Post by Deleted on Nov 23, 2013 21:33:47 GMT -5
Chapter I: "Sailing The Ocean Blue"
The orca whale. Known to some as a killer. It is one of the largest mammals on earth. A symbol of virility. An embodiment of the thickness. Mortal men would feel small, puny, inadequate in its wake. Odin Balfore and Bobby Cairo are not mortal men and they damn sure ain't small, puny or inadequate.
Cairo: Ask your mom about that, John Gable. We'll keep the belts warm for you, but Mama Gable is keeping my codpiece warm for me.
Cairo reclines upon the eyeball of the orca, massive as it is, cushioned for a grown man's comfort. The orca does not blink. Cannot blink. Will not blink. Catatonic in its way. Mesmerized by the infamy of these men called Cairo and Balfore. Doped up to the gills, or should we say blowhole? That's right. This massive seafaring beast of ancient origin is hopped up on Poon Guinean black tar, floating along the top of the sea, as Balfore and Cairo get a free ride back to the motherland. The trip through space wasn't bad. They caught a ride back to Earth from some bad Martian bitches who knew how to handle the thickness even better than an Asgardian whore. Yes, sir. Things worked out just fine. Of course when Cairo and Odin decided to hightail it out of the saucer, because (as we know) you NEVER sleep with the poon, they plunged through the atmosphere at an ungodly speed and trajectory.
Odin: So we called in a few favors. Poseidon has a weakness for the nose candy. He hooked us up with this bad motha fucka right here.
Odin slams his mighty Asgardian fist into the eye meat of the orca. The orca is too doped up to care. After crash landing on the poor whale, Cairo and Odin took to their motherly nursing instincts, shooting the orca so full of heroin that he don't even remember that he's a whale. He thinks he's a giant beanbag chair.
Cairo: Yeah we took advantage of the poor fella, but I don't think he minds none. We don't call him "the orca" mind you. To us he's Howard and he always will be Howard. Howard is our friend. A true friend. A friend who's there for us when we need him. Not like the scoundrels, schemers and backstabbers in the WCF locker room. Right now they're plotting, prying, sneaking and conspiring. Trying to get the drop on The Thickness. But you can't. You can't because you as challengers have nothing to offer the newly minted tag champions. I look at the list of competitors for this "mystery Slam" and I see absolutely no names that frighten me. No potential opponents that cause me to quiver or quake.
Odin: We're too hopped up on that white lotus to care.
Cairo: Too hopped up to care.
Cairo echoes the Nordic war god's statement with a nod of his head... a nod and an all-encompassing snore. Cairo is out cold but his slumber is cut short by an elbow to the gut.
Odin: Bobby, do you ever think about how different things could be?
Cairo rubs the sleep from his eyes. He lights a Newport and suckles down the smoke like it's so much purifying water from the Fountain of Youth.
Cairo: Different in what respect, my friend?
Odin: If Twilight wasn't such a raging bag of cunta-saurus puke.
Cairo: You mean halfway decent to passable?
Odin: Sure.
Cairo: In what aspect?
Odin: Any?
Cairo ponders the notion as he looks up to the glassy, sapphire colored sky. Wisps of Newport smoke waft back into his lungs, the tar from the bogey doing its noble, corrosive work.
Cairo: Such things, Odin. Such things are not possible. Not even in a dream such as this. Sarah Twilight was birthed from the gaping pustules of a vaginal wart infested rhinoceros. Not to say that she's bad or evil. No. That bitch couldn't be bad or evil if she kicked The Pope down the Stairway to Hell. However, she is and always will be undesirable. Un-thick to the highest degree.
Odin: What if dogs were people?
Cairo: Sarah Twilight.
ZING!
Odin: What if light was dark? Like you couldn't see light because it's so damn metal that it just consumes everything that gets close to it. There's no escape. There's no end. Just an infinite void of light.
Cairo: I think they call that shit a black hole.
Odin: Why is this bean bag foaming at the blow hole?
Cairo: He's OD'ing. Hitting the wall. Gotta hit him up with another shot of junk.
Odin reaches into the breast pocket of his denim pocket and pulls out another syringe full of Poon Guinean black tar. He rolls up his sleeve and ties one off.
Odin: One... two... for you. One... two... for me. Yeah. Chase that dragon, Howard. You almost got him.
