"Poonglourious Basterds" (A Thickness Joint)
Dec 6, 2013 12:19:18 GMT -5
Logan, Jonny Fly, and 2 more like this
Post by Deleted on Dec 6, 2013 12:19:18 GMT -5
Chapter I: "Of Human Decay (The Post-Holiday Blues)"
"A hypnotic world of human decay. A hypnotic world of human decay. A hypnotic world... of human decay."
The Mayor of New York City quietly chants the phrase to himself as he suckles on a tallboy vodka cocktail, a meal of chicken fingers and dipping sauce sitting in front of him upon the counter top. Bobby Cairo sits by himself in a bar in Manhattan, hours removed from a terse budget negotiation with members of the city council. During the meeting Cairo insisted upon increased focus on public education - namely improving upon performance in the city's slacking public schools as well as increasing funds for after-school programs so that children of low-income families might have a productive means of amusing themselves that didn't include playing with guns and drugs.
Cairo: These career politicians. What do they understand?
Indeed. All that the Democrats and Republicans wanted to discuss was a means of gouging the city's overburdened taxpayers with increased penalties for parking violations and a hike to the city's already outrageous property taxes. Just in time for Christmas and the New Year, of course. This is not justice. This is not even human. This is the creature from the unhallowed lagoon. This is depravity that exists far beyond an intelligent man's comprehension - an outlier wallowing in a morass of weakness and dependency. Cairo, the duly elected Communist, will get through to these clowns. He will make them understand. In due time. He won't have to threaten them. He won't have to beg or plead with them. He will make them see the light as he has so many others lo these many years inside of wrestling rings and master bedrooms across the great divide.
The bartender, a curly-haired Jew of middle aged and middle class existence, empathizes with Cairo. Moe, as Cairo knows him, was a Communist long before The Thickness made it popular to advocate for the far-left agenda. Moe was there when Reagan told Gorbachev to tear down the wall. Moe urged Gorbachev to build more walls. Walls to keep out the horrid capitalist influences of the consumerist pagan West. Gorbachev did not listen. The motherland is still paying the price for his petulant kowtowing.
Moe: Do you remember Gorbachev, Mr. Cairo?
Cairo slumps further into his leather cushioned barstool. His face appears sad, and a bit dead. Those blue eyes though... they show life, life that is being stifled by bureaucratic doldrums. He nods.
Cairo: Ay. Gorbachev could have been a great man, a hero to the cause. Instead he turned his back on us during our darkest hour. I will never be Gorbachev. I will never embrace his callous ushering in of Western barbarism, selling out the proletariat for a couple of extra Yankee dollars upon the tip of his anti-thickness. That is to say that the man's penis was as tiny as his scruples were barren.
Moe the Jew bartender nods his head. He views Cairo for what he is: A like-minded comrade with the unflinching conscience of a ticking bomb. This is what Moe has longed for. This is what the city of New York has bled for. Riots have engulfed this city for generations that were far less heralded and spoken for. This is not to say that today's youth is so much smarter, talented or even ambitious. But the sacrifices of those who now lie in the ground as bones in undecadent boxes have allowed Cairo to seize his throne and lead by example rather than rhetoric. The same is true for the modern day state of Wrestling Championship Federation.
Cairo: Moe, do you understand something? I can call myself the great man, the powerful man, the rightful disciple of his Lord and Savior "The Nature Boy" Ric Flair. But it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.
Cairo licks his lips, absorbing the fruitful excess of a humble pie that he is only beginning to taste.
Cairo: I must be willing to sacrifice all selfish inhibitions; the desire for this money, the desire for this poon, the desire for even so much as this championship glory. It means nothing if I end up like Sarah Twilight. Sarah Twilight stated that myself and the remainder of The Thickness was banned from SLAM in Corpus Christi, Texas because of actions unruly to her system. She took a stance of moral indignation, stating that Cairo and The Like were blaspheming her reputation for firm leadership and stout bosom delivered upright and erect for the ravenous public. I...
Cairo almost whimpers with glee at this posturing from Twilight - a beast of a woman who manages to draw Cairo's ire with increasing volume each and every passing week.
Cairo: It was a cowardly gesture on Twilight's part, yet The Thickness chose not to crash the party. Of course we could have taken the pandering capitalistic positioning: "Sarah Twilight banned The Thickness from SLAM? Fuck banning us. Sarah can't even pay The Thickness to appear on SLAM! She can't pay us to wrestle these worthless husks of bloviating gobbledy gook who tarnish this company week in and out with their ineptitude. We make that A-ROD money! We make that Robinson Cano money! Pay a Thickness! Pay a Thickness, Sarah! The Thickness don't work for free!" But the truth of the matter is... our goals and objectives were accomplished without so much as setting foot in the arena on Sunday Night. Our absence spoke to Sarah's invertebrate nature. She did not book The Thickness because she witnessed what we achieved the previous week in Denver, Colorado under her mysterious pot luck circumstances.
Cairo dips a bulging nugget of chicken finger into a zesty sauce and pops the breaded poultry into his mouth. The taste is delicious, rejuvenating... galvanizing sustenance for a downtrodden Godfather.
Cairo: Sarah is attempting to dumb down the public, bamboozle them with a smear campaign against all who rise in opposition to her draconian agenda. The people are much smarter than Sarah credits them for being. They recognize her underhanded tactics for what they are. To call it bullshit is a cliche. This is far more than that. Sarah is attempting intellectual genocide. "Why isn't my plan working?" She beckons with this line of questioning time and again.
Cairo drinks of vodka cocktail, whetting his palette and opening further pathways to His supreme insight. Moe listens intently, elbow planted on the counter, rag in hand as he distractedly wipes down smudges from the polished wooden veneer.
Cairo: Time and time again Sarah kneels before her pagan altar, built in tribute to the grimy legacy of Belial, and she begs him for the knowledge and the insight. "Why, Father? Why can I not defeat The Thickness? Why can I not bring their legacy and their vast expansive greatness tumbling down like I've done with so many others?" Belial smiles. He truly smiles from deep inside with all of the giddiness of the pervert at the park. Belial enjoys witnessing the tried and true torment of his children. Belial is unlike The Godfather for this and so many other reasons. Belial speaks to Sarah: "My child, thee are facing an opposition that thee have never encountered henceforth. These are the endtimes for thee and thine legacy if thou art not taught in the ways of the thickness."
Cairo runs fingers through his meaty hamhock of oily black hair.
Cairo: She postulates the question: "How, Father? How can I be schooled in these manners? I am most unthick!" Belial replies: "This is true, my child. Thou art the most unthickest of the unthick. And so thy empire will soon lie in ruins." She cries as young girls cry when their hearts are broken. She does not weep like the Jesus Christ Superstar once upon the crucifix. Jesus wept openly for a society that had abandoned its hopes for salvation. Sarah is the contradiction - her tears flow so freely as epitaph to her own horrid agenda, an agenda of self-serving perversion, an ode to her fallacy of self-supposed greatness.
Moe: Sarah's witchcraft falls short. Falls at the feet of The Thickness. Yet you make a conscious effort to never overlook the dangers of such a wounded she-devil?
Cairo swishes the remnants of adult beverage in his glass, drinks the last bit down. Signals for a refresher. Moe abides his request.
Cairo: I recognize these inherent dangers, Moe. Sarah is a desperate woman. These are indeed desperate times for her. Last week she bans The Thickness from the arena which hosted SLAM. This week she books us to face The Dream Team in her SLAM main event. Odin Balfore and Robert Cairo defend their tag team championships against Jonny Fly and Steve Orbit. And why not? It's a decent concept. Sarah believes that a Dream Team championship victory over The Thickness will advance her sphere of domination in WCF. I disagree. I don't believe that Fly and Orbit are subservient to Twilight. I believe they simply take advantage of her adolescent naivete for purposes of advancing their own capitalist addendums. Now if I'm right that's bad news for Sarah, correct?
Moe nods his head in a studious and carefully concerned manner. He takes to polishing some drinking glasses with that same rag from earlier.
Cairo: This means that if her plan to dethrone The Thickness proves successful then she's fucked. However, consider the alternative: If The Thickness shall reign victoriously in this Las Vegas SLAM production, then we will have defeated the self-proclaimed "Dream Team" and foiled Sarah's last great gasp at dethroning us. What shall transpire at this stage? Shall Sarah drop to her knees in front of The Godfather and The All-Father and offer us sexual gratification as recompense for achieving our noblest of deeds? Please, bitch. You ain't Rihanna. You ain't even a J. Alba. You couldn't handle this thickness if it was tied down, tweaked out, bucked up and saddled out.
Moe has himself a grand laugh, his joy echoing through the room like sweet music from the negro soul singers of yesteryear.
Moe: It sounds as though Ms. Twilight has bitten off more than she ever bargained for, Mr. Mayor.
