(By Alice and Steph, inspired by Blackadder, Monty Python, and Douglas Adams, with a hint of Alan Shore.)
Jeff punched his work card and clocked out, grabbing his knapsack on his way out of his place of work. This exact scene was taking place at thousands of other places around the world but for one small detail: Jeff was an exotic pole dancer in the British Virgin Islands.
This wouldn't normally be anything to phone home about, but Jeff had triumphed over adversity and had even learned to emulate the esteemed English accent tolerably well. He had moved into a new apartment--a seedy one-room deal over a disreputable whorehouse--a few weeks ago. It was in an excellent location, a block and a half away from his place of work.
Jeff was hired at "Bad and Bawdy Boyz" as part of a diversity program instituted by the United Hookers' Front due to his ostentatious limp. The limp was incurred at a previous employment and thus details of this hapening are rather hazy and not generally well known. Jeff was always recalcitrant about his experience and limited his explinations to the age-old adage "stilletos and fishnets don't mix."
Even after his incarceration for pandering early on during his stay in the Commonwealth, Jeff had not kept his life squeaky-clean. Another pole dancing accident (completely unrelated to the OTHER pole dancing accident. Jeff was, after all, a hapless fellow, really...) diminished Jeff's chances of living a relatively normal life. (Relative, of course, to the other crippled exotic pole dancers with criminal records currently residing in the British Virgin Islands.) While performing a routine dance in the club, one night during happy hour, Jeff fell off the stage and into a transsexual with three pierced nipples who happened to be a cop.
Deputy Pablo Escobar was a dirty cop attempting to cast blame of an inter-office drug ring on some poor, unsuspecting, upstanding member of society. Typical cop stuff--no biggie.
While Jeff attempted to extricate himself from the 14-carat gold thong of one of his acquaintances, Pablo slipped a measure of cocaine (about 50 years to life's worth in Canada) into Jeff's fishnets. Unbeknownst to Jeff (but knownst to us) a police raid had assembled outside the establishment. In short order, our poor exotic dancer was arrested for posession with intent to sell, cuffed, printed and booked. Jeff is currently serving a life sentence in prison but will likely get out in six to eight months for good behavior and very very good buttocks.
We should probably inform you that this book is not about Jeff. In fact, he is not even mentioned or referred to even once during the course of the novel. This is just a random bit of information that you can read and promptly forget.
If, for some reason, you would like to help Jeff in his plight, send money to us and we will be sure to get it to him. That is, of course, if we are rich, happy and in the mood. If not, we'll hold it in trust until we BECOME rich, happy and in the mood or until we blow it all on lotto tickets. Whichever comes first.
It was a dull, dark morning of the depressing kind. Much like every other morning, really. The sky was a flat grey, and the sun was rising slowly, as if it was contemplating whether it was worth shedding light on this of all mornings. A cool, crisp breeze blew through the skeletons of deciduous trees and scattered the sharp needles of the rest.
What made this one remarkably more unpleasant and dark was the fact that murder had, and would soon again take place. The two lovers in Spain were not aware of it. The members of the low-class Quebecois family eating their breakfast were not aware of it. Even Luciano Carrotti, aptly nicknamed Carrot after his hair, was not aware of it. In fact, no one was aware of it -not even the murderer. This time, there would be no witnesses.
It was a cheerful and cute Quebec village. The quaint houses were painted bright colours, and the tidy, orderly gardens in front of them showed off their colourful beds of flowers. Small, excitable birds twittered happily, while squirrels and chipmunks scurried around the many trees. A building in the centre of the city stood out amongst the Bavarian charm; it was rather large and built in the style of the Greek civilization of ancient times. Apparently, this association had not only brought old-world culture to this unregarded village in Quebec, but it had also doubled the population -duplexes and small apartment buildings had seemingly spontaneously appeared all over the town. A banner on the pediment above the arched entrance read "The Philosopher & Mad Scientist's Association"
A painted, chipped wooden sign exclaimed to the world that they were entering the town of St Sourira-du-Lac. Underneath it, someone had written "Home of the WEIRDO club, get out while you can", in bold, friendly letters. You wouldn't expect a murderer to live in a cute village called "St. Sourira-du-Lac". But still, you never knew.
Carlos Sanchez reclined on a pristine beach in Spain, happily ensconced in his barcalounger. One might wonder precisely what a barcalounger would be doing on a beach, much less a pristine beach in Spain. Carlos had never asked, but quite frankly, enjoyed this curious Spanish habit and, in the interest of not messing around with a good thing, happily wriggled more comfortably into the chair, sipping a sparkling glass of German-Australian beer. Ahhh, thought Carlos, Nothing like some good beery-tasting piss to top of this lovely day. He frowned suddenly. Or was it pissy-tasting beer? Carlos couldn't remember, but found this sentiment to suddenly dwindle into insignificance when he caught a glimpse of his Mexican lover-boy, Paolo.
His thoughts turned to Paolo, a sexy little number with black hair, pale skin, sexy lips, and puppy dog eyes that just screamed at him to...well, Carlos didn't really want to say just what those eyes screamed at him to do in the privacy of Carlos' rented pool house in the seedier district of Barcelona. He didn't want to get arrested. Suffice it to say, Carlos was a very naughty boy and he quite enjoyed being called that by his Mexican sex-slave. Ahem, servant. Carlos was, after all, an equal opportunity employer. So long as the employee was tall, dark, handsome and too young to drive legally. Though of course, Paolo really WAS just a trophy wife, nothing more. A mere accessory to wear like one would a purse, to impress his co-workers. Or at least, that's what the world thought...
Carlos curbed his dirty thoughts and brought them back to the matter at hand. It was soon to be Paolo's birthday, and our man in the barcalounger had absolutely no idea what to buy. Paolo did have a strange obsession with gerbils wearing knee socks, but that seemed SO unoriginal. He sighed, frustrated, entirely at a loss. It had been quite a while since Carlos had been a teenager, and he had quite forgotten what he had enjoyed receiving at that time in his life.He gave up this futile line of thought when he espied Paolo sauntering down the beach from the wonderful pool house. He "declined" from his barcalounger, which made him grumpy. When reclining comfortably, it is quite distressing to have to sit up. He shoved the tidbit about gerbils to the back of his mind and beckoned to Paolo, a queer glint in his eye.
Elpheziea Pouffoufs looked over at the middle-aged man sitting two places away from her. He had been making furious gestures under his hospital gown. Her grandfather was an odd sort of man who had a passion for renaissance art, gerbils wearing knee socks, and philosophy. As a socially depraved child, Elph had always admired her grandfather, as the sort of classical whiskey-drinking ill-tempered, good-hearted patriarch. He was also an inventor and fancied himself to be a "Renaissance Man". Sadly, her grandfather had recently been kicked out of the St-Sourira-du-Lac Philosopher & Mad Scientist's Association, for not being mad or philosophical enough. And, having found what he believed to be the meaning of life (42), he settled down to a life of mad raving in the Pouffoufs household.
Elph hated her extensive step-family, and her lower state of class.
She hated the fact that her mother refused to buy her any more gothic-inspired clothes.
She hated the fact that she had no talents, other than in finding cute doll-like outfits to wear. She hated her "parents" for marrying for a reason other than money or sex. Well, she didn't want to think about the latter happening...EVER...
Though she supposed it HAD in fact happened, at least once during her mother's life. Though the term "mother" was not -at one point -entirely accurate. Elph had brown hair, teal-coloured eyes, and a fair complexion. Her mother was Chinese and looked nothing like her. She would have been suspicious of being adopted, but a parentage test on Maury removed all doubt. Though it had caused much family turmoil, the fact remained that she was indeed the daughter of a Chinese woman.
She also hated her school, as it was Catholic, and she was a devout atheist.
And she despised Diphthong.
For a long time, she had been aware of the fact that her step-father was not only an adulterer and a sadistic misogynist, but also a homophobe and serial killer.
The former disturbed her more than the killing.
Diphthong was a bad, bad man. But as her angsty-teen status restrained her from telling her mother about it; she kept her peace.
The young man was panting, his breathing laboured. Holding a stack of three flat, unmarked cardboard boxes, he presented them to a tall, important-looking man with a funny mustache.
He had been chased by dogs, Mounties, and a disgruntled blonde all the way from the pick-up location to the secret intelligence office (one block away). For a while, the disgruntled blonde had held his attention more than the matter in his hands. She was tall and slim, but curvy in all the right places. He had asked for her phone number, but she hadn't fallen for his pick-up line of "hey, babe, I'm a private investigator...can I investigate your privates?" He wished that his mind wouldn't drift so...but that girl was so HOT!...
