his ice was getting thinner and thinner. Not a single one of his own complaints against coworkers who misgendered and dead-named him seemed to find their way into any of their folders, but for some nearly unfathomable reason, every single complaint against him had been typed out, Xeroxed, and filed alphabetically. Noah hated his job, almost more than he hated the government, but he needed the money. So, he turned off his music, ground his teeth, and wheeled the mop bucket to the kitchen to drain.

“Oh, Christ, he hasn’t even shut down the friers yet,” Noah thought, rolling his eyes. He’d probably be here for another hour, at least, since he couldn’t leave till Jeff finished closing the back of house. Whatever, he’d sit in a booth and harness his anger into a rant on Discord. He liked the people in the new server he joined. They weren’t snowflakes like so many other alphabet people. They wanted real change, like him, and they weren’t afraid to dirty their hands getting it done. 

“You know, if you tried a little harder, I bet you’d be fuckable as a chick.” 

This influx of charm announced Jeff’s arrival in the kitchen. You’d think that after a year of harassing Noah, Jeff would have come up with at least some new material. But no, it always circled back around to Noah’s fuckability as a chick, broad, or female. 

“You don’t even flatten your tits all that good. I can tell you’re like a C-cup.”

Speculative fixations on Noah’s binded chest, right on cue. 

“I just think it’s kind of pathetic how hard you try and how bad you fail. You don’t look like a dude or a chick, just some sort of—”

“Freak?” Noah couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t hold his tongue and listen to the same slew of shit from another low-life piece of shit. He knew he was fuming because he couldn’t think of any other words to call Jeff than “shit.”

“Exactly,” Jeff sneered, wiping down the grill with a sponge, “you saved my breath. A freak.”

Noah straightened the bottles of bleach and ammonia on the cleaning supply shelf with a precision that would make fascists proud. These idiots have no idea what’s coming. One more word out of him, and it’s over. 

“You know, I think I saw something like you crawling around on the Discovery channel. What was it called? He-She’s Gone Wild?”

Go ahead, shithead. I dare you. One more crack like that and—

“No, it wasn’t Discovery channel,” Jeff laughed, “it was Brazzers. Some bitch like you was in a train. Damn, maybe that’s what you need. A good fucking from six fat cocks, one after the other. Maybe then you’ll stop trying to—” 

Noah had never stabbed someone before. It was much easier than he anticipated. For all the corners McBiggies cut, they sure kept their knives sharp. Jeff was screaming, trying to pull the blade from his shoulder. Noah took care of that, sticking it back in twice more. He laughed, which was a mistake.

Jeff was almost twice as big as Noah. He’d been in a good mood ten seconds ago, making fun of the local freakshow. Now he was pissed, and bleeding profusely. 

“You bitch!” Jeff screamed, socking Noah in the stomach. 

Noah doubled over, another mistake, and got a knee to the face. 

“Not so tough now, are you?” Jeff spit. He twisted his neck to try and assess his injuries. “They’re gonna have a lot of fun with you in prison, faggot. You’re fucking dead, you know that?”

Noah didn’t answer. Instead, he straightened himself with calm collection, gathered his inner resources, and headbutted Jeff in the stomach. The two struggled, deer with antlers locked. Jeff wrapped his arms around Noah’s waist, attempting some janked-up form of a pile-driver. Noah kept stabbing Jeff below the ribs. When he hit Jeff’s hip, Jeff let out a high-pitched wail his buddies would roast him for, if they were here. But they weren’t, and this little shit was killing him. 

Jeff was losing blood and strength fast, which excited Noah. He hadn’t put much thought into this whole thing, but now that he was murdering someone, he figured he better do it right. He backed away from Jeff, who stumbled and leaned against the stove. A sweat broke out on his forehead. His eyes were getting hazy. There’s no way this faggot was gonna murder him. 

This was one of the last thoughts Jeff had. Noah dropped the knife, side-stepped a weak swipe from Jeff, and grabbed the dying man from behind. Normally, Noah needed help stocking ten-pound flour sacks or five gallon buckets of mayonnaise, but the thrill of getting even coursed through his veins. Noah drug a quickly-dying Jeff under the arms to the fryers. 

It wasn’t necessarily a pleasant smell when the flesh cooked, but it also wasn’t worse than a lunch rush. Noah only wished he had his music playing to accompany the screams. Some oil splashed up onto Noah’s forearms, bubbling his skin. He didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything. The sound of that fucker cooking, the slip of his shoe on his own stinking blood, the crack of his head against the hard tile, it was more than cathartic. It was holy. 

Noah laughed. He laughed as he washed his hands. He laughed as he gathered his things. He laughed as he stepped over Jeff’s body, pausing to snap a picture. 

“Hey guys,” Noah typed into Discord, “you’ll never guess what I just did.”