Bobby Cairo winks at cha.
Cairo: And indeed she has, Moe. Indeed she has.
The door to the bar swings open. Stiletto heels pierce the threshold of the establishment, accentuating shapely legs and a dashing hind quarter.
Chapter II: "Of Bavarian Cream (The Post-Holiday Razzleberry)"
Dunkin' Donuts.
The midnight prowl of the city streets howl for justice and Bavarian Cream. The sweet cream of American freedoms and deep fried confections. You decide which is which. The coffee shop was empty, albeit for the few clerks behind the service counter. They wipe and mop, heckle and joke. The lone enforcer of this city sits in a booth with a large black hot coffee on the table in front of him; steam escaping like so many Steve McQueen's before it. The Bavarian cream doughnut lies silently on a napkin, clinging to hopes and dreams that it won't be eaten on this night.
Odin Balfore, New York City's chief of police. Self appointed.
Life is good.
Officer Balfore sits and waits, the static from his radio fading in and out to the hop of Latin music. He sits there intently, knowing that any moment the city might just need him. He eyes the Bavarian cream doughnut but fakes it out with another sip from his large black coffee. Fifth to be exact. This shit was the real dream team. Late at night, in the heart of the city that loves you. Enjoying a simple brew and heart warming confection that is America embodied. But those coffees, whoa, they have a way of catching up to yah. The cold sweat dews up on the brow of the Asgardian All-Father. His bladder is feeling the effects of the joe, that Poon Guinean Kona blend. The only way to drink your coffee is with a lump of Poon Guinean coke to liven up the blood. Odin points to his doughnut with a glare before getting up to make his way over to the bathroom, surveying the room first for any suspicious activity.
Twenty minutes later, the chief of police emerges from his coffee shop pit stop and returns to his doughnut. Before he can sit back down, one of the young shits that don't know what respect means, decides that it would be a great idea to speak to Odin.
Clerk: Guy, what are you doin?
Odin turns with a sip of his coffee.
Odin: You speak to me?
Clerk: Yah, you. You've been sitting here for like two hours just listenin to static on that – that thing and staring at a doughnut.
Odin: Do you know who I am?
Clerk: Yah, another one of New York's craziest.
Some more of that Latin shit hits the airways, breaking the tension of the moment.
Odin: I'm Odin Balfore, co founder of Poon Guinea, and new chief of police. I'm keeping this city and more importantly- you little shits- safe.
Clerk: From crazies like you- it's not working.
Odin nods slightly.
Odin: I see.
Odin walks over towards the counter, quickly throwing hot coffee at the ignorant clerk and hopping the counter to deliver some street justice.
Odin: Stop resisting!
WHAM!
Odin: Stop resisting!
WHAM!
Female clerk: Stop it! Stop! He's not resisting!
Odin jumps up off the guy and gets in the female clerk's face.
Odin: Bitch, you want some too? Fuckin smash that poon. Fuckin smash ya face!
The female clerk falls to the floor in the fetal position and sobs.
Odin goes back to his booth seat and starts to eat his doughnut like nothing happened.
Odin: This doughnut ain't shit, either!
Odin downs his coffee.
Odin: I take the job to keep these streets safe, clean, orderly. Away from all that is unthick and this is how you repay me? With stale doughnuts? This city is on the verge of being overrun by Thick-ni pretenders and you give to your protectors, inferior baked goods? Blasphemous! Bunch of Capitalistic heathens- all of you! First Twilight with that queer ass ban from Slam!, bitch don't even bribe us not to show up and now this dream team? Dream Team!? HA! Thickness is on a roll- steam rollin over all kinds of faggotry. Ain't nobody stoppin us. You kids stop your fuckin crying. Bunch of S-PAC jobbers. There are two things that are undeniable.
1.) Jonny Fly ain't nothin but a stank ass fart in the breeze compared to The Godfather of Professional Wrestling Bobby Cairo.
2.) Steve Orbit can't buy a win against Odin Balfore, even with that half million bullshit bounty on The Thickness's heads.
You may not know it now, you may not see it. But we in our domination of WCF are its saviors. We are the saviors of NYC as well. Now you may think to yourself, “but Odin, you're not even the chief of Police.” You're right. I'm not. I'm the mawtha fuckin captain of The Guard. The secret Communist police force that works quietly in this city. Racist punks up in here- most unthick. Communism hates all- equally. The Dream Team, the next installment of Sarah Twilight's bogus puppetry. They know what they're up against. They cannot deny it. Just like all others before them, they will give The Thickness their due. Lighting up a division, like that of no other in the past three years. We're the real dream team. They just be some pretenders, perpetrating a fraud and Odin Balfore will bring them to justice.
Odin holds up his radio.
Odin: And I'm just waiting on that very call. Now be good little minimum wage slaves and whip me up another coffee.
Bitches scramble... BITCHES SCRAMBLE to get this man, THIS GOD Balfore his java.
Chapter III: "Searchin' With My Good Eye (My Killing Eye)"
A wistful enthusiasm carries the woman through the bar, her feet navigating the tiled floor with a keen knowledge. She's been here before. This is special for her. A place where she will go to lose herself in the spirit of the season. Is she glum as Cairo was when he sat upon that stool engaged in a rhythmic chant aghast a world that he so desires to remedy? This is not apparent. She hides her emotions well. Better than her mentor, that is for certain. This is Erin Robbins.
Cairo glances at the fetching beauty of the SLAM color commentator. Her features are delicate yet subtly imposing, like snow coating a picturesque lake, guiding you further, yet when you step onto the surface you break through and find yourself pulled into the murky waters below the ice. This is your death trap, your watery grave. This is Erin Robbins. Cairo of course is caught offguard by her presence. Is it mere happenstance, or was this coordinated? Has the gelding babe been following him, hoping to exact some measure of pliability for Sarah's plan to disarm and dethrone The Thickness? This too does not unveil itself. Possibly so. Possibly no. Erin brushes past Cairo on her way to taking a seat at a dimly lit booth in the corner of the bar. She does not look toward Cairo at any point. Does not acknowledge his presence in any form or manner. Now he knows that she's up to something. Much like the ice that sits upon that lake, her icy exterior beckons to him. He yields. He walks over to the booth.
Cairo: You say you want a revolution--
Erin: Well-ell, you know we all want to change the world.
Cairo smiles slightly. She's good. She's very good. She still does not glance in his direction. She's like this... playful kitten that will soon bear its claws and prove to be a lioness. Cairo is wary of this as he sits down in the booth, across the table from Erin.
Erin: Were you invited to sit at my table?
Cairo obnoxiously raps his knuckles upon the table, appearing bored of this girl's foolishness.
Cairo: The Godfather does not need an invitation, woman. This is my city. You might have heard that I defeated the establishment, Mike Bloomberg's multi-billion dollar media empire? I am Mayor Cairo. Pleased to meet you, Erin Robbins.
Erin rolls her eyes. A stripe of hair falls down before her face. She blows it upwards. It retakes its place upon her skull, worn like a crown of thorns. But is she the Messiah or the Judas?
Erin: You are rambunctious, Mr. Mayor. And to be sure, we have made acquaintance at previous junctures. Several in fact. Several in time. I remember them all.
Cairo: A fascinating fact and I'm sure that they're impressed upon your very essence of being, Ms. Robbins. Acquaintance, yes. We've made it. Have we truly conversed, interacted... shot the shit? No. You don't let a man inside your dominion. Never have. Possibly never will.
Erin flags down the bosomy waitress, requests accoutrements of wine and fish sandwich. She might regret that once she has a chance to digest the fish. Then again if her stomach is iron wrought like her conscience...
Erin: Why do you care, Cairo? You yammer on for hours about smashing the poon this way and that. You're a parity of a parody. The Rihanna poon. The Selena Gomez poon. The Jennifer Beals poon--
Cairo: Uh. That's Jessica Biel poon. Although Jennifer Beals is not without her charms. Flashdance was a true coming of age saga. John Gable spoke on this.
Erin: There you go. So why me, Mr. Cairo? Just another conquest for your illustrious resume of poon that has been wasted, dislodged, murked out and buried at sea?
Cairo chuckles heartily at the silly woman. He imagines fondling her bosom, stroking her hair, inserting his thickness in her posterior. These are fleeting thoughts from a socially debasing posture. He relents, rubs his hands together, drinks a bit of his drink. He smiles.
Cairo: And this means you've thought it through, huh? Put a lot of contemplation through that noggin of yours. So, allow me to turn the tables, though I shall whether or not you approve: Why are you here? Why are you in Bobby Cairo's city?
Erin: Last I heard this was Jonny Fly's city.
The disdain rises through his person. Cairo offers his Devil's smile. Erin Robbins is walking upon a tightrope. T'would be such a shame were it to snap... like her pretty little neck, his hands performing that gruesome, murderous chore. He shakes the notion. Drinks some more drink. Her order arrives. She swizzles the wine and takes a sip.