Working at Section 42, of course, was MUCH more important than the babes he could pick up. He just needed to work on that pick-up line
One wouldn't expect to find an intelligence office sprawling under the streets of Old Quebec, any more than to expect that the entrance was through an out-of-order toilet in a gay nightclub.
Oh, he loved his job. The pay wasn't extraordinary, but working for central intelligence in the famed Section 42 was a reward in itself. As he presented the boxes to the tall man, he added, "I remembered the extra cheese and pepperoni this time!" Back in his cubicle, he proudly leaned back in his office chair, and turned on his small TV. He flipped to the news and turned to his large textbook on forensics. Being a co-op student was highly beneficial; he could work (eat pizza) and study (sleep/watch TV) at the same time. He only paused briefly, when the entertainment announcer (looking like someone had force-fed him a lemon that happened to be taped to a huge brick) talked about the newest trend that revolved around knee sock-wearing gerbils. Kids these days, he thought, get obsessed with the most horrid and stupid trends...
Tony Bandolucci plopped his considerable girth into an old, grimey lawn chari in the kitcken of his grungey pizza parlour. He propped his muddy combat boots on top of the counter, toeing away a few wheels of cheese and a clump of tomatoes that looked to be on their last legs. Tony sat back and relaxed, wiping his dirty hands on his patched and stained apron and waited for his next customer.
The chimes hung just above the entrance to Tony's Pizza announced the arrival of his best customer. "What took you so long?" he asked loudly. "Time was, you were here at twelve sharp." He looked up, expecting to see the face of So Lo Hung, the Secret Agent Pizza Transfer Technician. Hung was a terrific agent in Bandolucci's opinion. One of his best customers. And, as his name implied...well...YOU know. And Tony knew. Oh so very well.
The facce he did see, however, was obviously not Hung's, since he had just been described in great detal, and inserting him would n ot only be predicatable, but also extrordinarily dull.
It was a boy. His hair was a bit too long and a bit too red. He was a bit too tall, and a bit too skinny. His face was a bit too effeminate and his clothes were a bit too dressy. He was probably a bit too straight, but Tony ignored that suspicion. Raising the right half of his unibrow, he suavely asked, "How YOU doin'?"
"I'm picking up enough pizza to feed the slavering hordes from a run-down, ramshackle pizza parlour half way accross town which is no doubt infested with mice and roaches, not to mention in direct violation of at least a dozen helth code violations, about to embark on the journey of my life with a top-secret government agency--with a pension, I might add-- but I am acting as the glorified pizza boy about to pick up two-dozen inferior pizzas at cut rate pricing from a homosexual wearing combat boots!" As he said "combat boots", he almost keeled over in grief. "I'm going to smell like cheese for the rest of my life," he added miserably.
So once again, it would probably be a good idea to warn you that this chapter is completely random. Bandolucci will not be making another appearance in the story, unless of course he decides to stip naked and dance on the counter of his little establishment. In that case, we would probably mention the occurance with a line or two of text later on. Nothing big.
We should also probably mention that Tony's Pizza is about to go out of business. After our dear pizza boy left the pizza parlour (with the two-dozen pizzas) he filed a complaint against Tony and the health inspectors were out in full force the next day. The fumigation costs left Tony bankrupt and the physical exertion expended while tidying the place up a bit gave Tony a heart-attack.
If you would like to help Tony, perhaps by paying his medical bills or perhaps getting him out of debt, send money to us and we'll mail it to him post haste at the hospital. Of course, if, by that time, Tony has been discharged, we reserve the right to keep the money and use it to fuel our new penchant for lotto tickets.
The inhabitants of St-Sourira-du-Lac were scandalized.
Not only had Elpheziea Pouffoufs openly throttled a man in public, but the man she throttled was none other than her stepfather, Diphthong.
This inestimable gentleman (and the term gentleman is used loosely) was a sadistic misogynist who went through wives quicker than a harem-keeping pharaoh. This, however, was no excuse. The Quebecois prided themselves on their ability to repress and oppress all members of the fairer sex. Though of course, when compared to Diphthong, ALL members of humanity were fairer.
For Diphthong's wives all met with strangely inventive ends...
His first wife died four weeks into their marriage, due to the fact that she walked over a cattle grid in an extremely heavy hat. The town's police--well actually, the town was too small to be called a town, it was rather a village, and they didn't exactly have a police force, it was more like a pair deputies shared by the six small hamlets surrounding the village--were quite stumped as to how to approach this crime. Not least of their worries was the fact that neither deputy knew quite what a cattle grid WAS. This however, seemed unimportant, so the deputies decided to follow up on all of their other leads, which happened to be non-existent. The case was quickly deemed unsolvable and the file was shoved to the very back of the drawer of the filing cabinet reserved for murders and promptly forgotten.
Diphthong's second wife passed away shortly after discovering that migrating birds had something going. Her remains were found at the bottom of a cliff. The bullet lodged in her forehead was curiously inexplicable and deemed not related to the cause of death. The rifle found several feet from her body, mangled from its own fall of the cliff was considered to be extraneous evidence and was melted down and re-cast into a meat-cleaver, which found its way into the living room of Diphthong's shack, given the place of honour over the fire-pit. This new development was not noted in the new file created and placed in the back of the door of the filing cabinet for murders. The deputies were too busy complaining about having to purchase new file folders.
The deaths continued, following Diphthong like an extra vowel. From being gunned down in a random drive-by shooting to re-discovering her inner dog and eating rat-poison, Diphthongs wives started dropping like flies.
Diphthong's reaction? He could be heard telling extremely unreliable witnesses who somehow never made it to court, "When somebody dies, everybody wins!"
Paolo shined his 14-carat gold thong and waited for Carlos to arrive.
What he didn't know was that Carlos was talking on the telephone. To a man. Had Paolo known his lover was currently conversing with a young male mail-man, he would probably have strangled himself with his expensive undies. Paolo always was jealous, and had no heart when it came to competition. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. Instead, he sat quietly and did his French homework.
Paolo hated French. He did not understand it, he did not use it, he did not need it, and he did not like it. He also hated the French culture. Crepes! Bah! Paolo liked pancakes, why would he need crepes? And the Eiffel Tower was a junky rust bucket, a pile of bolts. Paris was over-priced anyway, and who needed the city of love when he had a nice, seedy pool house in Barcelona? And then there was Quebec. Paolo hated them even more than the French "fries". They were appalling. They CHOSE the horrible French culture. Who willingly made taffy or ate frozen syrup?!
Paolo had simple tastes; he came from humble roots. There was no need for anything fancy. Paolo made sure that he was easily impressed. But everyone has limits, even the little Mexican sex-fiend. Paolo decided that if he ever went to France or even met a Quebecois separatist, he would strangle himself with his shiny skivvies.
Carlos finally popped his head in the room, beaming like a man who had won the lottery. "Paolo, we're going on vacation! To Quebec!"
Paolo removed his underwear and took a deep breath.
Diphthong was bored. He was sitting at the dinner table in his little hovel in Quebec and listened to the incessant chatter of his 13 children and his moronic wife.
Ah, his wife. He was getting tired of her; this situation must be remedied. He considered.
In order not to be implicated, he must think of a new way to dispose of her - he needed a very cunning plan.
Luciano was troubled. Not just mentally (though that was certainly true, too) -he had just been assigned one of the most troublesome cases in the history of troublesome cases. It was a search for a serial killer; a former English teacher. His "claim to fame" was the creative murder of 99 wives. He was unstoppable. There hadn't been a death in a while, so now was a good time to catch the criminal. By crossing the altitudes of the triangles made from points where he'd killed, Intelligence predicted that the next wife would be around Quebec City. He still didn't know why he'd assigned this case. Well, actually, he did; it was QUITE hopeless. At least it was a step up from "official pizza-boy". He flipped through the report of the 99th. The police had completely given up on figuring the murderer out; her death was attributed to spontaneous combustion.
Paolo was absolutely astounded by the sheer size and beauty of the gigantic monument in front of him.
"It's huge!" he gasped
"But Paolo...surely you've seen one before?"
"Well..er...of course I have! But none so big and powerful as this..." said the lover-boy with a blush.
"I told you it was," his lover Carlos said fondly. "Besides, you've seen this a thousand times. This is nothing new!"