Cairo: Like the fuckin Nordic Tank of the Sea.
Odin: Just fuckin floatin', coastin. The Thickness and Howard. Middle of this blue-ish wet stuff. Hate this stuff. Thinkin it's better than me.
Cairo: The fuckin ocean, man. Zeppelin wrote a song about this place once upon a time.
Cairo clears his throat and attempts his best Robert Plant impersonation while headbanging and wailing on the air guitar. He ends up sounding more like Tom Waits.
Odin: My man, are you singing or crying? Did somebody punch you?
Cairo, clearly offended, ceases his impromptu musical performance and grabs a cold beer from Howard's blowhole. He takes a seat by himself in a remote corner of the whale and begins to pout.
Cairo: I suppose your voice is so much better? Hater. Haters. They're all haters. Twilight, S-PAC, Jonny Fly, Eric Price. Logan, FPV, Oblivion. Little Jeffy Purse with his perfect little bleached white sneakers. All of 'em on their anti-Bobby Cairo bullshit. All of 'em spiteful little dung beetles with beady eyes and a pungent stench. Fuckin fag-a-pa-looza on Slam this week. Everybody duking it out to see who gets to pull on Bobby Cairo's pee-pee. Can't rise to Bobby Cairo's level so they flap their gums about every irrelevant topic under the sun. Never living. Never experiencing life as human beings do. I mean living, breathing beings. Forget about being a god like Bobby Cairo, I'm just talking about living for once- once upon a morning star.
The Devil winks at Bobby Cairo from on high. Cairo tries to ignore him. Tries to push the image out of his mind's eye. Tries to shake the dip in confidence that he's feeling inside. Goddamn. Heroin and mashed potatoes DO NOT mix.
Cairo: These people don't know anything about living. Never have and never will. I live more life in one drop of my pizzle than these people will know in eighty or a hundred years.
Odin has been too busy gazing upon the ocean blue to follow Cairo's stream of consciousness style rant. It is truly a breathtaking spectacle of natural beauty, unsoiled by the corrupting touch of man or machine.
Odin: Hey, Bobby? How long you think it'll take for my dick to hit bottom?
Cairo is shaken from his stupor. His body has nearly been toppled by his own lack of awareness: the crown of his skull rests flat upon the body of the whale, legs strewn to the sides. What a fool he appears to be, though more Court Jester than Sarah Twilight. We didn't say he wears a Dunce hat, after all.
Odin: Bobby?
Cairo: Yes? Sorry. Uh, I don't know? Two minutes, thirty-seven seconds?
Odin: I'll take the under.
Odin whips out his thickness and casts it out to sea like a fishing pole. Tsunamis are felt in India, half a world away. Measuring 6969 on the THICK-NI scale. Number of The Thickness. Cairo's eyes spin like pinwheels, mesmerized by the infinite void of nothingness in the skies above. He nods out again, unbeknownst to Odin.
Odin: How much time do I have left? Bobby! Wake the fuck up. My penis is already halfway to Macau.
Cairo checks his watch that isn't there.
Cairo: Twenty seconds.
Odin: My nig. You're not wearing a watch.
The realization hits Cairo's face.
Cairo: Oh shit. Where the fuck is my Rolex?
Cairo thinks about it for a minute. His eyes grow wide. A murderous scowl forms upon his face.
Cairo: Those fuckin Martian bitches! I knew they were no good!
Cairo seethes with rage over his missing watch and a Martian bitch named Zula. Meanwhile, the tip of Odin's cock hits a snag. It moves. IT moves.
Odin: Oops. Cairo. I think I got a bite.
Cairo: No kidding? Well shit. You might have caught a giant squid. Or Godzilla for that matter.
Odin begins the time-consuming chore of reeling in his massive cock, a more cumbersome task than actually casting it out. Minutes pass. Blow is snorted. Beer is chugged. Howard OD's again. Cairo and Odin mainline the dope straight into his heart valve. Howard is revived. Finally the cock is reeled in- revealing that a mermaid has been speared at the end of it. She ain't just any mermaid though. Not some common mermaid whore. No, this mer-bitch has one of the nicest pairs of tits a man or god has ever laid eyes on.
Mermaid: I am Liana, queen of the merfolk. We have heard legends of surface dwellers with such endowment that it would penetrate us with just its presence. I am with your child now and I must tell you the secrets of life if we are to raise this child prop-
Odin: Bobby, this mer-bitch is talkin.