Cairo: You've been misinformed, Robbins. Mayor Cairo does not negotiate with terrorists. Jonny Fly is not welcomed within these city limits. My chief of police has orders to shoot Fly on sight.
Erin: That's news to me.
Cairo: Many things are news to you, Erin Robbins. Many things fascinating as well. You're one of these women who snaps digitalized photos of her pussy and uploads them onto her Facebook stream.
She splashes her wine in his face.
Erin: How dare you? That is outrageous rhetoric on your behalf, sir!
He withdraws his kerchief from his jacket pocket and wipes the chardonnay from his person.
Cairo: Woman, I was speaking of your cat. I know you cat people are defensive, but good golly oh my.
Erin feels mighty a-foolish at her mistake.
Erin: Oh. I--Bobby, I apologize.
Cairo senses that Erin is softening up. He batters an eyebrow, eager to avoid showing his excitement but wishing to appear every bit as intense as his politico-wrestling persona.
Cairo: Bobby? So we've arrived upon a first name basis? That's good to know. Erin.
The word lofts from his lips like a volleyball from those sexy, oiled-up babes at the beach. He orders her another glass of wine to replace the one that she threw on him. She touches his hand.
Erin: Thank you. That's very sweet of you.
He throws money on the table to pay for the order, appearing for all the world as though he doesn't want to even touch those greenbacks. The money might not be evil, but the deeds that men perform to acquire it most certainly are. Capitalism...BLARGH!!
Cairo: Consider it to be an act of admiration. You're doing everything you can to avoid answering my question.
Erin: You're alluding to...
Cairo: Why are you in New York, Erin? What brings you to this capricious little hamlet?
Erin: I was told that a woman could feel at home here. And maybe this place is home for me. Maybe in some distant way, in an enigma of a starry eyed notion, this has always been my home. I'm not one to dream-- not too much anyway.
Cairo: Unless of course it amounts to The Dream Team?
Erin: I haven't the foggiest idea to what you're referring?
If she's acting then somebody might wish to awaken Lee Strasberg from his eternal slumber and inform him that he has a new pupil.
Cairo: I'm supposed to believe that Sarah Twilight didn't send you here in an attempt to subvert me with my title defense against Fly and Orbit less than a week away? Gullibility, woman. It ain't in Bobby Cairo's dictionary.
Cairo throws the book at her and threatens to walk way... forever. She beckons to him, grazing his thigh with the toe of her shoe, her eyes appealing to him in ways that only the most attractive women truly can.
Erin: I don't think you'll want to do that, Mr. Cairo.
He adjusts himself and his thickness. She slides closer to him. Their bodies intertwine, arms wrapped around waist and buttock, flesh waltzing upon a moonlit sonata. They are no longer in Moe's Tavern. At his advisement she did not consume the tuna sandwich. They are strolling through Central Park. She's eating one of those large funny New York pretzels covered in mustard, the fresh kind that one can purchase from a vendor. She is smiling in a way that we have never actually seen on SLAM or any WCF broadcasts for that matter. Cairo seems to be enjoying himself all the same. He regales Erin with his plans for the city, sweeping changes to education, law enforcement and the arts. Their eyes meet, then part, then meet again. They play grab-ass. They smile some more. Heroin junkies perform their artful brand of tai chi in the park. Frost crowns the neatly trimmed grass. The full moon casts an ominous glow on the proceedings. Somewhere in the city... menace is afoot.
She playfully slaps his hand away. He does not relent. She doesn't slap it away this time. He still does not relent.
Chapter IV: "The All Points Bulletin and Wet Nail Polish"
Chi Ling's Nail Salon. Chinatown. Chairman Mao Enterprises.
The newly appointed chief of the po-po's is workin undercover- deep undercover. Dragnet deep undercover. A blonde wing to cover up his graying age. A gigantic North Face pullover that screams for help, trying to cover his pecs. Those UGGly ass Ugg boots for his mammoth feet and those Yoga pants with JUICY on the ass. Those poor pants will be never the same again. They've seen some shit, man. That multiple pots of coffee and Bavarian cream shits. His Thickness bulges out like an anaconda around the tree of life, ready to give bitches the taste of the forbidden fruit. Police Chief Balfore is following up leads, hot leads that led him to Chink Chang Chong Town with that miso soup brand of sucky sucky style. Chi Ling's was quiet, near closing. You can get some of the hottest deals at Chi Ling's. The hottest deals, the hottest poon and the best drugs that a blowjob in the shadow of a dumpster can buy.
Odin sits at the Vietnamese salon that blends in nicely with all the other slanted eye establishments, ain't no one the wiser. His police radio still singing the static blues as Odin enjoyed the semi gloss polish and the Vietkong slang. Two women bicker back and forth, probably about fried rice and Godzilla. Definitely about motha fuckin Godzilla. They speak but he does not understand.
“This is the ugliest bitch I ever saw in my life.”
“Fuckin Homo's. He's got an Adam's apple the size of a melon.”
They just smile at him though, accusing him of such things in their native tongue. Odin knows a few languages but “chink walla walla,” is not one of them. Odin sits there, waiting for a call. A tip in the action that would put him on the case to purge those that rape this poor city.
Finally. The radio goes to life, if only for a sad song.
Radio: All cars, all cars. We have a Grand Theft of a vintage 1974 Cadillac Eldorado, from a tavern in Manhattan.
Odin's eyes light up. He reaches across the table and responds to the call.
Odin: Yah, This is Balfore. I'm on it. All cars stand down. The All-Father is on his way.
Odin throws his wig on the ground and heads out the door.
A short time later, Odin, now back in normal street cloths, arrives at Moe's Tavern. The car in question is conveniently missing but the owner of the establishment is suspiciously still there. Odin and Moe stand outside on the sidewalk as Odin begins grilling the bartender for information.
Odin: So Moe, what's your name?
Moe: It's Moe.
Odin: Moe--
Moe: Just Moe. I own this bar. I called the cops.
Odin: I noticed that. I also noticed that I'm the only cop that showed up.
Moe: Yah. What's up with that?
Odin: I! Will be asking the questions. I was told you called about a stolen car. Well ah, I don't see a car here so ah... How'd you know it was stolen?
Moe looks around in suspicion of the situation.
Moe: Am I on hidden camera? This isn't a joke.
Suddenly Moe's phone rings. He answers.
Moe: Moe's Tavern... Just a minute I'll check.
Moe pulls the phone away to ask Odin a question.
Moe: Do you know Amanda Hugginkiss? I'm lookin for Amanda Hugginkiss?
Odin raises an eyebrow. Moe realizes that one again he's been had and returns to the phone.
Moe: You little son of a bitch. When I find ya, I'll kill ya! I'll gut your bitch ass like a fish.
“HONEY BADGER DON'T GIVE A SHIT!”
CLICK!
Moe: Damn kids and their music. Do you see what I go through? Do you see the mental anguish?
Odin: So whose car was this?
Moe: The Mayor's car. Bobby Cairo.
Odin: Cairo? Why didn't you tell me?
Moe: I've been trying to tell you for like ten minutes. You just keep asking the same questions.
Odin: And what did these questions look like? Did they look Negro?
Moe: What?
Odin: How about effeminate Jew? Did it look very effeminate with the Jew factor hovering around a twelve?
Moe: Yea, yes? I don't think I – The question? Did the questions look negro?
Odin: Dream Team! Son of a bitch!
Radio: Possible suspect ID'd in that Cadillac theft. A Huggie Williams, located in Central Park.
Odin answers his radio.
Odin: Yah Dispatch, I'm on it.
Moe: What is it?
Odin: Tweeker in the park knows what happened to Bobby's car.
Moe: Awesome, let me get my brass knucks and I'll drive us down there! Heads are gunna roll!
Odin: No, no. It's fine. I ride alone.
Moe: You rode up here on a pretty pink bike with a bell and a Hello Kitty basket!
Odin: It's police issue!
Moe grapples with Odin's supreme irrationality. It's a losing battle. Oh look... it's beginning to rain. Moe sighs. Damn blue collar tweekers, he mutters to himself.
Chapter V: "Baby, I'll Be Your Everlasting Light"
A cascading euphoria of light and ecstasy washes over her body and smashes her poon. The buoyant penis. It slides in and out. In and out. In and out with a furor and a focus hitherto unaccounted for. Some women have been drilled more times than an Iraqi oilfield. They lose perspective on the matter. They forget what it means to be special, to be treated special, to be prized and cherished. We call this the "Britney Spears phenomenon". Work, bitch... indeed.