"Yeah, sometimes in pictures, but never this close." He sighed, admiring the view afforded to him by Carlos. "I wish I could touch it".
"Go ahead," said Carlos, surprised at the question.
"I'm afraid I'd die from that simple pleasure."
"Yes, I suspect you would. It's entirely possible. It has happened before, actually."
Paolo suddenly realized that a fine mist was covering him from head to toe. "It's spraying me!"
"Yes, yes, it does that sometimes," said Carlos absently.
Paolo accepted this explanation and continued to stare. His eyes narrowed suddenly.
"What's that?" he asked.
"What's what?" demanded Carlos, hearing the urgency in his young lover's voice.
"That black dot. What is it?"
Carlos was horrified. "What?! Where?!"
Paolo pointed to a tiny blob, visible only when it was examined closely. "There."
"Oh, that," said Carlos, relieved, "That is a barrel."
"A barrel?" asked Paolo.
"Yes, a barrel. Is there an echo?"
"What is a barrel doing there?" Paolo was very curious. He had never heard of such a thing.
Carlos was getting quite irritated. "Some idiot's trying to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel."
"Oh," replied Paolo, "Nice day for it." He gazed quietly at one of the natural wonders of the world and wondered who could possibly be so obtuse as to jump into a tiny wooden craft and plunge to the rocks below. Those French-Canadians, so damned religious, putting their lives in the hands of such an indifferent god.
Ralph the dog sat in a patch of shade, tongue lolling and tail wagging. He was relaxing after a hard day of chasing squirrels, licking his own nuts, and castrating unwary male mailmen new to the route.
He rolled over onto his back and studied the big yellow blotchy thing that made his eyes hurt when he stared too long. Today he fancied it was dog kibble and attempted to reach it, lazily extending a paw.
His paw stopped in mid-air and he froze, sniffing in the breeze. A small gray cat sat a few metres away, hastily grooming its matted fur. A tiny white paw passed over ears chewed ragged, a bushy tail waving stiffly this way and that.
Before he could get up to chase it, his owner and that blasted step-daughter of his came out of the house and made their way over to him. They appeared to be arguing, which was old news, really. Diphthong unleashed a series of very colourful adjectives at Elph. She countered with a few scattered nouns, and then a well-placed adverb, a smattering of adjectives, and a handful of VERY PG-13 nouns. She continued by making a few statements that implied that Diphthongs mother had done something very unlikely with a Chihuahua. Diphthong tried to turn the tables back in his favour by making use of a poorly placed noun in an imperative sentence. The argument ended swiftly with Elph telling her step-father to go verb himself with a adjective noun, adverb-ly.
Ralph did not know what any of this meant, but he supported familial arguments wholeheartedly, since occasionally it meant one or both parties got so mad that they fed him twice.
If you would like to keep Ralph well-fed and alive, you heartless bastard, send money, priceless family heirlooms, and unwanted mothers-in-law to Alice and Steph. Of course, only the last will actually be fed to Ralph. The rest will be used to keep us out of jail after the unwanted mothers-in-law are fed to Ralph. If, in the event that we are not caught, all donations will be placed in the Quintessential Lotto Tickets Trust Fund, to be spent at our discretion. All goods and/or mothers-in-law are non-refundable, and letters begging for money to buy a house/Porsche/pay for mortgage/life-saving operation/prosthetic member, will be ignored.
P.S. We respectfully request that you not send us laundered money. We got in deep shit last time--cost us 50 lotto tickets.
Diphthong was extremely annoyed. For all his best efforts, he had been incapable of dispatching his most tiresome wife--wife number 100, as it were. Diphthong's previous 99 wives had never been so difficult to get rid of, and he was worried that he had lost the destructive touch that he had acquired after years of sinister murders. He had, however, temporarily gotten rid of that step-daughter. El-fee-zee-whatsit.
He was getting so desperate, in fact, that he was beginning to recycle his old ideas, meticulously logged in his trusty Pocket Book of Murder. The last time he had sent his wife (number 33) over Niagara Falls in a barrel, she had been disposed of quite effectively without any mess, and Diphthong was at a loss as to why this one little wife could be so very hard to murder.
"Hm. Should I dump her into the power plant down the way?" he mused. "Nah, the woman's absored a lot of voltage. Think bigger." He sighed, frustrated. "Come on Diphthong, old boy. Pull yourself together. Your brother Monothong would never have such problems," he told himself irritably. "But then, that coot was smart enough to remain a bachelor." And then, it came to him. A wonderful idea. Actually, it was quite a horrible, gruesome idea, elegant in it simplicity. Diphthong was going to commit murder (again) ... the old-school way...
Elph awoke with a start. She was in a dimmed room, a darkened room, but one that she had never woken up in before. It was not her bedroom at home. It was obviously not a hotel room. It was not even a room that she had ever stumbled out of, completely hung over. Looking around, she noticed that there were several other beds around hers with sleeping forms on them. Insane, those people were--if her bed was any measure, those people were sleeping on a substance much more uncomfortable than concrete.
Nervously, Elph slid off the bed and tip-toed over to the door. No one stirred. She felt around the wall to the light switch. No one stirred. She flicked on the lights. Every one stirred. A man with an executive haircut fell out of bed, on his back and waved his limbs around helplessly, much like a turtle would. A woman with a green-tinted comb-over began to bounce up and down on her bed. Two young boys--twins probably--charged at each other like rhinos and began to head-butt. Elph watched the scene with shock. The turtle man was still on his back. She was in a mental hospital, surrounded by mental patients. Noticing that she was wearing a hospital gown, she realized the horrible truth. She was a mental patient!
It then dawned on her that she had a choice. She could look around for her real clothes then escape or she could just escape. She chose to escape.
Of course, it wasn't exceptionally difficult to do, as the exit was marked in lovely, huge and bold letters. When she reached the outside of the building, she saw a sign above the door that read, "Happy cheerful place for those weirdos in your family like your maniacal mother in-law". Classically Quebecois--long, rude and avoidant of the point.
"...and be one with the fraction!"
Elph sighed dramatically. Her math teacher was nuttier than a bag of squirrel turds; certifiably insane. The teacher, Mr. Ateroostas, was evidently a fan of Star Wars and anything to do with math. It was rumored that he had an infinity tattoo on his left buttock -this was, of course, only a rumour.
There was a knock at the door, which Teemo -the teacher's pet -rushed to answer, tripping over a series of conveniently moved backpacks and binders along the way. Mr. Ateroostas paid no attention, and neither did the class.
"Greetings, fellow in learning!" exclaimed Teemo. He seemed to be very fond of his voice. Elph tried to see the newcomer, but Teemo's unfortunate haircut blocked everything from view. A second later, Teemo had been shoved aside rudely, and a lanky, red-head was standing in his place. The first thing that came to Elph's mind was, "Oh, she's pretty! Wait, IS she a she?! She's kinda flat -but she DOES wear the skirt..."
To her surprise, the red-head walked down the aisle took the seat next to her in the back of the class, winking at her. The newcomer walked with the grace of a very large cat that was ready to pounce and devour anyone that looked the wrong way at him (or her?). The class's attention slowly centered on the red-head. Leaning over to Elph, he whispered "They ran out of boys' uniforms." He fixed his candy-pink tie, amused at the shocked expression on her face and those of everyone else in the class. Finally, Mr. Ateroostas slowly became aware of the fact that the class was no longer paying attention to his witty analogies. Realizing that everyone was staring at a red-haired boy in a skirt and blouse, he eloquently asked, "The bleedin' 'ell you doin' here?!"
The boy smiled in the sneaky, clever way that a feline would. "Carrotti. Luciano Carrotti. Call me Carrot."
A few giggles came from the girls in the class.
"Y' registered for this course?" asked the teacher, slightly more sober.
"Well...er...no, I'm a transfer student. Niagara, Ontario."
But -but you can't just waltz in here wearing a skirt, you have to follow procedure!
"Why? There's enough room in this class."
Mr. Ateroostas shrugged, having given up trying to reason with this young man. Easier to ignore this boy -this Carrot -than to argue with him. "So just like Luke thought he couldn't do it, you may believe that math is just as difficult. But as Yoda showed us, nothing is impossible"
As the teacher droned on and on, Carrot's face became increasingly pale. Turning back to Elph he asked, "Is this guy for REAL?!"
"Of course! Grade 11 math, and we're learning through Star Wars analogies."
"You're joking?"
"Obviously."
"So this is the norm for a French man."
"Quebecois."