Cairo pulls out the baggie of pre-loaded syringes that he keeps tucked into his boot at all times for that quick fix when he's on the run... or just jonesin' for it.
Cairo: Shoot her up!
Odin sticks the mer-bitch right in the neck with the Poon Guinean dope needle. She begins to go comatose, her system reacting harshly to the smack- obviously a first-timer. Odin plays with her tits before setting his eyes upon the poon.
Odin: Ah yes. I'm gonna stick my codpiece... in her starfish.
Cairo: Do not bogart the poon, my friend.
Cairo and Odin take turns pulling one-man freight train expresses on this mer-bitch. Got the bitch talkin that supersonic fish-speak like she be Flipper and shit. You think Jessica Alba don't know? Bitch been there before. Bitch know. The mer-bitch doesn’t last long though. Not nearly as long as had been hoped for. She may have heard of the legend but she was ill-prepared for its arrival. The thickness get their rocks off, so much as they can, and throw the mer-bitch back into the deep blue sea. Howard takes a turn on that poon before swallowing the bitch whole. Perhaps we should call him a sperm whale? Odin casually returns his throbbing thickness legacy into the water as if nothing happened. Cuz really, nothing did. Business as usual for the legend.
Mere moments pass before there's another nibble. A flurry of bubbles quickly rise to the surface of the water. Whatever Odin has caught, whatever is submerged under that canvas is water- it is enormous. The bubbles appear more frequently as the object rises ever closer to the surface. The submerged outline of the item in question is projecting a mass nearly as gargantuan as the thickness itself- but it ain't the thickness.
Suddenly and without warning, a great beast rises from the sea, rearing a reptilian head and unleashing a mighty roar louder than the rolling thunder.
Cairo: Mothafuckin Godzilla!
Odin's cock fights with Godzilla, refusing to let the giant lizard off the hook.
Odin: No, no, Zilla. You're not getting away from me. Not this time. Who do you think you are, Polar Phantasm? You run away when shit gets too hot to handle and then you return when it's convenient for you? You still owe me a match, buddy. Hardcore Championship unification bout.
Cairo: Uh, Odin. That's Godzilla. Not Phantasm.
Odin: I know who the fuck it is, Bobby. You think WCF is the only fed that I work for? Come on now. I've been everywhere, man.
Odin's cock comes eyeball to eyeball with the great beast, yellow eyes glowing with a fire that burns deep within the soul-- and that's just Odin's penis.
Cairo: What do you want to do with this motherfucker? Cut him up and eat him? I'm feeling kinda hungry to be honest.
Odin: No. This is my prize. My white whale. We speared S-PAC with the power of our thicknesses. We speared that mer-bitch and wasted her like the useless ho-bag that she was. Now Godzilla will be my bitch. Suck that thickness, Zilla. You get on your knees and you do your work. Be my Twilight. That's right, Zilla.
Godzilla begs off, like Ric Flair in a match with Sting. And just like Flair, Zilla goes for the low blow. Odin's cock no-sells it though.
Odin: Nothin doin, buddy. Now you die.
Odin's cock lifts Godzilla high above the whale and drops him into the infamous choke-breaker known as Ragnarok. Godzilla's spine is instantly liquified- didn't even have the opportunity to shatter. Odin's cock pins Godzilla. Referee Peter Laos slip-slides into the scene and registers the count.
ONE...
TWO...
THREE!!!
Godzilla is defeated. Godzilla is dead. Long live the thickness. The thickness takes a bow as flashbulbs flash and the galley clamors. Reporters flock to the thickness, rapidfire questions ensuing.
"How does it feel to vanquish Godzilla once and for all, there thickness? He was your long-time rival. Is this the end of an era?" My era is just beginning, quoth the thickness. As for him? I hardly give a fuck.
"You made ol' Zilla look like your bottom bitch, there thickness. Was it harder than it looked or are you just that damn good?" The thickness laughs. Of course I was hard but was it (the match) hard? Of course not.
"Who's next on your hitlist, there thickness? Who's gonna get all choked up at the sight of ya?" Seems like Sarah Twilight might want to polish the codpiece, but then again Scott Savage is making his big announcement on Slam. If I was laying odds like I lay the pipe I'd say he's coming out of the closet.