Erin Robbins is not Britney Spears. Erin is a woman of class and dignity with self-respect to boot. She does not lose focus of this even while being ravaged by the thickness, torn asunder by its grandeur and majesty. This is a forest hunter's delight and Bobby Cairo is the hunter supreme. He is the lead commander of these military forces that swell upon Erin Robbins' shore. She moans, adjusts her body, crinkles her face, bites the pillow, its gold betrothed tapestry. The organ laden classic rock spectacle of Deep Purple's "Perfect Strangers" provides the soundtrack upon a BOSE Soundwave. The penis pump continues its magic.
Cairo: What did you say earlier, Erin, about plans?
Erin: Plans have a way of changing, of shifting, of being altered by a chemistry and an alchemy that we have heretofore been unacquainted with.
Cairo: You spoke about our prior acquaintances when we were chatting about at Moe's Tavern. Is that how life has been for you, Erin? A series of acquaintances, never more than a passing moment in time, words spoken and faltered...
He flicks Newport ashes into a marble ashtray upon the nightstand, silken bedsheets covering their naked bodies where stars once collided, creating supernovas.
Cairo: The gesture of a grown man tempting a young girl with sugary coated treats and promises of puppies and ponies and a better life abroad?
Erin: A better life in Portugal, yes. How did you know? How could you know? Get out of my head, Bobby Cairo.
Cairo: I've seen the world a few times, Erin Robbins. Been around a few twenty-four hours. For an ignorant man I have accumulated some knowledge, learned some things, done some things with these hands and this pelvis. Sugary coated treats...
Cairo snickers.
Cairo: I've passed around my share. Was it on the up-and-up? I hardly remember. I hardly care to endeavor upon the memory. Those days are no longer lucid, no longer preferential. In this life we speak and we dance and we scheme like bank robbers and Ponzi schemers. Do you know the president of the United States, Barry Oak?
Erin flutters a bit in her heart, a solid Democrat since her youth. She tries not to let it show in the presence and in the bed of this Communist wunderkind.
Erin: You speak of Barack Obama?
Cairo: This is the one and the same, correct.
Cairo flicks more ashes and motorboats a bottle of whiskey, the fluids reaching his brain and enhancing his pleasures in chorus with this beautiful woman whom he has lusted for.
Erin: I have heard of him.
He doesn't want to break her fluttering heart, and yes-- he felt it. He felt it because he is the one who moved it in the first place. This is how the man in touch with his and her senses understands the woman.
Cairo: Barry Oak... well, he's a swell guy, Erin. One of the special ones.
He lied. Bobby Cairo lied. He lied to protect the woman. She snuggles him a bit but does not overdo it. He wouldn't buy it if she did. He would know something was amiss. Erin Robbins cannot have that. Not after the work that she's put in tonight.
Erin: I'm glad to hear that.
Cairo: So, speaking of plans. Was this evening planned, Erin? Did you plan on seducing the thickness, or was it a coincidence that you wore those heels and shook that ass and sauntered into Bobby Cairo's bar?
She gazes upon the ruby red heels that lie upon the ground next to her slinky black dress. She knew what she was doing of course. Knew exactly what she was doing all along, like a black girl knows when she walks upon the streets after midnight in a certain neighborhood. The ass was as good as got. And being exposed to Bobby Cairo... it wasn't even a question of time. This is the tyranny of hormones that even the greatest of the "great men" has succumbed to. A glimmer appears in Erin's good eye - her killing eye.
Erin: I could persuade you to believe whatever I want at this present time. Could I not?
And why not? She's already ingested the thickness. This was after previously ingesting champagne and steak and lobster dinner as Bobby Cairo's guest at Bobby Cairo's suite at the Plaza Hotel (itself a "gift" from a "friend" sympathetic to "The Cause").
Bobby Cairo: And why not? And why not, indeed. I don't have to believe it. I don't believe in tomsfoolery. But you can sell it. You can push it like the dope dealers pushing their product to the tai chi masters in the park.
Cairo glances to the alabaster ceiling. He shakes his head. Sleepiness combated by horniness, drunkenness thrown in for good measure. A hallucination? He could have swore that he saw her flash her Devil's smile out of the corner of his eye. Does it matter? She cannot harm him. He is Bobby Cairo. She is Erin Robbins. How can she possibly damage him? She is a grifter and a grimer and a gasoline coated rag but it amounts to little more than child's play in the wake of the thickness. Cairo's confidence remains unshaken.
Erin: How do you feel about the match?
Cairo pokes a brow skyward.
Cairo: To which match are you referring, dear Erin?
Erin: I think you know, Bobby. The magic? The martyrdom? No, no. It's not all so complicated. You speak in rhymes and hymns and move in the shadows of ancient suns, but you don't fool me. I know that you contemplate things such as Dream Team versus The Thickness.
Cairo smiles. He is amused by this impromptu interrogation.
Cairo: A thwack from my penis would silence you, woman, but I am actually enjoying this. You wish to gain a scoop, correct? You want the breaking story? Bobby Cairo speaks about Steve Orbit and Jonny Fly, the Erin Robbins exclusive?
Cairo salivates at the mere thought of bashing their skulls in with his tag team championship belt and ending their careers, their livelihoods and their lives.
Cairo: But what can be said? Jonny Fly is a terrorist. He is an enemy of the state. He will be defeated and summarily executed. Steve Orbit is Jonny Fly's accomplice. He will suffer the same fate. What you must understand, Erin, is that I see these so-called champions and superstars for what they truly are. These are not men. These are cowards. Opportunistic little heathens with hearts so black as night and corrupted values systems. It's horrible representation for WCF and the public at large. Kids don't need to see Fly and Orbit prancing around on national television promoting this farcical agenda of "I-gets-what-I-wants-when-I-wants-it-cuz-I-be-dat-dude". Candy coated cockamamie and a bullshit excuse for statesmen. That's all they are. Absolute blasphemy and putrefaction.
Cairo feigns a spit in the general direction of Orbit and Fly. He also flips a double bird in that same direction.
Cairo: What is this shit--
Cairo feels a vibration in his thighs. It is... not natural.
Cairo: Hold on, Erin. I have a phone call. Moe--what's goin on? I'm busy at the moment, my friend.
Moe: Bobby, I'm sorry to bother you, but you told me you were leaving your car out front and walking to the hotel with that girl, right?
Cairo: Of course, of course. Why is something the matter? Did something happen to my baby?
Moe: She, uh--I don't know how to put it delicately so I'm just gonna say it: She's gone, Bobby. She's long gone. I mean she's Splitsville.
Images race through Bobby Cairo's mind; he thinks about the Vietnamese ladies in front of the nail salon, eating noodles while wailing about on trash can lids and shrieking like phantoms. He envisions the crackhead in the park who's always dressed like a ninja and practicing his kung fu. He remembers snow falling upon cedars in the country when he was a small boy. Was Bobby's car stolen by hopheads and downers, or is there a more sinister motive involved?
Moe: Bobby? Bobby? Are you there?
Cairo: Moe. I am here. Do you have any news for me?
Moe: Yeah. Uh. Your car's been stolen. Don't you have LoJack or any of that shit, Bobby?
Bobby: Of course not. Not on my baby. That stuff is all just a capitalist ruse to defraud the working man of his hard earned rubles. This is just--oh Odin, I can't believe this. Erin, something terrible has happened--
He turns to his side and finds that the other half of his bed is empty. Bobby Cairo is sitting in his hotel suite. Alone. Abandoned. Astonished. Cairo drops his phone and drops to his knees. The feeling of betrayal is palpable. His car is his baby. Tina Machina, a vintage 1974 Cadillac Eldorado. A marvel of engineering from a bygone era when America's auto workers were celebrated for their work ethic, their ambition and their sacrifice to the cause of American Exceptionalism. They were stabbed in the back - just like Cairo.
Cairo: That whore.
A whore named Robbins. Cairo sits and stares at the wall. No understanding. No comprehension. His thoughts bare like margarine containers in a poor man's cupboard. Words zigzagging in his brain. Her words. Words that pierce him as daggers do. His feelings raw and frayed. Betrayed. Bamboozled. Hoodwinked. Sold out. Shipped out. Flimflammed and swerved. Why? He contemplates the question of why, who and how. Why did someone steal his car? Who did the dubious deed? How could this happen under his nose, in his city?
Alcohol floods his brain cells. He falls into a stupor. He closes his eyes. He opens them. Bloodshot ventricles emerge. He connects the dots. There's only one person who could be pulling the strings of this conspiracy. Only one she-devil who could have issued the order. It's so perfectly obvious, so simple that it's stupid. This was the horrible work of Sarah Twilight, Erin Robbins acting as her proxy. The motive? Once again, the answer is apparent, Twilight can't beat Cairo in the ring. Can't get to him with anything she's thrown at him. She decided to hit him where it hurts. She went after his family. She carnapped Tina Machine. This will not stand. This will not be tolerated. Vengeance shall belong to Bobby Cairo. Cairo reaches under his pillow and grabs his Glock. While he's at it he grabs his bottle of whiskey. Booze, bullets and bloodshot eyes. This will not end well for Sarah Twilight or the Dream Team.