"God help me. The quintessential Quebecois."
Paolo brooded at his cup of orange juice with a sippy straw. He and Carlos had just had a lovers' spat--this and the fact that he had just brushed his teeth contrived to give him a rather pained look. The fourteen-carat gold thong was one thing. The fishnet stockings were also doable. Paolo, however, thought that wearing a dress was pushing it, and he categorically refused to wear a garter belt. The trip to Niagara Falls had certainly changed the relationship between the two lovers, and Paolo was getting tired of being dragged across the four corners of the globe, being paraded about in front of Carlos numerous nefarious contacts and business associates. The fact that these meetings invariably took place in some seedy establishment had completely lost its novelty and had begun to grate on Paolos nerves.
Carlos entered the room with a flourish and proudly struck a pose. "What do you think?" he asked with a fake French accent which sounded remarkably like a wheezing Spaniard living in China attempting to emulate a native dialect without utterly ruining the language. He failed. Horribly. His toreador costume was skintight and rather unsightly. "Ten years out of the ring and I still look like a million bucks!"
"You look like a million years old. Maybe a million pounds heavier. A million tacos short of a combo platter--" retorted Paolo.
"Yes. Quite." Carlos scrutinized Paolo. "Get the phone book."
"Get it yourself," Paolo said sullenly.
"Now see here you miserable little puke--" Carlos broke off. He took a deep breath and continued more calmly. "I thought I'd do something nice for you."
"Now why would you want to do something nice for me? Last time you said that, you bought yourself a gigolo for the night."
"That WAS nice I was occupied while you had the time alone you so desperately wanted, you little ingrate! Anyway, I'm buying tacos."
"Thus the costume," said Paolo sarcastically. "Hey, wait a minute, are you making fun of me?" he demanded. "Because I'm Mexican, does that mean I like tacos? What are you going to do, roast a Chihuahua on a spit?"
"Do you know, you're quite sexy when you're angry," commented Carlos.
"You're just trying to shut me up."
"No, really, very arousing."
"Really"
And now let us leave our dear lovers while we turn to a slightly more serious matter
There was no sound besides the clock's ticking. Elph was curled up on a living room couch right under a window, writing dark and depressing poetry. The "Oh! Woe!" kind. The Pouffoufs household was surprisingly NOT filled with little Pouffoufs children, which was a good thing, since Elph hated all of her not-really-siblings.
"Hey, what rhymes with red rose?" she asked herself, "pantyhose?" sighing, he flopped on her back and closed her eyes tightly. Being an angsty teen was harder than one might think. "Maybe cute pose? No.."
"How about BIG NOSE? Like yours?" asked a bodiless voice, "or REALLY BAD PROSE?" Elph was startled to see a rather familiar face with long, red hair staring straight down at her from the now open window.
She shrieked, "Get out of my house you -you...STALKER!"
Looking unnerved, Carrot smiled and jumped into the house, landing cat-like on the couch with a soft plop.
Wife # 100 or That Chinese Woman (as she was affectionately called by her husband) dutifully followed her worse half into the strange, ramshackle building in the rough end of town. The Supreme Temple of the Almighty Jehovah or the Dude Whose Name Shall Not be Uttered on Pain of Stoning So Don't Try was surprisingly full for a Friday night. Twelve grizzled old men and three bearded ladies -the entire congregation -had turned up for what promised to be an exciting show. A rather harassed looking man wearing a threadbare towel was presiding. Apparently he had missed the memo.
That Chinese Woman grabbed a pew and sat down, eagerly awaiting the main event. Her husband, though charming during the four and a half months of their relationship, had mellowed considerably after their week-long honeymoon. After their second month anniversary, he had become increasingly absent in her life. She sighed. It was only to be expected. You can't expect crazy monkey-sex to last more than a week. (Diphthong was still walking funny after that last episode)
Diphthong joined the towel-clad minister at the front of the room and they conferred for a moment. Pointing and feverish whispering ensued. The minister hitched up his towel in a most dignified way and called in his best The Price is Right voice, "That Chinese Woman, come on down!"
That Chinese woman, clapping and cheering, excitedly made her way over to her husband.
"The rules of the game are simple," the minister continued in his game show host voice, "all you have to do is read the lovely little passage thoughtfully supplied by your thoughtful husband." He walked over to a large, wheeled crate and rolled it down the aisle to his congregation. "Don't mind us," he assured her, "just passing out rocks. Don't be shy. READ DAMMIT!"
That Chinese woman read.
"I, That Chinese Woman, being of sound mind and not entirely drunk, do solemnly swear that I hate Geneva with all my heart."
The crowd stared expectantly. Diphthong leaned over and whispered in That Chinese Woman's ear. She nodded enthusiastically and began again, "I hate Genoa with all my heart." Diphthong stomped his foot angrily and whispered again.
The minister, quietly toweling off, was getting rather annoyed. It was getting late and he was missing Leno. "That's just outside enough! ITS FUCKING JEHOVAH, YOU IMBICILE!!!"
The minister promptly disappeared in a mountain of rocks.
That Chinese woman jumped up and down, clapping excitedly. The whole thing was, after all, a show staged for her amusement. At least, that's what she'd been told by her severely irritated husband
After an eventful interlude, Carlos, in the interest of acting as a peace-keeper decided against ordering Mexican. Instead he opted for cheap sushi purchased at a twenty-four hour sushi stand located across from their even cheaper motel. Carlos carted it up to the room and let himself in by jimmying the lock with his maxed-out credit card.
"Okay, my little Mexican mammacita, papa's got dinner!" He rubbed his hands together excitedly, anticipating the meal. "Come and get it."
Paolo sauntered out from the bedroom wearing fishnets and heels.
Carlos slapped the boy's bottom in true football jock fashion, appreciating the view. "Told you they were just your size," he added, leering.
"I feel pretty," Paolo agreed coyly.
This comment degenerated into a full blown, almost drunken rendition of the West Side Story tune.
They ceased singing when their neighbour shoved a broom handle through the flimsy wall.
The pained yowling of the region's feral cat population stopped abruptly.
"Dig in!" Carlos invited around a bite.
"Uh...I'm not sure I'm hungry," said Paolo uneasily, eyeing the goggling fish eyeballs askance.
"Come on, eat. Aren't you hungry after all that exercise?"
"Yeah," Paolo admitted. "Running around in stilettos is a bitch." He sighed. "I wonder how those models do it.
"Bulimias my best guess. Anorexia too, I expect."
"Right. Uhm...not my style, you know."
"You're still pretty..."
This comment degenerated into a full blown, mostly drunken rendition of the entire script of West Side Story.
A hairdryer and a half-full coffee pot were hurled through the wall, the latter sloshing and burbling promisingly.
"Coffee?" asked Carlos cheerfully.
"Of course," answered Paolo, unperturbed. "Maybe it'll render the sushi a little more palatable, though I have to admit, I have my doubts about the stuff. Is it supposed to smell like jock strap?"
"Yes."
"Right. Well then..."
"Come on, eat up. Whats the worst that could happen?"
Elph was still shocked to see Carrot sitting calmly on her couch, having jumped in through the window only a moment before. She was, however, glad to see that he was wearing something more suited to his gender. Sure, the white dress shirt, black blazer and tie were really a bit too formal for her liking, but it was better than a pleated mini-skirt, in any rate.
"Elpheziea Pouffouffs, there's something I need to tell you," he said in grave tones. "Your stepfather, Diphthong - well, he's trying to kill you."
"Yeah, I know," she said nonchalantly.
Carrots face began turning an unhealthy shade of purple.
"I'm possibly the only person who's read through the files of his murders. He probably figured out that I know whats going on. Since he hasn't bumped off mommy dearest yet, I can only assume he's trying to whack me," she declared proudly. "I guess I am a bit worried, but - meh. He doesnt seem too intelligent, really."
Carrot looked taken aback at that statement. "Well, at any rate, I'm here to protect you." Ignoring Elph's unsuppressed laughter, he continued. "Section 42 sent me to make sure you're alive. If we see him in action, we can imprison him. Otherwise, we dont have enough unreliable witnesses to attest to his guilt."
"Youre an AGENT!?!" asked Elph, not trying to keep the amumsement out of her voice. "You're still in high school!"
Annoyed he answered, "Not so much. I'm an intern. A part-time investigator. But I'm Agent Carroti, for all intents and purposes."
Elph rolled her eyes. This was going to be a lo-o-ong night.