Odin: Alright, no more questions! No more questions, ya damn jackals!
Cairo: Jesus W. Bush, a god can't even fish with his cock in peace anymore. What is this world coming to?
Odin: I don't know, Bobby. I shudder to think about the world that we're leaving to our kids.
Cairo: Our kids, eh?
Samantha. Bobby Cairo's young daughter. The baby girl that he visited in Bridgeport. Her fate as yet undetermined. Will she move in with her daddy and her stepmother Rihanna in Poon Guinea? Or will she stay with Grandma in the house where she's grown accustomed? Choices. The choices that we make. Mama Cairo told Bobby to live a humble life. But how can life be humbly lived when life is so damn complicated?
Cairo: Take a look around, mom. Look at this life that I lead. I'm doped out of my mind. Skin crawling. Mind drifting. Orca whale under my feet. My tag partner just killed Godzilla with his penis. My boss is a fucking psycho slut who can't even bother to book a proper card. I'm sorry, mom. This ain't the life that you wanted for me. It ain't the life that I expected to live, that's for sure.
Howard: I'm beginning to sober up and you're scaring me.
Cairo: Oh crap, the whale's talking.
Chapter II: "Brothers In Arms"
The question is repeated. "Do you ever think about how different things could be?" This time Bobby Cairo is the one posing the question. His twin brother Roger sips of a Panamanian brew while reclining on the bed in their hotel suite in Denver, Colorado. Bobby sits at an adjacent table, cutting into a piece of French toast breakfast slathered in syrup. A glass of vodka and OJ sits on the table next to his plate.
Roger: Different in what respect, Bobby?
Bobby takes a bite of French toast, washes it down with the screwdriver.
Bobby: Life in general. I look around me.
Bobby twirls his index finger, spanning the perimeter of the room- punctuated by an upward thrust to the ceiling. He licks his syrup coated lips and dabs them with a napkin.
Bobby: I look around me every morning when I wake up. I search for a tangible symbol of fulfillment. When I see Rihanna lying next to me, I feel at ease. When I wake up alone, on the road, in the midst of a political or wrestling related trip... I feel hollow.
Roger listens quietly, respectfully, while his brother expresses his innermost feelings.
Bobby: I am not ungrateful for my success. I've accumulated material wealth beyond my wildest imagination. I've visited places that I'd only read about in fairytales, or what I supposed to be fairytales. You ever been to Asgard, Roger?
Roger shakes his head in the negatory.
Bobby: Of course you haven't, my man. No one has. No human anyway. None except for Bobby Cairo. I could be immortal. If I wanted to. I could be triumphant. If I cared a little more. I could be defiant. But then I always was.
Roger finally lowers his beer and interjects.
Roger: Bobby, where are you going with this?
Bobby ponders the question for a good long while- thirty seconds pass on the hands of the grandfather clock. Finally he replies.
Bobby: I think about Sarah Twilight. Weird, right? Why even waste my time?
Bobby laughs.
Bobby: I just can't understand what makes a person like that tick. She's not this hardcore bad ass that she claims to be. She's... mindless. Insolent. Even a tad bit irreverent. She's a temperamental little girl in a grown woman's body. Not even a bad looking body mind you, but a body that's wasted because the inside is rotted. Imagine if this beautiful hotel had termites or mold or some unfortunate affliction of this nature. It would be ruined, useless, uninhabitable. So the point that I'm making is: How do I avoid becoming a useless husk of a human being like Sarah Twilight. Or is it already too late for me?
Roger sits up on the bed, extending his legs to the floor. He looks at Bobby with a studious expression on his face. He's straining to look within Bobby- to read not just his mannerisms but to truly find the essence of his brother's being. What's eating Bobby Cairo? Roger clears his throat and takes a sip of beer. His eyes turn to the floor. The floor. When Roger and Bobby were kids, no more than eight years old, they celebrated Christmas together with their mom and dad. This was at their home in Bridgeport. It was a typical snowy New England winter, but it was warm inside of that home. Hell, it felt like an inferno.