"A hypnotic world of human decay. A hypnotic world of human decay. A hypnotic world... of human decay."
The Mayor of New York City quietly chants the phrase to himself as he suckles on a tallboy vodka cocktail, a meal of chicken fingers and dipping sauce sitting in front of him upon the counter top. Bobby Cairo sits by himself in a bar in Manhattan, hours removed from a terse budget negotiation with members of the city council. During the meeting Cairo insisted upon increased focus on public education - namely improving upon performance in the city's slacking public schools as well as increasing funds for after-school programs so that children of low-income families might have a productive means of amusing themselves that didn't include playing with guns and drugs.
Cairo: These career politicians. What do they understand?
Indeed. All that the Democrats and Republicans wanted to discuss was a means of gouging the city's overburdened taxpayers with increased penalties for parking violations and a hike to the city's already outrageous property taxes. Just in time for Christmas and the New Year, of course. This is not justice. This is not even human. This is the creature from the unhallowed lagoon. This is depravity that exists far beyond an intelligent man's comprehension - an outlier wallowing in a morass of weakness and dependency. Cairo, the duly elected Communist, will get through to these clowns. He will make them understand. In due time. He won't have to threaten them. He won't have to beg or plead with them. He will make them see the light as he has so many others lo these many years inside of wrestling rings and master bedrooms across the great divide.
The bartender, a curly-haired Jew of middle aged and middle class existence, empathizes with Cairo. Moe, as Cairo knows him, was a Communist long before The Thickness made it popular to advocate for the far-left agenda. Moe was there when Reagan told Gorbachev to tear down the wall. Moe urged Gorbachev to build more walls. Walls to keep out the horrid capitalist influences of the consumerist pagan West. Gorbachev did not listen. The motherland is still paying the price for his petulant kowtowing.
Moe: Do you remember Gorbachev, Mr. Cairo?
Cairo slumps further into his leather cushioned barstool. His face appears sad, and a bit dead. Those blue eyes though... they show life, life that is being stifled by bureaucratic doldrums. He nods.
Cairo: Ay. Gorbachev could have been a great man, a hero to the cause. Instead he turned his back on us during our darkest hour. I will never be Gorbachev. I will never embrace his callous ushering in of Western barbarism, selling out the proletariat for a couple of extra Yankee dollars upon the tip of his anti-thickness. That is to say that the man's penis was as tiny as his scruples were barren.
Moe the Jew bartender nods his head. He views Cairo for what he is: A like-minded comrade with the unflinching conscience of a ticking bomb. This is what Moe has longed for. This is what the city of New York has bled for. Riots have engulfed this city for generations that were far less heralded and spoken for. This is not to say that today's youth is so much smarter, talented or even ambitious. But the sacrifices of those who now lie in the ground as bones in undecadent boxes have allowed Cairo to seize his throne and lead by example rather than rhetoric. The same is true for the modern day state of Wrestling Championship Federation.
Cairo: Moe, do you understand something? I can call myself the great man, the powerful man, the rightful disciple of his Lord and Savior "The Nature Boy" Ric Flair. But it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.
Cairo licks his lips, absorbing the fruitful excess of a humble pie that he is only beginning to taste.
Cairo: I must be willing to sacrifice all selfish inhibitions; the desire for this money, the desire for this poon, the desire for even so much as this championship glory. It means nothing if I end up like Sarah Twilight. Sarah Twilight stated that myself and the remainder of The Thickness was banned from SLAM in Corpus Christi, Texas because of actions unruly to her system. She took a stance of moral indignation, stating that Cairo and The Like were blaspheming her reputation for firm leadership and stout bosom delivered upright and erect for the ravenous public. I...
Cairo almost whimpers with glee at this posturing from Twilight - a beast of a woman who manages to draw Cairo's ire with increasing volume each and every passing week.
Cairo: It was a cowardly gesture on Twilight's part, yet The Thickness chose not to crash the party. Of course we could have taken the pandering capitalistic positioning: "Sarah Twilight banned The Thickness from SLAM? Fuck banning us. Sarah can't even pay The Thickness to appear on SLAM! She can't pay us to wrestle these worthless husks of bloviating gobbledy gook who tarnish this company week in and out with their ineptitude. We make that A-ROD money! We make that Robinson Cano money! Pay a Thickness! Pay a Thickness, Sarah! The Thickness don't work for free!" But the truth of the matter is... our goals and objectives were accomplished without so much as setting foot in the arena on Sunday Night. Our absence spoke to Sarah's invertebrate nature. She did not book The Thickness because she witnessed what we achieved the previous week in Denver, Colorado under her mysterious pot luck circumstances.
Cairo dips a bulging nugget of chicken finger into a zesty sauce and pops the breaded poultry into his mouth. The taste is delicious, rejuvenating... galvanizing sustenance for a downtrodden Godfather.
Cairo: Sarah is attempting to dumb down the public, bamboozle them with a smear campaign against all who rise in opposition to her draconian agenda. The people are much smarter than Sarah credits them for being. They recognize her underhanded tactics for what they are. To call it bullshit is a cliche. This is far more than that. Sarah is attempting intellectual genocide. "Why isn't my plan working?" She beckons with this line of questioning time and again.
Cairo drinks of vodka cocktail, whetting his palette and opening further pathways to His supreme insight. Moe listens intently, elbow planted on the counter, rag in hand as he distractedly wipes down smudges from the polished wooden veneer.
Cairo: Time and time again Sarah kneels before her pagan altar, built in tribute to the grimy legacy of Belial, and she begs him for the knowledge and the insight. "Why, Father? Why can I not defeat The Thickness? Why can I not bring their legacy and their vast expansive greatness tumbling down like I've done with so many others?" Belial smiles. He truly smiles from deep inside with all of the giddiness of the pervert at the park. Belial enjoys witnessing the tried and true torment of his children. Belial is unlike The Godfather for this and so many other reasons. Belial speaks to Sarah: "My child, thee are facing an opposition that thee have never encountered henceforth. These are the endtimes for thee and thine legacy if thou art not taught in the ways of the thickness."
Cairo runs fingers through his meaty hamhock of oily black hair.
Cairo: She postulates the question: "How, Father? How can I be schooled in these manners? I am most unthick!" Belial replies: "This is true, my child. Thou art the most unthickest of the unthick. And so thy empire will soon lie in ruins." She cries as young girls cry when their hearts are broken. She does not weep like the Jesus Christ Superstar once upon the crucifix. Jesus wept openly for a society that had abandoned its hopes for salvation. Sarah is the contradiction - her tears flow so freely as epitaph to her own horrid agenda, an agenda of self-serving perversion, an ode to her fallacy of self-supposed greatness.
Moe: Sarah's witchcraft falls short. Falls at the feet of The Thickness. Yet you make a conscious effort to never overlook the dangers of such a wounded she-devil?
Cairo swishes the remnants of adult beverage in his glass, drinks the last bit down. Signals for a refresher. Moe abides his request.
Cairo: I recognize these inherent dangers, Moe. Sarah is a desperate woman. These are indeed desperate times for her. Last week she bans The Thickness from the arena which hosted SLAM. This week she books us to face The Dream Team in her SLAM main event. Odin Balfore and Robert Cairo defend their tag team championships against Jonny Fly and Steve Orbit. And why not? It's a decent concept. Sarah believes that a Dream Team championship victory over The Thickness will advance her sphere of domination in WCF. I disagree. I don't believe that Fly and Orbit are subservient to Twilight. I believe they simply take advantage of her adolescent naivete for purposes of advancing their own capitalist addendums. Now if I'm right that's bad news for Sarah, correct?
Moe nods his head in a studious and carefully concerned manner. He takes to polishing some drinking glasses with that same rag from earlier.
Cairo: This means that if her plan to dethrone The Thickness proves successful then she's fucked. However, consider the alternative: If The Thickness shall reign victoriously in this Las Vegas SLAM production, then we will have defeated the self-proclaimed "Dream Team" and foiled Sarah's last great gasp at dethroning us. What shall transpire at this stage? Shall Sarah drop to her knees in front of The Godfather and The All-Father and offer us sexual gratification as recompense for achieving our noblest of deeds? Please, bitch. You ain't Rihanna. You ain't even a J. Alba. You couldn't handle this thickness if it was tied down, tweaked out, bucked up and saddled out.
Moe has himself a grand laugh, his joy echoing through the room like sweet music from the negro soul singers of yesteryear.
Moe: It sounds as though Ms. Twilight has bitten off more than she ever bargained for, Mr. Mayor.
Bobby Cairo winks at cha.
Cairo: And indeed she has, Moe. Indeed she has.