It was at the age of puberty, when God experienced a surge of creativity. He was moping around, wearing gaudy robes, depressed at being completely alone in His existence. He really was alone actually, because all of existence was a void, having not yet been Created by Him. And then he realized, Dear God, I AM God!.
So, being bored and a bit moody, he decided to Create a universe to toy around with. It sure beat pulling the wings off the yet-to-exist flies.
Creating the universe was easy, though He screwed up a bit when it came to setting up laws and constants for everything. Though he had made 11 dimensions possible, only 4 were perceivable in any way. Second, He made the speed of light much too slow, impeding His Creation. Third an unfortunate constant that he had set created the possibility of 10^500 worlds. Oops.
He did not foresee that billions of years later, ape-descended life forms from a small, insignificant blue-green planet somewhere in the backwaters of the Milky Way galaxy would be pondering these laws and wondering what the HELL he was thinking when he Created this mess.
Light was pretty fun to Create, God admitted. He wasnt sure why He made stars to hold that light, though. His lesser light, the earthly Moon, accidentally ended up being a pathetic reflective ROCK. Originally, he had made the Earth, around which everything in the universe revolved, perfectly flat. That was, of course, another miscalculation on his part, as the Earth eventually became a silly little ball, and had taken to circling the Sun instead.
For a whole week, God Created and Created, and struggled in his fight against acne. Then, he chilled out, and got very, very pissed.
Obviously, he was a very hands-on sort of guy, having built the universe from scratch, but he hated having to rely on the hands-on approach, if you get my drift.
He had Created the heavens, hell, and angels. Ahh, the angels! One of the angels made him want very much to stop needing the hands-on approach. Lucy, he was nicknamed and sported buttocks that looked to God like two scoops of butter-pecan ice cream. Lucy, or Lucifer as he was more properly known, refused Gods love interests. This little-known fact is the reason why God banished Lucifer to Hell, and is infinitely more plausible than the common belief that he disobeyed Gods command and tried to rise above him.
God is now very, very sober, and very, very bored. He harbours a desire to eradicate the current uni(or multi)verse and start from scratch.
If youd like to help him gather funds to finance The Universe, Take II, Send your soul to the nearest place of worship for your particular religious denomination. If you have no religious denomination, dont worry, because evidently its Gods way to confiscate your soul in some painful and/or messy way after you die a horrible pagan death.
If youd like to bypass all this selling-your-soul stuff, a monetary donation to the authors would go a long way in establishing a completely tax-refundable ticket to self-actualization. OUR self-actualization, as it were. We cant guarantee that these donations will ever make their way to the ready pulpits of the holy, but we can assure you that the money will be spent on religiously themed lotto tickets. Oh, yeah. Amen.
Diphthong was livid. His master plan of killing Wife #100 had been a complete and utter failure. "How could such a simple stoning go wrong? The most ancient, oft used method of murder, and I screwed it up!" Diphthong thought.
The entire way home he had half listened to his wife's excited chattering about what a wonderful night she had had. Never one to appreciate appreciation, Diphthong abandoned her to her own devices. He changed into a comfortable pair of flannel pyjamas, a threadbare terry-cloth robe and a pair of slippers in a state of advanced decay, which had clearly seen better days. He escaped the house and snuck out back.
He paced around his workshop, avoiding the large piles of debris littering the ground. He was itching to kill. Positively antsy to drain another human being of his or her life force, but he just couldn't seem to kill his wife. Was he losing his touch? Was he becomming incapable of killing? Were his SpongeBob SquarePants underwear cutting off the circulation to the upper-right quadrant of his "love machine" apparatus? (They were not. He checked. Twice.)
He sighed, frusterated. That Chinese Woman was practically invincible. Unbeatable. Alive. Following this depressing cogitation, Diphthong underwent a significant epiphany that was bound to change the next stage of his life in a profound and lasting way.
He had a lightbulb moment.
Not just any lightbulb moment. No cheap 60 watts for Diphthong. Tri-lights were even too inconsequential. No, no, no, this was a full-out, all-in FLUORESCENT lightbulb moment.
He was specializing too much, focusing on the relatively small number of women he could actually meet, seduce and kill. He was ignoring a huge portion of his perfect murder candidate demographic.
The fluorescent lightbulb invisibly hovering over Diphthong's head flickered and exploded with a BANG!
Fuck. He had also ignored the part of his plans that had made him successful. There was the whole convenience factor, which he supposed HAD helped, but most important was the passion. The motive behind the killings. The random, intense hatred of every nuance of his wife's personality.
Diphthong didn't hate his wife nearly enough, and she didn't annoy him above half so much as his previous wifes had. It was no good. That Chinese Woman would just have to simmer on the stove, so to speak, until she really did something to piss him off.
In the mean time, he was bored. He had to find SOMETHING to do until Wife #100 made that one erring step.
And then it dawned on him. The perfect victim. Someone who inspired deep feelings of utter loathing and random homicidal thoughts. Someone whose indifference could provoke even the dead and buried. Someone whose fashion sense could have taught Marilyn Manson a thing or two. Someone whose attitude could move even the Pope to commit murder and send himself to hell. Someone whose horrible poetry HAD sent people to hell.
His steph-daughter.
Elph.
Carrot paced in the Pouffouffs living room, hands in his pockets, completely bored. He had been waiting for over an hour for his bodyguardee to emerge from her room. He wanted to take her to Section 42 so she could meet the people responsible for her safety. Truly, he was the only one actually trying to protect her, but that knowledge would be sure to scare her, not to mention make her laugh at him. Again. Finally, Elph materialized in the living room. Carrot hid his surprise at her choice of J-rockesque wardrobe. She was wearing a black corset-style tank top, a black ruffled petticoat and black thigh-high stockings with bows at the top. Her eyes were lined in black and she wore rose-coloured lipstick. The agent looked nervously at her and said, "Right... lets get going. We're taking the bus."
Wordlessly, Elph followed Carrot to the bus stop at the end of her street. Time passed. The bus arrived several minutes later and the two teens got on. Uncomfortable conversation ensued.
"So...er...Elpheezeeay-a"
"Elph."
"Alright, Elph. What a name."
"Coming from the guy named Carrot."
"Why are you dressed like THAT?"
"Because I felt like it."
"You did it just to annoy me! I'm dressed formally and you decided to balance it out. How nice. From now on, you wear your school uniform when youre around me. Capiesce?"
Elph raised an eyebrow with a "what the fuck do you think youre talking about, fucker?" expression on her face.
"Everyone's staring at you," said Carrot, annoyed.
"Tch. They're not staring. Watch." SMACK. Everyone on the bus turned to look at the unlikely pair.
"See, NOW they're all staring!" Elph said contentedly.
Diphthong was completely bummed out. He STILL hadn't succeeded in bumping off That Chinese Woman. Worst of all, he was beginning to think he didn't WANT to get rid of her. Diphthong shuddered. It couldn't be. The woman had sapped his creative juices, was all. He sighed and mechanically planned yet another boring murder. The last twelve or so had become so humdrum and Diphthong couldn't seem to deride the sort of pleasure he used to in planning a capital crime. He contemplated trying out that meat cleaver collecting dust over the family fire-pit.
He had not yet determined whether it cleaved/clove/cleft people as well as meat. Diphthong suspected it did just fine. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. Wife # 100 just didn't inspire the same old homicidal thoughts. What could be wrong with her? He searched through the chaos on his workbench and shuffled papers, folders, half-eaten sandwiched and his prized bubble-gum wrapper collection, looking for a particular item. Frustrated, he relocated the heap of junk to a prime position on the dirty, messy floor. There, on top of the file-pile, was Diphthong's most prized possession. A small, battered flower-covered volume lay smack-dab in the middle of the floor. A brave beam of light pushed through the mouldy and dusty curtains to bathe the tome in ethereal light. Diphthong bent and reverently picked up the book, turning it around in his hands like a much beloved, long lost favorite novel. Diphthong, however, preferred non-fiction, especially self-help, which was exactly what the book was.
He opened the cracked cover to the very first page. His breath caught as he observed the title, lovingly inscribed by careful hands.
"The Little Pocket Book of Murder" or "Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Heinously Fiendish Murder But Were Afraid to Find Out in Case You Were Caught and Left to Rot in Jail," or "Butchering Babes for Beginners" ...and on and on for another page and a half.
After Elph slapped Carrot, very little conversation ensued. Five minutes later, the bus pulled to a stop on La Rue Maudite, in front of a shoddy-looking building with a flashing neon sign that read "The Slippery Pole".