Two kids, excited as could be about what Santa had brought them in gifts. Too excited to eat breakfast. That French toast. The sausages. The buttered rye. Just sitting on the table, waiting to be consumed by hungry little mouths. But breakfast would have to wait. More important matters were being entertained. Oh sure Mom was Jewish, but Dad was Protestant and so the family celebrated both holidays. The Hanukkah ceremonies were more stoic, more traditional, more substantive in their own conservative manner. Christmas was more of a festive celebration. The kids had requested that Santa bring them certain amenities, and if the boys had been good and Dad had a good enough year on the books, then the kids got what they wanted. Within reason, of course. Sometimes though you have to be careful what you wish for.
Bobby and Roger had been taken in by the alluring voodoo of classic rock. Truly loved the stuff. Dad was more of a Sinatra man and Mom loved Elvis, but the kids enjoyed more of a proggy, artsy and at times psychedelic vibe. Pink Floyd was their absolute favorite. The album? Atom Heart Mother, on vinyl of course. And of course Santa delivered it. Bobby and Roger, old enough to know "Santa's" true identity, kissed Mom and Dad on their cheeks and ran upstairs to blast their new record, ignoring for the moment the vast assortment of action figures and video games that had also been gifted to them. That would come later. So too would the consumption of that lonely French toast and sausage. The rye bread, oozing with melted butter. So yummy to the tummy. So pure and innocent.
Nothing was pure and innocent about the circumstances transpired up in the boys' shared bedroom. The airy, space rock of Atom Heart Mother blared on Bobby's hi-fi while the boys played with their Ouija board, postulating the questions that burned at their core. Finally they came to the big one. "What am I going to be when I grow up?" Which boy asked it? It's hardly remembered by either Cairo brother at this stage. All that's remembered is that letter by letter the answer was spelled out: K... I... L... L... E... R.
The boys gasped in horror of course. Was there any truth to the Ouija's reply? Does this game have any real substance to it anyway- or does it just play off our fears, biases and imaginations? The boys simultaneously dropped hold of the looking glass/answer key mechanism and rolled into separate directions on the floor- Floyd vocalist Roger Waters gently crooning about the joys of insanity and his desire to avoid having wires placed in his brain. The floor began rising under the boys' bodies, rising and recoiling like a snake poised to lash at them. Bobby and Roger can't breathe. The heat is stifling. Throats are tight. Heads in a vice. They can't think. Can't breathe. Can't swallow. Need water. Where's water? No water. Waters is still crooning. What the fuck is happening? We didn't ask for this. Didn't want this. But did we?
They black out. Roger Cairo, the adult, shakes himself out of his trance and returns to the present. He lifts his gaze from the floor and looks at his brother.
Roger: Some of us have a devil inside, Bobby. Some of us just can't find peace in this world, even under the most ideal sets of circumstances.
Bobby: I thought I'd feel better after winning the tag belts with Odin.
Bobby looks down at the belt in the seat next to him, its thick leather straps folded neatly beneath its polished gold faceplate. WCF Tag Team Champion it says. His name Bobby Cairo engraved in the solid gold nameplate. This is Bobby's first time holding a tag championship in his accomplished eight year wrestling career. It feels good. It feels like an achievement that he should be proud of. It just doesn't fulfill him. Not like he expected it to.
Bobby: Is it because we defeated inferior opposition? Is that what's getting me down? We defeated a team that we knew couldn't defeat us? Maybe that's it, Roger. Just maybe.
Bobby reaches down and grazes the face of the belt with his fingertips, stroking the gold faceplate as if it were Rihanna's supple body.
Roger; Bobby, don't do this. Not again. You're grasping at straws. You're a man of logic and reason. You read Ayn Rand and George Orwell. You know the grift. You know how they sell you short time and again with their little mind games, ill-conceived and easily dismissed.
Bobby focuses on the belt- nudges it, caresses it.
Bobby: I love the belt, I do. I can't help but feel like I rescued it from some horrible captor, like I saved a kid from a child molester. Four months of hard work. Four months to get these belts where they belong. S-PAC didn't deserve them and they never will. They couldn't.
Bobby shakes his head, thinking about the weakness and faggotry that S-PAC personifies.
Bobby: I know Twilight has it in her mind that she wants to defeat The Thickness. Take these belts from us by any means necessary. That's what this "mystery" show is all about. She wants to get the drop on Cairo and Balfore. She couldn't deny us the title shot. Tried to and failed. Threw every team at our feet that she could, hoping to trip us up. Didn't work. Finally we got our crack at the belts and then her plan was to let Savage and Gable interfere, screw us over. That failed. We had a back-up plan.