The door to the bar swings open. Stiletto heels pierce the threshold of the establishment, accentuating shapely legs and a dashing hind quarter.
Chapter II: "Of Bavarian Cream (The Post-Holiday Razzleberry)"
Dunkin' Donuts.
The midnight prowl of the city streets howl for justice and Bavarian Cream. The sweet cream of American freedoms and deep fried confections. You decide which is which. The coffee shop was empty, albeit for the few clerks behind the service counter. They wipe and mop, heckle and joke. The lone enforcer of this city sits in a booth with a large black hot coffee on the table in front of him; steam escaping like so many Steve McQueen's before it. The Bavarian cream doughnut lies silently on a napkin, clinging to hopes and dreams that it won't be eaten on this night.
Odin Balfore, New York City's chief of police. Self appointed.
Life is good.
Officer Balfore sits and waits, the static from his radio fading in and out to the hop of Latin music. He sits there intently, knowing that any moment the city might just need him. He eyes the Bavarian cream doughnut but fakes it out with another sip from his large black coffee. Fifth to be exact. This shit was the real dream team. Late at night, in the heart of the city that loves you. Enjoying a simple brew and heart warming confection that is America embodied. But those coffees, whoa, they have a way of catching up to yah. The cold sweat dews up on the brow of the Asgardian All-Father. His bladder is feeling the effects of the joe, that Poon Guinean Kona blend. The only way to drink your coffee is with a lump of Poon Guinean coke to liven up the blood. Odin points to his doughnut with a glare before getting up to make his way over to the bathroom, surveying the room first for any suspicious activity.
Twenty minutes later, the chief of police emerges from his coffee shop pit stop and returns to his doughnut. Before he can sit back down, one of the young shits that don't know what respect means, decides that it would be a great idea to speak to Odin.
Clerk: Guy, what are you doin?
Odin turns with a sip of his coffee.
Odin: You speak to me?
Clerk: Yah, you. You've been sitting here for like two hours just listenin to static on that – that thing and staring at a doughnut.
Odin: Do you know who I am?
Clerk: Yah, another one of New York's craziest.
Some more of that Latin shit hits the airways, breaking the tension of the moment.
Odin: I'm Odin Balfore, co founder of Poon Guinea, and new chief of police. I'm keeping this city and more importantly- you little shits- safe.
Clerk: From crazies like you- it's not working.
Odin nods slightly.
Odin: I see.
Odin walks over towards the counter, quickly throwing hot coffee at the ignorant clerk and hopping the counter to deliver some street justice.
Odin: Stop resisting!
WHAM!
Odin: Stop resisting!
WHAM!
Female clerk: Stop it! Stop! He's not resisting!
Odin jumps up off the guy and gets in the female clerk's face.
Odin: Bitch, you want some too? Fuckin smash that poon. Fuckin smash ya face!
The female clerk falls to the floor in the fetal position and sobs.
Odin goes back to his booth seat and starts to eat his doughnut like nothing happened.
Odin: This doughnut ain't shit, either!
Odin downs his coffee.
Odin: I take the job to keep these streets safe, clean, orderly. Away from all that is unthick and this is how you repay me? With stale doughnuts? This city is on the verge of being overrun by Thick-ni pretenders and you give to your protectors, inferior baked goods? Blasphemous! Bunch of Capitalistic heathens- all of you! First Twilight with that queer ass ban from Slam!, bitch don't even bribe us not to show up and now this dream team? Dream Team!? HA! Thickness is on a roll- steam rollin over all kinds of faggotry. Ain't nobody stoppin us. You kids stop your fuckin crying. Bunch of S-PAC jobbers. There are two things that are undeniable.
1.) Jonny Fly ain't nothin but a stank ass fart in the breeze compared to The Godfather of Professional Wrestling Bobby Cairo.
2.) Steve Orbit can't buy a win against Odin Balfore, even with that half million bullshit bounty on The Thickness's heads.
You may not know it now, you may not see it. But we in our domination of WCF are its saviors. We are the saviors of NYC as well. Now you may think to yourself, “but Odin, you're not even the chief of Police.” You're right. I'm not. I'm the mawtha fuckin captain of The Guard. The secret Communist police force that works quietly in this city. Racist punks up in here- most unthick. Communism hates all- equally. The Dream Team, the next installment of Sarah Twilight's bogus puppetry. They know what they're up against. They cannot deny it. Just like all others before them, they will give The Thickness their due. Lighting up a division, like that of no other in the past three years. We're the real dream team. They just be some pretenders, perpetrating a fraud and Odin Balfore will bring them to justice.
Odin holds up his radio.
Odin: And I'm just waiting on that very call. Now be good little minimum wage slaves and whip me up another coffee.
Bitches scramble... BITCHES SCRAMBLE to get this man, THIS GOD Balfore his java.
Chapter III: "Searchin' With My Good Eye (My Killing Eye)"
A wistful enthusiasm carries the woman through the bar, her feet navigating the tiled floor with a keen knowledge. She's been here before. This is special for her. A place where she will go to lose herself in the spirit of the season. Is she glum as Cairo was when he sat upon that stool engaged in a rhythmic chant aghast a world that he so desires to remedy? This is not apparent. She hides her emotions well. Better than her mentor, that is for certain. This is Erin Robbins.
Cairo glances at the fetching beauty of the SLAM color commentator. Her features are delicate yet subtly imposing, like snow coating a picturesque lake, guiding you further, yet when you step onto the surface you break through and find yourself pulled into the murky waters below the ice. This is your death trap, your watery grave. This is Erin Robbins. Cairo of course is caught offguard by her presence. Is it mere happenstance, or was this coordinated? Has the gelding babe been following him, hoping to exact some measure of pliability for Sarah's plan to disarm and dethrone The Thickness? This too does not unveil itself. Possibly so. Possibly no. Erin brushes past Cairo on her way to taking a seat at a dimly lit booth in the corner of the bar. She does not look toward Cairo at any point. Does not acknowledge his presence in any form or manner. Now he knows that she's up to something. Much like the ice that sits upon that lake, her icy exterior beckons to him. He yields. He walks over to the booth.
Cairo: You say you want a revolution--
Erin: Well-ell, you know we all want to change the world.
Cairo smiles slightly. She's good. She's very good. She still does not glance in his direction. She's like this... playful kitten that will soon bear its claws and prove to be a lioness. Cairo is wary of this as he sits down in the booth, across the table from Erin.
Erin: Were you invited to sit at my table?
Cairo obnoxiously raps his knuckles upon the table, appearing bored of this girl's foolishness.
Cairo: The Godfather does not need an invitation, woman. This is my city. You might have heard that I defeated the establishment, Mike Bloomberg's multi-billion dollar media empire? I am Mayor Cairo. Pleased to meet you, Erin Robbins.
Erin rolls her eyes. A stripe of hair falls down before her face. She blows it upwards. It retakes its place upon her skull, worn like a crown of thorns. But is she the Messiah or the Judas?
Erin: You are rambunctious, Mr. Mayor. And to be sure, we have made acquaintance at previous junctures. Several in fact. Several in time. I remember them all.
Cairo: A fascinating fact and I'm sure that they're impressed upon your very essence of being, Ms. Robbins. Acquaintance, yes. We've made it. Have we truly conversed, interacted... shot the shit? No. You don't let a man inside your dominion. Never have. Possibly never will.
Erin flags down the bosomy waitress, requests accoutrements of wine and fish sandwich. She might regret that once she has a chance to digest the fish. Then again if her stomach is iron wrought like her conscience...
Erin: Why do you care, Cairo? You yammer on for hours about smashing the poon this way and that. You're a parity of a parody. The Rihanna poon. The Selena Gomez poon. The Jennifer Beals poon--
Cairo: Uh. That's Jessica Biel poon. Although Jennifer Beals is not without her charms. Flashdance was a true coming of age saga. John Gable spoke on this.
Erin: There you go. So why me, Mr. Cairo? Just another conquest for your illustrious resume of poon that has been wasted, dislodged, murked out and buried at sea?
Cairo chuckles heartily at the silly woman. He imagines fondling her bosom, stroking her hair, inserting his thickness in her posterior. These are fleeting thoughts from a socially debasing posture. He relents, rubs his hands together, drinks a bit of his drink. He smiles.
Cairo: And this means you've thought it through, huh? Put a lot of contemplation through that noggin of yours. So, allow me to turn the tables, though I shall whether or not you approve: Why are you here? Why are you in Bobby Cairo's city?
Erin: Last I heard this was Jonny Fly's city.
The disdain rises through his person. Cairo offers his Devil's smile. Erin Robbins is walking upon a tightrope. T'would be such a shame were it to snap... like her pretty little neck, his hands performing that gruesome, murderous chore. He shakes the notion. Drinks some more drink. Her order arrives. She swizzles the wine and takes a sip.