"Yep, this is where we get off," said Carrot warmly.
Elph paused for a second until it dawned on her. "AEURGH! This is a gay strip club!"
Carrot grinned broadly. "It gets better." Grabbing her hand, he dragged Elph inside. Naturally she started screaming and flaiing her arms about uselessly. Carrot kicked the door open and they were inside.
Elph stopped screaming for a moment, as anyone entering a gay nightclub for the first time would. Then, she felt that severe sense of depression that most females would in a room full of hundreds of desirable men that were unfortunately gay. Well, many of them looked rather effeminate, and some had figures that would make even Pamela Anderson jealous, but the tight thongs that most of the wore left little room for doubt.
After noticing all this, Elph continued to scream. Carrot dragged her to the bathroom amidst cheers and catcalls from amorous men.
"That boy has a fi-i-i-ne body, man! Whered you find him?" asked a fat, balding Quebecois.
"Oh, picked him up from school!"
While he said that, he swung Elph up into his arms and strode, winking, into the bathroom.
Carlos Sanchez waited impatiently for his Mexican lover-boy to get off the can. Paolo had unfortunately eaten the bad batch of sushi and was now worshipping the toilet god. In Technicolor.
Carlos glanced at his watch and tapped his foot.
"Come on, kid, we don't have all day. We've had to stop at every single rest stop in Quebec. Suck it up, princess!"
Paolo miserably wiped the spittle from his pouty lips. "Stop calling me princess," he said acidly. He got back into Carlos' rental Geo Metro, attempting to maintain a semblance of dignity and failing utterly.
"Let's blow this sushi stand," said Carlos happily.
Paolo groaned and raced for the washroom looking rather green.
Carlos smacked himself in the head and forced himself to count backward from a million. By the time Paolo exited the rest room, Carlos had reached three hundred two thousand, nine hundred seventy-six and his wits end.
"Get in the damn car and be happy, dammit. We are getting to Quebec City and we are going to be happy on the way, dammit. Get it, dammit?
"Got it, dammit."
"Good. DAMMIT."
Sixteen miserable stops later, Carlos and Paolo made it to the outskirts of the rough side of Quebec. They were making their way down La Rue Maudite when Paolo suddenly clutched his stomach and made a gagging sound.
"Not again," grumbled Carlos, why don't you just bite the big one now and save us some trouble? -oh, we're here! Just in time for my supplier meeting..." Carlos parked his car and scurried into a shady abode. Paolo reluctantly followed Carlos into the building.
"A gay nightclub? It just HAD to be a gay nightclub. What kind of a business meeting takes place in a GAY NIGHTCLUB?!" His stomach lurched and all negative thoughts about the establishment vanished in the utter agony of sushi-sickness.
Carlos looked like a kid in a candy store as he surveyed the line of exotic male dancers.
"Go find yourself a toilet, Paolo. I'm BUSY." Paulo barged into the bathroom and shoved open the nearest stall, oblivious to the OUT OF ORDER sign hanging on the door. He didn't hear the muffled curse, seemingly uttered by the regular washroom fixtures. He finally finished spilling his guts and flushed the toilet. This time he did notice the shout echoed by the plumbing as he was flushed down a large chute. FUCK!
One fateful day, approximately 2000 years after some dude got nailed to a tree-like structure, (or several billion years after some large explosion rocked the socks off the great void of the universe, depending on your point of view) the great Powers That Be decided that a second religious revolution was needed. They planted a large seed into the minds of two twisted, diabolical and generally hopeless individuals that grew into the inescapable compulsion to write silly stories in classes when they were supposed to be paying attention. The writing all went well and good, until one day, individual pats on the back were not enough
The Powers That Be, each having suffered minor apoplectic fits at the incorrigibility of the Chosen Ones, decided that these messiahs would be granted several disciples. And lo! there were disciples. But ordinary, run-of-the-mill disciples were not enough
The first disciple was named Elisha, and she introduced many entirely pointless yet twisted ideas that somehow never made it into the story. The second was Brian, brother of a Chosen One. He wasnt very good. The 58-year0old man named Caitlin was next, though he was too busy molesting young boys to devote much time. Cynthia and Ariana were intrigued by Quintessentialism, but were rather useless to the faith. No one knows quite how James became a disciple of Quintessentialism, but his randomness and sick mind have been a beautiful minefield of creativity. Alix was a good disciple; she laughed at the stupid moments, grinned at the innuendo, and generally enjoyed her job. Adam is the disciple that everyone likes to pretend does not exist. And then there was Chris--a veritable Judas. He did not even believe in the power (or existence) of the WORD Quintessential. SPLITTER. Perhaps the greatest disciple of allalmost as revered as the Chosen Ones and infinitely more faithful--was Andre.
Of all the disciples, Andre The Golden was perhaps the least likely. Intelligent, nice and not at all twisted and sadistic, the Chosen Ones really had no freaking clue as to what the hell this Golden Boy was doing reading the Chosen Ones story. They chalked it up to hormones and let it pass.
Soon, however, it became apparent that he was more than what he seemed. He toiled and toiled, reading each Quintessential chapter, story, poem and perusing the off-colour pictures, laughing at all of them. He encouraged and advised, scanned and researched, and through it all, he never gave up on the dream of Quintessential.
In Quintessentialism, there is no heaven, only Hell. And the Golden will have an entire group of tortured souls to rule over. He will be able to poke, prod, vaporize or castrate anything he wishes, to make up for his goodness and faithfulness in life. So it had been foretold by the Chosen Ones, so it shall be.
If you would like to support Andre the Golden's ascension to exalted power and general ruthlessness, send cash, cheques or money orders to an anonymous bank account in the Cayman Islands. We might consider giving Andre the money, but what the heck, hes going to hell anyway, right? Lotto tickets will be bought in bulk instead, and if any one of the pays off, we promise to give some of our winnings to the Golden Boy of Quintessential for cashing in on his good name.
Elph grumbled the entire way to the bathroom. "Boy..." grumble garble spit "...fine body..." murmer mutter spit "...boy with breasts my ASS!"
"You should be flattered," said Carrot, winking slyly. "Francois has a reputation for being very discerning." He pushed open the door to the men's room. (The men impersonating the kind of women who always did remind you of men imitating women's room was down the corridor and currently occupied.) She followed the red-head into the bathroom looking slightly mystified.
Carrot seemed to understand the turn Elph's thoughts had taken. "I wouldn't try too hard to imagine the mechanics of the situation," he said. "Some things are just meant to remain undiscovered."
Elph grimaced. "No kidding." She took stock of the dingey room in which she found herself. Peeling paint and wallpaper clung desperately to the walls and the tiles on the floor were chipped, uneven and discoloured. Elph didn't even want to think about what caused the stains. The faucets dripped and leaked and an ominous rumbling emanated from the third stall from the end. She joined Carrot in a stall marked "OUT OF ORDER", scowling indignantly. "This is IT?! This is the famed Section Forty-Tw--whoa!"
As she spoke, Carrot reached over to flush the toilet. A small trap door opened in the floor. Elph and Carrot tumbled down the chute at a rather improbable speed until they came to a point where the tunnel diverged into three sections. Carrot stopped their forward progress by ramming his feet into the sides of the chute. He was well practiced, Elph noticed, as she crashed into his back. He pinted to the tunnel on the left. "That leads to Op Tech, where all our spy gadgets and gizmos are made, tested and stored. The right hand tunnel is where we're going. Special Ops. All the agents hang out there, gathering intel, sipping coffe, eating pizza et cetera, et cetera. All that spy stuff," he finished lamely.
He made a move to turn down the right hand tunnel. "Hey, wait a minute," interrupted Elph." Where does that tunnel go?" she asked, pointing to the dark tunnel running straight ahead.
"That," said Carrot, "Is interrogation. You do NOT want to go there. Nasty fall, for one. Also, sets off alarms all over Section 42. Bells, whistles, lights, the whole shebang. That's where we shove prisoners and its also usually where trespassers end up. Saves us the trouble of added security to move them after the fact." He started down the right hand tunnel. "Let's go! I haven't got all day!"
"Yeah, right," muttered Elph under her breath. "It's not like you could get a hot date."
They slid down the tunnel quickly, gradually losing momentum as the tunnel's incline lessened. Elph saw a light at the end of the tunnel (a real one, not a metaphysical one) just before a buzzer sounded and a metal gate slid up to allow them to rocket out of the tunnel and into an extremely well placed barcalounger.