Roger: And that's what you do, Bobby. That's what you always do. Make a contingency plan.
Bobby: Because we do know the grift, Roger. We do know it and that knowledge, the keen insight that only us gods among men possess is what allows us to overcome these supposed obstacles, exposing them as the half-baked assassination plots and amateurish conspiracy theories that they truly are. When we speak we speak with eloquence. When we walk we walk with elegance. These fools, Twilight, Savage, Cash, Atreyu, even Gable. Barely a brain cell among them. You tell 'em to rub two sticks together to start a fire, they'll drop one stick cuz they couldn't stand the heat and the other will "mysteriously" vanish up Twilight's ass crack.
Roger: Don't ever go camping with them.
Cairo nods his head, echoes his brother's sentiments.
Bobby: Don't ever go camping with them.
Bobby shovels another forkful of French toast into his mouth and chugs the rest of his vodka-tinted OJ.
Bobby: I look around. I do look around hard and heavy with my keen insight. I see these fools. I see the life that I'm living. I ask myself, am I truly the great man? Have I done enough? Am I pushing all the right buttons? Will it ever be enough? Am I wasting my time or am I utilizing it in the most pragmatic manner possible? Why do I feel frustrated and unfulfilled? I can sit here and rally off my list of accomplishments and any one of them is more impressive than the average man could ever aspire to. How does one man run a country like Poon Guinea, run a city like New York, run the tag division in WCF, run the global sex trade industry, smash the poon like no one can, and still find time to eat a quiet breakfast with his brother? No, I'm not a man. No mere mortal. I am something more, something greater.
Bobby suddenly stops talking. The perilous blues of his eyes drift into empty spaces far beyond the walls of his hotel suite. They see things, horrible things, atrocities of a war fought in Vietnam, cannibalism in South American jungles, kids shooting kids on city streets in America... the President of the United States lying to his public time and again, generation after generation.
Bobby: We see the worst in man. We see the worst that life has to offer and we tell ourselves that we can solve these problems with a telethon or a protest march or an internet petition. We know nothing, my brother. We know less than the ant. The ant doesn't aspire to save the world. The ant simply lives its life, serves its function and lets the chips fall where they may.
Bobby shakes his head in a haze of disbelief.
Bobby: Goddamn ant got more sense than a human.
Roger cracks open another cold one and places it on the table in front of Bobby. Bobby drinks up. A good boy like always.
Roger: Bobby, we can't solve all these problems. Two men, two gods among men, whatever we are, whatever we could be- we can't do it. Odin, The All-Father. He could snap his fingers and transport us to a different dimension. But you know something? Even the Great Balfore cannot solve the human condition. Maybe just maybe you feel the way that you do because you've accomplished so much and yet still, still you know that it's a drop in the bucket compared to all the life that's being lived. I'm not even talking about all the good times that can be found. I'm talking about the motherfuckers who are torturing innocent kids right now, somewhere in the world, their actions falling under the radar yet destroying lives all the same. You want to hurt those motherfuckers. You want to make them pay. You want to make them feel what they make their victims feel. But you can't because you don't even know their names or their faces.
Roger said a mouthful and every word hit home with his brother. Bobby takes his time digesting it all. It's not the time for a witty comeback or a cute little one-liner. This ain't Twitter. This is real life. This is two grown men sorting through real life issues. When you're brother is right then he's right and sometimes that's all that can be said.
Bobby: You're right.
Roger: Well, I've got some wisdom of my own to impart upon others, Mr. Godfather.
The brothers share a laugh and a couple of beers. Testament's “Practice What You Preach” can be heard off in the distance. Behind Bobby and Roger, Bobby's phone goes off as it charges on the bathroom counter top. Bobby looks over his shoulder with a mouthful of French toast. Roger gives Bobby the phone as Bobby spews golden French toast crumbs with his words.
Bobby: Yeah, Odin?
“Bobby, what are you doin?”
Bobby: Having breakfast at the Motel Six with Roger.
“Good, so he made it to Denver then? What are you eating?”
Bobby: French toast, sausage, blueberries, poon. That kinda shit.
Roger mouths the word "poon?" a quizzical expression on his face.
“Not a bad spread by Denny's standards. What are you washing that shit down with?”