Cairo: You've been misinformed, Robbins. Mayor Cairo does not negotiate with terrorists. Jonny Fly is not welcomed within these city limits. My chief of police has orders to shoot Fly on sight.
Erin: That's news to me.
Cairo: Many things are news to you, Erin Robbins. Many things fascinating as well. You're one of these women who snaps digitalized photos of her pussy and uploads them onto her Facebook stream.
She splashes her wine in his face.
Erin: How dare you? That is outrageous rhetoric on your behalf, sir!
He withdraws his kerchief from his jacket pocket and wipes the chardonnay from his person.
Cairo: Woman, I was speaking of your cat. I know you cat people are defensive, but good golly oh my.
Erin feels mighty a-foolish at her mistake.
Erin: Oh. I--Bobby, I apologize.
Cairo senses that Erin is softening up. He batters an eyebrow, eager to avoid showing his excitement but wishing to appear every bit as intense as his politico-wrestling persona.
Cairo: Bobby? So we've arrived upon a first name basis? That's good to know. Erin.
The word lofts from his lips like a volleyball from those sexy, oiled-up babes at the beach. He orders her another glass of wine to replace the one that she threw on him. She touches his hand.
Erin: Thank you. That's very sweet of you.
He throws money on the table to pay for the order, appearing for all the world as though he doesn't want to even touch those greenbacks. The money might not be evil, but the deeds that men perform to acquire it most certainly are. Capitalism...BLARGH!!
Cairo: Consider it to be an act of admiration. You're doing everything you can to avoid answering my question.
Erin: You're alluding to...
Cairo: Why are you in New York, Erin? What brings you to this capricious little hamlet?
Erin: I was told that a woman could feel at home here. And maybe this place is home for me. Maybe in some distant way, in an enigma of a starry eyed notion, this has always been my home. I'm not one to dream-- not too much anyway.
Cairo: Unless of course it amounts to The Dream Team?
Erin: I haven't the foggiest idea to what you're referring?
If she's acting then somebody might wish to awaken Lee Strasberg from his eternal slumber and inform him that he has a new pupil.
Cairo: I'm supposed to believe that Sarah Twilight didn't send you here in an attempt to subvert me with my title defense against Fly and Orbit less than a week away? Gullibility, woman. It ain't in Bobby Cairo's dictionary.
Cairo throws the book at her and threatens to walk way... forever. She beckons to him, grazing his thigh with the toe of her shoe, her eyes appealing to him in ways that only the most attractive women truly can.
Erin: I don't think you'll want to do that, Mr. Cairo.
He adjusts himself and his thickness. She slides closer to him. Their bodies intertwine, arms wrapped around waist and buttock, flesh waltzing upon a moonlit sonata. They are no longer in Moe's Tavern. At his advisement she did not consume the tuna sandwich. They are strolling through Central Park. She's eating one of those large funny New York pretzels covered in mustard, the fresh kind that one can purchase from a vendor. She is smiling in a way that we have never actually seen on SLAM or any WCF broadcasts for that matter. Cairo seems to be enjoying himself all the same. He regales Erin with his plans for the city, sweeping changes to education, law enforcement and the arts. Their eyes meet, then part, then meet again. They play grab-ass. They smile some more. Heroin junkies perform their artful brand of tai chi in the park. Frost crowns the neatly trimmed grass. The full moon casts an ominous glow on the proceedings. Somewhere in the city... menace is afoot.
She playfully slaps his hand away. He does not relent. She doesn't slap it away this time. He still does not relent.
Chapter IV: "The All Points Bulletin and Wet Nail Polish"
Chi Ling's Nail Salon. Chinatown. Chairman Mao Enterprises.
The newly appointed chief of the po-po's is workin undercover- deep undercover. Dragnet deep undercover. A blonde wing to cover up his graying age. A gigantic North Face pullover that screams for help, trying to cover his pecs. Those UGGly ass Ugg boots for his mammoth feet and those Yoga pants with JUICY on the ass. Those poor pants will be never the same again. They've seen some shit, man. That multiple pots of coffee and Bavarian cream shits. His Thickness bulges out like an anaconda around the tree of life, ready to give bitches the taste of the forbidden fruit. Police Chief Balfore is following up leads, hot leads that led him to Chink Chang Chong Town with that miso soup brand of sucky sucky style. Chi Ling's was quiet, near closing. You can get some of the hottest deals at Chi Ling's. The hottest deals, the hottest poon and the best drugs that a blowjob in the shadow of a dumpster can buy.
Odin sits at the Vietnamese salon that blends in nicely with all the other slanted eye establishments, ain't no one the wiser. His police radio still singing the static blues as Odin enjoyed the semi gloss polish and the Vietkong slang. Two women bicker back and forth, probably about fried rice and Godzilla. Definitely about motha fuckin Godzilla. They speak but he does not understand.
“This is the ugliest bitch I ever saw in my life.”
“Fuckin Homo's. He's got an Adam's apple the size of a melon.”
They just smile at him though, accusing him of such things in their native tongue. Odin knows a few languages but “chink walla walla,” is not one of them. Odin sits there, waiting for a call. A tip in the action that would put him on the case to purge those that rape this poor city.
Finally. The radio goes to life, if only for a sad song.
Radio: All cars, all cars. We have a Grand Theft of a vintage 1974 Cadillac Eldorado, from a tavern in Manhattan.
Odin's eyes light up. He reaches across the table and responds to the call.
Odin: Yah, This is Balfore. I'm on it. All cars stand down. The All-Father is on his way.
Odin throws his wig on the ground and heads out the door.
A short time later, Odin, now back in normal street cloths, arrives at Moe's Tavern. The car in question is conveniently missing but the owner of the establishment is suspiciously still there. Odin and Moe stand outside on the sidewalk as Odin begins grilling the bartender for information.
Odin: So Moe, what's your name?
Moe: It's Moe.
Odin: Moe--
Moe: Just Moe. I own this bar. I called the cops.
Odin: I noticed that. I also noticed that I'm the only cop that showed up.
Moe: Yah. What's up with that?
Odin: I! Will be asking the questions. I was told you called about a stolen car. Well ah, I don't see a car here so ah... How'd you know it was stolen?
Moe looks around in suspicion of the situation.
Moe: Am I on hidden camera? This isn't a joke.
Suddenly Moe's phone rings. He answers.
Moe: Moe's Tavern... Just a minute I'll check.
Moe pulls the phone away to ask Odin a question.
Moe: Do you know Amanda Hugginkiss? I'm lookin for Amanda Hugginkiss?
Odin raises an eyebrow. Moe realizes that one again he's been had and returns to the phone.
Moe: You little son of a bitch. When I find ya, I'll kill ya! I'll gut your bitch ass like a fish.
“HONEY BADGER DON'T GIVE A SHIT!”
CLICK!
Moe: Damn kids and their music. Do you see what I go through? Do you see the mental anguish?
Odin: So whose car was this?
Moe: The Mayor's car. Bobby Cairo.
Odin: Cairo? Why didn't you tell me?
Moe: I've been trying to tell you for like ten minutes. You just keep asking the same questions.
Odin: And what did these questions look like? Did they look Negro?
Moe: What?
Odin: How about effeminate Jew? Did it look very effeminate with the Jew factor hovering around a twelve?
Moe: Yea, yes? I don't think I – The question? Did the questions look negro?
Odin: Dream Team! Son of a bitch!
Radio: Possible suspect ID'd in that Cadillac theft. A Huggie Williams, located in Central Park.
Odin answers his radio.
Odin: Yah Dispatch, I'm on it.
Moe: What is it?
Odin: Tweeker in the park knows what happened to Bobby's car.
Moe: Awesome, let me get my brass knucks and I'll drive us down there! Heads are gunna roll!
Odin: No, no. It's fine. I ride alone.
Moe: You rode up here on a pretty pink bike with a bell and a Hello Kitty basket!
Odin: It's police issue!
Moe grapples with Odin's supreme irrationality. It's a losing battle. Oh look... it's beginning to rain. Moe sighs. Damn blue collar tweekers, he mutters to himself.
Chapter V: "Baby, I'll Be Your Everlasting Light"
A cascading euphoria of light and ecstasy washes over her body and smashes her poon. The buoyant penis. It slides in and out. In and out. In and out with a furor and a focus hitherto unaccounted for. Some women have been drilled more times than an Iraqi oilfield. They lose perspective on the matter. They forget what it means to be special, to be treated special, to be prized and cherished. We call this the "Britney Spears phenomenon". Work, bitch... indeed.
Erin Robbins is not Britney Spears. Erin is a woman of class and dignity with self-respect to boot. She does not lose focus of this even while being ravaged by the thickness, torn asunder by its grandeur and majesty. This is a forest hunter's delight and Bobby Cairo is the hunter supreme. He is the lead commander of these military forces that swell upon Erin Robbins' shore. She moans, adjusts her body, crinkles her face, bites the pillow, its gold betrothed tapestry. The organ laden classic rock spectacle of Deep Purple's "Perfect Strangers" provides the soundtrack upon a BOSE Soundwave. The penis pump continues its magic.