Carrot landed in Elph's lap.
"Get off me, you overgrown lapdog!" she said threateningly, jabbing him with her elbow. "Show me the damn office!"
Carrot yelped, nursing his ribs and led the way out of the room. "So, uh...what do you want to see?"
"Everything," said Elph simply.
"Of course you do." Carrot sighed. "I thought you would." He showed her the office, the lobby and the breakroom. He gave her the tour of Op Tech, Special Ops, the computer labs the vault and even the parking garage. "Surely you've seen enough," said Carrot, panting and out of breath.
"This is supposed to be and inteligence agency. Where's all the INTELLIGENCE?!" demanded Elph.
"You mean like records? I can't show you that, you don't have clearance--"
Elph grabbed his arm and squeezed. "Show. Me. NOW."
"Yes ma'am," said Carrot very, very quickly.
"So, let's get going."
Carrot led Elph down a few corridors and stopped in front of an inconspicuous-looking white door. He glanced about furtively for a few moments and, producing an ID card, opened the door.
"This is the archive," he said, "And I could get into deep shit for letting you in here. What's so special about a bunch of dusty old files?"
Elph wandered around the room, stopping in front of a huge filing cabinet and opened the drawer marked PO-PU. She rifled through it, ignoring Carrot's constant supplications to refrain from touching anything. "Can it, stick boy," was all she said. She finally found what she was looking for. "Aha! Diphthong's record!" She hefted the thick file and flipped though it with interest. "Got to hand it to him, he really is creative. In a sociopathic kind of way," she added. A little metal device caught her attention. It had a small LCD disply which flashed green before switching off. The little red LED on the end of it blinked a few times before ceasing. Elh found it (mis-filed, obviously) under the heading "Popular Mechanics" with a bunch of dusty old magazines, but its purpose was obvious. It was a hand-held time travel device. "Well, that's all I wanted to see. Let's go," said Elph, quickly closing the drawer with a thunk. But not before palming the device.
Carrot breathed a sigh of relief and they exited the room. Footsteps sounded down the next hall. "If they catch us here, they'll--I'll..." He grabbed Elph's hand and launched himself thought the nearest door, dragging Elph with him.
A strange wailing sound came from just above Carrot's head.
"FUCK!"
Diphthong paced excitedly in his shed. Now that he had someone to kill, he had to find a creative way of dispatching the unfortunate individual. He particularly enjoyed the premeditation part of the whole murder process--it allowed him to not only be mean and diabolical, but rather creative as well. He especially loved to make the murders ironic or poetic, so it had to be something a teenager would do...
Diphthong thought long and hard, the gears in his brain moving to the tune of the Jeopardy! theme song. Just as the thought-provoking ditty reached its end, Diphthong had decided on the perfect course of action to murder Elph.
A theme park.
And to appeal to her sensibilities as an angsty teen, a theme park called "Hell".
It was retribution for all the times she had told him to go to hell. Payback for the days he wore a new outfit and she reacted with, "What the HELL?!" Revenge for the frequent warnings "You're going to hell." And most of all, reckoning for all the eye rolls, cruel glares and mocking stares that all but screamed, "I'd rather be in hell." He'd make her regret ever saying--er...thinking that.
But first, there was research to be done. Diphthong was nothing if not thorough. He toiled away for long hours, sifting through dusty tomes, stacks of decayed magazines and twenty years' worth of old newspapers, compiling data, making notes, planning his scheme.
Diphthong stayed in his shed all night, meticulously recording every detail of his sordid little business venture. He emerged from the shed at sunrise, victorious and completely naked.
"EEEWWW! ERG! UG! My RETINAS! Ahhh! Help! What the hell are you DOING?!" It was Elph. Finding that she didn't relish the thought of being caught snooping in federal archives, Elph decided to make the little device she had found take her home. She regretted her decision now.
"Er...communing with the elements. Refreshing. Quite envigorating. You should try it."
"You wish." She rolled her eyes in her best What-the-fuck-do-you-think-you're-doing-fucker? mode. Classic Elph.
He stalked back into his shed and fumbled for his clothes, more determined than ever to kill her in a most excruciating way.
Elph's voice drifted through the door. "Thanks for the enlightening view. I now have a jiggly picture of you, buck naked, seared into my brain. Two words, buddy--Slim Fast!"
Gray clouds formed ominously in the sky.
An almost inhuman howl emanated from the shed. "Who stole my underwear?!"
Elph couldn't answer. She was already on her way back to Section 42. With Diphthong's underwear.
After flushing the out of order toilet in the gay nightclub, Paolo discovered that all of his plans for a nice evening puking in private had been quite literally flushed down the toilet. A trap door opened in the floor and Paolo took a short but imminently nauseating ride down what looked like a bloated dryer chute. The expletive that burst out of his mouth was echoed by a curious-looking read-haired boy standing directly beneath the chute. A spectacular crash followed Paolo's tumble down the toilet. Thankfully the spindley red-head had broken his fall.
"Sorry, did I hurt you?" asked Paolo anxiously, still on top of the red-head.
In the commotion, no one noticed Elph's absence, nor did they notice her sudden return. She didn't know whether to be relieved or affronted.
The boy groaned. "No, my spine broke our fall."
"Oh, er...thanks."
"Anytime.
"Really? Because I could--"
"NO! Not REALLY! I was being sarcastic you odious toad!"
Paolo had the dignity to look mildly affronted. "I can't HELP it. I've been tossing my cookies for the better part of two days. YOU try smelling like a daisy after 48 hours of wallowing in your own vomit."
The young man began to turn rather green, which looked very odd with his orange hair. "I'll pass, if it's all the same to you."
Paolo shrugged and took a look around. The room in which he had currently...entered looked extremely complicated and supremely ineffectual. Knobs and buttons were prominently displayed, bulging importantly. Important-looking printouts were spewed out of massive, important-looking machines, to be collected by important-looking men and women in business suits and the occasional harried genius wearing sweats and a T-shirt. A whirring sound permeated the room, in delicate counterpoint to the hundreds of tiny, important-looking light bulbs affixed to the machines, flashing on and off like Christmas trees in December. It all looked rather like something out of Star Wars.
The boy who broke Paolo's fall managed to look smug while surreptitiously rubbing his buttock. The girl next to him just looked bored.
"What IS this place?" Paolo asked, awestruck.
"This PLACE is--"began the boy, speaking in a superior tone of voice.
"Section 42," interrupted an important-looking man. A dozen armed security guards closed ranks around him menacingly. "And YOU are...TRESPASSING!"
Johnnie Canoe, a Native Canadian bartender employed at the Slippery Pole wiped down the polished wood bar until it gleamed, as bartenders are wont to do. This task completed, he leaned against said bar, his hand on his chin. A casual observer could tell that he was obviously pondering some unsolvable mystery due to the classical Thinker pose as well as the stump of his thumb wiggling energetically, as if to stroke a non-existent moustache with his non-existent thumb.
The unsolvable mystery that Johnnie Canoe was pondering was rather stupid, if you really want to know. Johnnie was attempting to discover HOW exactly one would go about putting knee-socks on a gerbil and, more importantly, WHY one would want to do such a thing in the first place. This was, of course, a pointless train of thought since everyone knows that gerbils have Gerbil Ideas that are not subject to the laws of physics.
The boisterous, good-natured mood of the bar suddenly froze as the cheerful jingle of the pole dancers hung over the doorway announced a new patron.
A tall, black-haired woman with an unfortunate resemblance to a bean pole entered the bar, obviously looking for someone. Her tall black army boots were low-heeled and entirely practicalpractical, that is, if you plan on mounting a month-long expedition through the Siberian wilds chasing tigers and all manner of dangerous beasts.
The wearer of the boots, however, had never tromped down mountains and over streams. In fact, it should be added that she likely lacked even a single adventuresome bone in her body.
Ivana Lopitov was actually a cut-rate, low-quality surgeon. Her shoe-polish black hair and her sharp, angular features made people wonder why she hadn't tried a little somethin' somethin' on herself, but after immigrating from her native Russia, Lopitov set up shop in Quebec's underworld, performing sub-par surgery on unsuspecting ugly people.
Johnnie Canoe had his first encounter with Lopitov when he went to her to get cheap butt implants. He came out of surgery with a fantastic ass, but minus two rather important opposable thumbs. He shivered slightly, remembering her cruel treatment, but mostly recalling the horrible phantom itches he still sometimes experienced in his stubby digits.
