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“No, Doris… hear me out, ok? Doris. Listen. It’s on the pillows too. Yea. I know, I know Doris. Fucking shameful. That’s fine, Sweetheart. Go get him. I’ll wait.”
*whistling
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…beep, beep, beep.
*Gasp.
Presented now.
A cavernous void stands before you.
You attempt to reorient yourself with your surroundings, though the looming darkness is all encompassing and offers you no direct view of the outside world, or the sky above.
The only sources of light seem to be emanating from the phone beside you and from the face of the radio, as it displays a set of digital numbers lying dormant on the muted screen, belonging to a station you don’t listen to.
12:20
Glare out into the glowing cinder block cube of reverberating heat, with no indication or idea if it’s almost half past noon or about a quarter after midnight.
A stomach punch acknowledgement that it matters neither way.
Upon first take, there doesn’t appear to be anyone in direct sight, apart from the asshole who’s currently visible in the slim reflection of the rear view, which you now adjust upward to check your hair.
Interesting.
You appear to be all buckled in, though you notice the belt is curiously wrapped around your neck, before returning to its original over the shoulder position and then dropping back down across your chest, before finally coming to rest at hip level.
You also deduce that your pants are bundled around your ankles and your underwear seem to be missing in action.
Further apprehension sets in when you realize you’re behind the wheel of a vehicle that does not belong to you. Unless you somehow inherited a hangover and a limousine.
The ignition is turned over, but the engine does not appear to be running. You confirm this when you note that air conditioner isn’t on, and your shirt is completely drenched in what smells like top shelf booze and economy class affection.
You know the type.
Think bubbly rather than bright.
Try I’ll be in touch, not I’d like you meet my mom.
And like their clearance rack fashion sense, you begrudgingly take note that your shirt is it is most definitely not pressed.
Readjust the mirror. Only this time, in an effort to catch a sneak-peak of what’s causing all the ruckus behind you. The unmistakable baritone, emanating from somewhere behind you…
“Doris, hear me out okay. Doris. There’s cum everywhere. And I mean everywhere Doris, believe you me.” Now overheard in the background, advocating into his phone about the benefits of the bringing a black light and your own bedding supplies when choosing to stay at most any Major Resort.
A grizzled face appears through the opened partition which separates the drivers cab from the passenger area.
Meet Frank.
“Here, eat a few of these. Perk you right up,” he says.
A hand then passes forward a small leather pouch. And a jar of pickles.
The alarm lights up the screen again, this time to inform you that your interview is scheduled for the top of the hour with someone named Trisha.
The plot thickens.
Okay. Focus. Think.
Definitely don’t remember operating a Class-A motor vehicle. Or how it came to be parked in this particular location. Though, you don’t even know where this particular location is. And who the fuck is Trisha? And how—
You’re interrupted by the good doctor: “Hey, be a sport and get some air going back here, you’re fucking killing me, Kiddo. And hey now, come on, potassium will help with the cramps,” He smirks.
12:34
Frank says, “Try’n choke down a couple of these cocksuckers, you ain’t got much time now, Sleepyhead,” He chuckles.
A hand emerges with a frosted bottle of Yuenglings Lager as tribute. Followed immediately by another devout limb, equipped with its own humble offering: a single bendy straw, pinched between an index finger and a thumb.
You accept both without saying a word.
Inside the pouch, you find forty three pills of assorted colors, shapes and sizes. A misfit gang of your habitual barbiturates and nefarious narcotics. Some familiar cohorts. And a couple new friends.
Charmed, indeed.
You also give a nod to the lone Red Starburst that got mixed up with the bunch. And finally, on a folded piece of motel stationary you find several crudely etched dick pics sprawled across it’s entirety.
Flip the ledger over.
A single phone number with an L.A. area code, but not the part that’s overshadowed by Hollywood signs, and more the type with bars on the windows.
Female handwriting, written in crayon.
A talon darts forward from the nest and snatches back the love letter.
Or evidence.
As of late, you’ve learned it best not to inquire about which is which.