Cairo: What did you say earlier, Erin, about plans?
Erin: Plans have a way of changing, of shifting, of being altered by a chemistry and an alchemy that we have heretofore been unacquainted with.
Cairo: You spoke about our prior acquaintances when we were chatting about at Moe's Tavern. Is that how life has been for you, Erin? A series of acquaintances, never more than a passing moment in time, words spoken and faltered...
He flicks Newport ashes into a marble ashtray upon the nightstand, silken bedsheets covering their naked bodies where stars once collided, creating supernovas.
Cairo: The gesture of a grown man tempting a young girl with sugary coated treats and promises of puppies and ponies and a better life abroad?
Erin: A better life in Portugal, yes. How did you know? How could you know? Get out of my head, Bobby Cairo.
Cairo: I've seen the world a few times, Erin Robbins. Been around a few twenty-four hours. For an ignorant man I have accumulated some knowledge, learned some things, done some things with these hands and this pelvis. Sugary coated treats...
Cairo snickers.
Cairo: I've passed around my share. Was it on the up-and-up? I hardly remember. I hardly care to endeavor upon the memory. Those days are no longer lucid, no longer preferential. In this life we speak and we dance and we scheme like bank robbers and Ponzi schemers. Do you know the president of the United States, Barry Oak?
Erin flutters a bit in her heart, a solid Democrat since her youth. She tries not to let it show in the presence and in the bed of this Communist wunderkind.
Erin: You speak of Barack Obama?
Cairo: This is the one and the same, correct.
Cairo flicks more ashes and motorboats a bottle of whiskey, the fluids reaching his brain and enhancing his pleasures in chorus with this beautiful woman whom he has lusted for.
Erin: I have heard of him.
He doesn't want to break her fluttering heart, and yes-- he felt it. He felt it because he is the one who moved it in the first place. This is how the man in touch with his and her senses understands the woman.
Cairo: Barry Oak... well, he's a swell guy, Erin. One of the special ones.
He lied. Bobby Cairo lied. He lied to protect the woman. She snuggles him a bit but does not overdo it. He wouldn't buy it if she did. He would know something was amiss. Erin Robbins cannot have that. Not after the work that she's put in tonight.
Erin: I'm glad to hear that.
Cairo: So, speaking of plans. Was this evening planned, Erin? Did you plan on seducing the thickness, or was it a coincidence that you wore those heels and shook that ass and sauntered into Bobby Cairo's bar?
She gazes upon the ruby red heels that lie upon the ground next to her slinky black dress. She knew what she was doing of course. Knew exactly what she was doing all along, like a black girl knows when she walks upon the streets after midnight in a certain neighborhood. The ass was as good as got. And being exposed to Bobby Cairo... it wasn't even a question of time. This is the tyranny of hormones that even the greatest of the "great men" has succumbed to. A glimmer appears in Erin's good eye - her killing eye.
Erin: I could persuade you to believe whatever I want at this present time. Could I not?
And why not? She's already ingested the thickness. This was after previously ingesting champagne and steak and lobster dinner as Bobby Cairo's guest at Bobby Cairo's suite at the Plaza Hotel (itself a "gift" from a "friend" sympathetic to "The Cause").
Bobby Cairo: And why not? And why not, indeed. I don't have to believe it. I don't believe in tomsfoolery. But you can sell it. You can push it like the dope dealers pushing their product to the tai chi masters in the park.
Cairo glances to the alabaster ceiling. He shakes his head. Sleepiness combated by horniness, drunkenness thrown in for good measure. A hallucination? He could have swore that he saw her flash her Devil's smile out of the corner of his eye. Does it matter? She cannot harm him. He is Bobby Cairo. She is Erin Robbins. How can she possibly damage him? She is a grifter and a grimer and a gasoline coated rag but it amounts to little more than child's play in the wake of the thickness. Cairo's confidence remains unshaken.
Erin: How do you feel about the match?
Cairo pokes a brow skyward.
Cairo: To which match are you referring, dear Erin?
Erin: I think you know, Bobby. The magic? The martyrdom? No, no. It's not all so complicated. You speak in rhymes and hymns and move in the shadows of ancient suns, but you don't fool me. I know that you contemplate things such as Dream Team versus The Thickness.
Cairo smiles. He is amused by this impromptu interrogation.
Cairo: A thwack from my penis would silence you, woman, but I am actually enjoying this. You wish to gain a scoop, correct? You want the breaking story? Bobby Cairo speaks about Steve Orbit and Jonny Fly, the Erin Robbins exclusive?
Cairo salivates at the mere thought of bashing their skulls in with his tag team championship belt and ending their careers, their livelihoods and their lives.
Cairo: But what can be said? Jonny Fly is a terrorist. He is an enemy of the state. He will be defeated and summarily executed. Steve Orbit is Jonny Fly's accomplice. He will suffer the same fate. What you must understand, Erin, is that I see these so-called champions and superstars for what they truly are. These are not men. These are cowards. Opportunistic little heathens with hearts so black as night and corrupted values systems. It's horrible representation for WCF and the public at large. Kids don't need to see Fly and Orbit prancing around on national television promoting this farcical agenda of "I-gets-what-I-wants-when-I-wants-it-cuz-I-be-dat-dude". Candy coated cockamamie and a bullshit excuse for statesmen. That's all they are. Absolute blasphemy and putrefaction.
Cairo feigns a spit in the general direction of Orbit and Fly. He also flips a double bird in that same direction.
Cairo: What is this shit--
Cairo feels a vibration in his thighs. It is... not natural.
Cairo: Hold on, Erin. I have a phone call. Moe--what's goin on? I'm busy at the moment, my friend.
Moe: Bobby, I'm sorry to bother you, but you told me you were leaving your car out front and walking to the hotel with that girl, right?
Cairo: Of course, of course. Why is something the matter? Did something happen to my baby?
Moe: She, uh--I don't know how to put it delicately so I'm just gonna say it: She's gone, Bobby. She's long gone. I mean she's Splitsville.
Images race through Bobby Cairo's mind; he thinks about the Vietnamese ladies in front of the nail salon, eating noodles while wailing about on trash can lids and shrieking like phantoms. He envisions the crackhead in the park who's always dressed like a ninja and practicing his kung fu. He remembers snow falling upon cedars in the country when he was a small boy. Was Bobby's car stolen by hopheads and downers, or is there a more sinister motive involved?
Moe: Bobby? Bobby? Are you there?
Cairo: Moe. I am here. Do you have any news for me?
Moe: Yeah. Uh. Your car's been stolen. Don't you have LoJack or any of that shit, Bobby?
Bobby: Of course not. Not on my baby. That stuff is all just a capitalist ruse to defraud the working man of his hard earned rubles. This is just--oh Odin, I can't believe this. Erin, something terrible has happened--
He turns to his side and finds that the other half of his bed is empty. Bobby Cairo is sitting in his hotel suite. Alone. Abandoned. Astonished. Cairo drops his phone and drops to his knees. The feeling of betrayal is palpable. His car is his baby. Tina Machina, a vintage 1974 Cadillac Eldorado. A marvel of engineering from a bygone era when America's auto workers were celebrated for their work ethic, their ambition and their sacrifice to the cause of American Exceptionalism. They were stabbed in the back - just like Cairo.
Cairo: That whore.
A whore named Robbins. Cairo sits and stares at the wall. No understanding. No comprehension. His thoughts bare like margarine containers in a poor man's cupboard. Words zigzagging in his brain. Her words. Words that pierce him as daggers do. His feelings raw and frayed. Betrayed. Bamboozled. Hoodwinked. Sold out. Shipped out. Flimflammed and swerved. Why? He contemplates the question of why, who and how. Why did someone steal his car? Who did the dubious deed? How could this happen under his nose, in his city?
Alcohol floods his brain cells. He falls into a stupor. He closes his eyes. He opens them. Bloodshot ventricles emerge. He connects the dots. There's only one person who could be pulling the strings of this conspiracy. Only one she-devil who could have issued the order. It's so perfectly obvious, so simple that it's stupid. This was the horrible work of Sarah Twilight, Erin Robbins acting as her proxy. The motive? Once again, the answer is apparent, Twilight can't beat Cairo in the ring. Can't get to him with anything she's thrown at him. She decided to hit him where it hurts. She went after his family. She carnapped Tina Machine. This will not stand. This will not be tolerated. Vengeance shall belong to Bobby Cairo. Cairo reaches under his pillow and grabs his Glock. While he's at it he grabs his bottle of whiskey. Booze, bullets and bloodshot eyes. This will not end well for Sarah Twilight or the Dream Team.