Bobby: Screwdriver, of course. Listen, man, you know my morning routine. Is there something I can do for you? What's with all the questions?
“Well it's like ten so if you're up for it, we can head up to Denver's Legs and Eggs at The Gold Mine. I'm sure Rog could use a day out with the guys, a little break from his usual nine to five that he has to work everyday. And hey, he can meet my twin. We'll make a thing of it.“
Bobby nods his head in the affirmative, thinking that it sounds like a mighty smashing idea indeed.
Bobby: Sure, that sounds good. Head up when you're ready
KNOCK KNOCK
Bobby and Roger glance at the door, obviously not expecting their guest to arrive so quickly.
Roger: Damn, that was fast. It's like he had that planned out.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Roger goes to open the door. As he does so a small man runs past him, barely coming up to his chest. The tiny man runs into the bathroom and rips the nastiest of farts with the loudest of groans. Odin ducks under the door frame and steps inside the room.
Roger: Goddamn, that was your twin? It's like Gandalf with a hobbit.
Bobby: Odin, what's Danny DeVito doing in my hotel room?
Odin: Told ya I was bringin a twin. Arnold wanted a paycheck. DeVito just wanted some coke and chocolate coins in a mayonnaise jar.
Roger looks confused, second guessing his choice in this matter to hang with his brother. Just then, another man comes through the door and stands next to Odin. He stands six foot three and built like the Nordic Tank but with blonde hair and a lab coat. Roger creases his brow and rubs his hands together, as if preparing to throw down.
Roger: Hey Odin, who's this guy? He your brother or did you pay him too?
Odin looks at the other man and pats him on the shoulder.
Odin: Kind of. I'm an only child.
Roger: Thank God for that.
Bobby & Odin: You're welcome.
Odin: This is Maverick. He's me, albeit from another universe.
Roger cocks an eyebrow.
Roger: Is he a wrestler, god, whatever as well?
Maverick: Mad scientist actually. I engineered a race of military caliber war sharks, crashed the moon into the Earth and I attempted to make everyone in the world look exactly like me.
Roger: You mean, that's the one thing you didn't get to do?
Maverick: Twelve out of ten experiments resulted in heart failure.
Roger: You mean ten out of twelve?
Maverick: Hey! Who's the evil genius? Twelve out of ten!
Roger looks toward Bobby for answers. Bobby just shakes his head and shrugs like his name was Atlas.
Odin: Bobby, you ready?
Bobby polishes off his beer and crushes it in his hand.
Bobby: I'm ready when DeVito gets off the can.
DeVito: Ah guys, little help. I'm stuck in the bowl. Some fairy ass faggot put the damn seat up.
Bobby, Odin and Maverick all look at Roger.
Roger: What?
Odin: You put the seat up?
Roger: You don't put the seat up for your wife?
Odin: You speak to me?
Odin looks over Roger and eyes Bobby.
Odin: Cairo, you sure this is your bro and not Doc Henry in another wig?
Bobby grabs his Fenrir coat from the rack and lights up a Newport.
Bobby: Go easy on him, Odin. He's new around here. He'll learn.
Bobby taps Roger in the bicep and cocks his head.
Bobby: Let's hit it, bro. We're gonna show you all of the joyous sights and sounds that the Mile High City has to offer. You might even pop your cherry.
Roger: I'm not a virgin, Bobby.
Bobby: Yeah but you ain't ever busted a nut like this before, my man. These bitches ain't the hood rats that you're used to back home in Bridgeport. These bitches got strokes for the pokes and tokes for the chokes.
Roger: I'm not sure what that means.
Bobby: You're about to find out.
Roger hesitates at first but loosens up as his brother continues to pressure him. Finally he relents. He pulls on his Timberlands and grabs his Carhartt jacket. Odin returns with DeVito at his side, toilet paper stuck to the bottom of Danny's shoe.
DeVito: Let's hit it, boys. Danny needs to get his rocks off. Have you seen my wife? I married a goblin.
Odin: That's why you never marry the poon, my man.
DeVito: Shit where were you thirty years ago?
They exit the hotel suite. The door is shuttered behind them. The toilet paper from DeVito's shoe is left behind on the floor. The shit stain on the paper bears a strong resemblance to Sarah Twilight. Blood streams down Twilight's nose. A foreboding?