Wouldn’t you know it, you’ve gone and acquired yourself some legal counsel. According to his business card, The Dr. is also a licensed reverend, real-estate agent and what can best be described as an unlicensed mobile pharmacist.
You then vaguely recall his re-assurances for you not to worry about proofreading or the like, because: “it’s fucking solid, cupcake,” according to your new editor in chief.
According to him, the ADULT FILM STAR accolade printed boldly atop of the card is not some cheap claim to fame, rather it’s his own humble contribution to the arts.
Part he says, of his self proclaimed and inherent desire to remain civilized, whilst entrenched in such an “uncultured wasteland of glittery Barbarians,” as he puts it.
How noble.
Much akin to Communism, that all sounds fine and dandy on paper, but you do seem to recall that the enthusiastic M.D. also insists he has a sure fire system to beat Roulette. Additionally, he also insists that persons standing below 4’11,” respectively can be legally purchased at auction and kept as a house-pet.
Sadly, this is far from the worse legal counsel you’ve been blessed with throughout the years… though he’s gladly not the worst drug-dealer you’ve had, either.
Practice gratitude.
You raise the bottle, and the shotgun blast of frosty bliss is marked absent as soon as it was made present, barely helping you dissolve what’s left of your gritty snack.
Reach down to secure your jeans and begin awkwardly redressing.
You notice a manila envelope on the seat beside you as the zipper comes to a stop, and you fasten your belt.
Reach for the envelope, poke inside and retrieve the only dossier.
Proofread what is apparently your new resume, for the first time.
You see his folio opened and laid alongside him. Several names on list are already crossed out with a red tipped Sharpie.
Hundreds of flyers for call-girls and dance club VIP admissions litter the cab, along with dozens of empty bottles and what appears to be a motionless blond woman.
That’d be Daphne, you presume.
“On the carpets, on the roofs, all over ya fucking light switches Doris, no, no Doris hear me out. It’s on the goddamned remote control Doris, are you following? Pure insanity, okay. Yes. Yes… it’s just shameful, indeed.” He winks at you and makes a jacking off motion with his free hand.
Daphne is originally from Kansas.
Daphne studies Eastern Medicine at UNLV and just LOVES dogs.
Daphne is no longer conscious, it seems.
You lay 60/40 odds on a pulse.
Neither would be a surprise.
You’re indifferent either way, although you’re aware you shouldn’t be, and still begin to consider the optimal security rotation implications of the rendering plant outside of town.
Decide to add amateur skydiver under hobbies, although your experience is pedestrian at best and theoretical in nature.
It was that, or jotting down that you enjoy consuming a massive amount of narcotics and prowling rooftops.
And you’re not Batman.
Definitely have more in common with Alfred lately.
And Frank is no Bruce Wayne.
Sure, he may possess an inherited wealth and have a secret double life, but the only crime he fights is when an escort tries to make off with his watch or cufflinks.
A second bottle emerges from the Bat Cave, which you wave off.
“Pacing yourself is for Olympians and pussies,” from the hand. “And hydration is key for maintaining a saucy complexion,” he motions to his five o’clock shadow and smirking lips which are now pursed around a Camel Crush Menthol cigarette.
He continues to you, “Listen up. The food court is on the second floor, east side of the building. Directly across from the rendezvous. Take the employee entrance after you pass the dumpsters. Straight up the stairs and then on your immediate left. One o’clock. Don’t be late. And hey, be a doll, pick me up a Green tea on your way out, would ya? I already phoned it in, just tell them it’s for Mr. Dick Johnson, lol.”
He drops a wadded $5 bill on the center console.
He then passes forward a pressed blue-oxford button-down. 34 L.
And a wadded pair of boxers.
Son of a bitch.
The dimly lit passenger cab reveals a menacing grin as the partition is sealed by the remote control which he now has aimed at you.
You barely catch “Knock em dead, killer,” from your new life coach.
Exit the vehicle.
Minus any underwear or fucks to be given, plus one leather pouch of goodies.
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