Johnnie Hurriedly ducked behind the bar, ignoring the amorous couple getting it on next to the ouzo by his left ear. A frightened yelp followed by a pattering sound and a small Chinese man diving behind the bar caught Johnnie's attention, especially since the man was pacing on all fours like a caged guinea pig, which really wasn't forgivable, considering how he now smelled of urine.
The pole dancers over the doorway jingled again as Ivana left, evidently having given up finding her quarry.
Johnnie Canoe and the small Chinese man stopped shuddering and poked their heads above the bar.
She was gone.
Johnnie gave a huge sigh of relief and went back to wiping the bar. He did, after all, have a job to do.
If you would like us to stop shamelessly begging for money, send us your name, credit card and PIN number and we'll be sure to take your concerns into account. Our bank accounts, actually
After watching Paolo and Elph get frog-jumped out of Section 42, Carrot began to think that it wasn't such a good idea to give Elph such a thorough tour of the inner workings of a secret intelligence agency.
"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!" screamed Agent Jones. "Do you know how many national secrets you just leaked?! We're going to the world's fucking biggest bonfire in a matter of minutes to get rid of all the top secret documents you just compromised!" he screamed, waving his meaty fist menacingly. His face was growing purple with surpressed rage and his crew-cut was starting to look a little unkept.
"So...now would be a bad time to ask for a raise?"
"NO SHIT, SHERLOCK! This is worse than Watergate. The Liberal sponsorship scandal. Where's our deniability? This is worse than Tim Horton's running out of fucking BOSTON CREMES!"
"Tim Horton's ran out of Boston Cremes?"
"NO, YOU IDIOT!"
"Then what's the problem?" asked Carrot.
"The PROBLEM, you moron, is that a freaking pizza boy--"
"--Intern--"
"--Whatever, single-handedly managed to screw over a whole government agency. The entire population of Canada will feel the repercussions of a supremely stupid act and it wasn't even a politician who caused it!"
"Hm. Go figure. And to think I was under the impression that I could make a difference in this country. Can't imaging how I made that mistake. I mean, this IS Canada..." Carrot babbled.
Jones' eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you trying to be smart with me?" He shook his head, not waiting for an answer. "You REALLY shouldn't have done that. I don't LIKE it when my brainless lackies suddenly grow brains." HE smiled evilly, turned on his earpiece and said, "Nora, would you please gather the staff."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Jones."
"And Nora, tell them to come prepared. We have a body cavity search on the way."
"I'll pass out the rubber gloves, sir."
"Thank you Nora."
Carrot gulped.
Diphthong settled into a precariously balanced stool in the cozy little bistro found on one of Quebec's more reputable street-corners. The Wet Noodle was a charming little establishment full of colourful characters and shady dealings. Diphthong was awaiting an underground contact, Francois Peugeot and trying desperately to seem unperturbed by the wobbling stool upon which he was currently stationed. Peugeot was rumoured to have connections to the best hit men around, and Diphthong was thinking of delegating a little work to some hired guns. Diphthong refused to use guns anymore, however, on the grounds that they were painfully obvious and terribly uncreative. He was simply too discerning. And he had more class than to mercilessly slaughter people...without making it interesting, of course. He espied Peugeot enter the bistro and leaned back, attempting to wave the man over nonchalantly. He wobble uncertainly for a moment, leaned forward, almost overcompensated and flailed about for a moment before finally righting himself. He sat demurely and waited for Peugeot to notice him.
"M. Poufouffs, I presume?" asked a high, nasally voice.
"Ah, M. Peugeot! And now I know why you prefer to talk on the phone. I wondered, you know," said Diphthong politely.
Peugeot seethed quietly for a moment before addressing Diphthong again. This time with a noticeably lower tone. "This is a business meeting, if I'm not mistaken. Mind if I chew?" He preduced a piece of Double Bubble bubble gum.
"Uhm...no, not at all.
"Good," replied Peugeot, noisily unwrapping the candy and popping it in his mouth. After a moment or two of concentrated chewing, he spoke around the wad balled up in his cheek. He noticed Diphthong's disgusted expression, mistaking it for jealousy. "Uh, want some?" he asked. This came out with a bit of a lisp on account of the piece of gum, now flattened to the roof of his mouth.
Diphthong shuddered. "God no! Let's get down to buthineth...Business! Business!"
Peugeot scrutinized him for a second, feeling as if he was being mocked. "Right...um. 'Hell'."
"I need staffers," began Diphthong. "Preferably of the more unscrupulous variety. Not opposed to dirty work, long hours, hauling bodies--that sort of thing. And on a personal aside, I need a motto, and I'm having the DEVIL of a time coming up with one."
Peugeot snorted.
Diphthong glared at him, taking it as a personal affront. "There's no need to be rude. My creative juices are a little...stretched at the moment."
"No, no, no. 'The devil of a time'. It's funny."
"Oh! Right, right, right. But I was thinking of something different. Something that rhymes," said Diphthong.
"You mean like...'K-I-L-L, slaughter, murder'...something something. I'm drawing a blank. End with 'You'll have the devil of a time!'"
"Aha!" Diphthong shouted, attracting several idle glances from the bistro's patrons. "GO TO HELL!"
"Pardon ME!" screeched Peugeot. "DIE BITCH!"
"Cat fight!" shouted a customer. "Let's get it on!"
The tables and chairs in the establishment were cleared and a ring of bystanders had gathered around the two men in a matter of seconds.
"What? It rhymes!" Diphthong glanced around nervously. "I was always more into the PLANNING of heinous crimes myself..."
"And I never was very good with my hands," admitted Peugeot, terrified.
They bolted from the bistro in a flurry of arms and legs.
"Thanks for the help!" yelled Diphthong.
"No problem!" hollered Peugeot. "I'll have three guys for you on Monday!"
"Thank you!"
"You're welcome! Have a nice day!"
Disgusted bistro-goers went back to their tables, dejected. "Pussies!" a lone voice called after them.
The only response was a wave as the two schemers sprinted down the street.
Carrot was understandably glum. Just as the prospect of a colonoscopy is distasteful to a fifty-something man, so was the anticipation of a body cavity search to Carrot. He waited in the sterile lounge of Section 42 with the air o f someone with hemerrhoids sitting/squating on an inflatable doughnut in the proctologist's office, and praying that the ravening mob that was about to strip him buck-naked would be gentle.
There was little chance of that.
"Mr. Jones will see you now," said a cute brunette, opening the door and shooing him out. Carrot recognized the voice as "Nora" the secretary with the rubber gloves.
"Hey, hey, Nora, right? Listen, I've got to tell you, I have an aversion to public embarassment. And I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to latex--"
"Come along please." She paused. "And really, no bawling. It's just disgraceful."
"I'll keep that in mind," said Carrot, attempting a weak smile.<./p>
They walked down a short hall--too shot, in Carrot's estimation--and stopped outside a big white door. The sign hanging precicely in the middle of the door read "Please knock first". A hastily scrawled missive was taped directly under the sign. "You do NOT want to know what's going on in here. Get out while you can...SUCKERS!"
"I don't suppose this is going to be one of my more pleasant life experiences so far, is it?" Carrot mused aloud.
Nora just waited patiently. He was taking this all rather well, all things considered...
Carrot took a breath and reached for the doorknob. "Wish me luck," he said sadly.
Nora pulled a rubber glove on with a snap. "Luck has nothing to do with it."
Carrot yanked the door open and charged inside, as wild bulls are sometimes wont to do. "Help me! She's insane! Heeeelllllpppp mmmeeeeeee!
His cries dwindled into insignificance as the people in the caverous room attacked, screaming war chants and Monty Python songs at the top of their lungs.
Only a small cry managed to break through the din caused by the advancing hordes. "Hey! DON'T touch me there, you sick-o! You have a wife and children!"
Life was not easy for a transsexual police officer with three pierced nipples who happened to own a dickless dog. It was even harder for a transsexual police officer with three pierced nipples and a dickless dog and who had recently been fired.
Ex-deputy Pablo Escobar sat at his usual corner table at The Slippery Pole, nursing a glass of Kahlua and trying to get himself pissed-drunk. Ever since he had framed some hooker for drug trafficking a few years ago, things had started to go wrong in a very big way. He was shot in the buttock by a 93-year-old grandmother who attempted to rob a bank, had suffered through a messy divorce, watched his dog get run over and further maimed by a renegade teenager on a moped and had become the victim of an experienced cat-burglar who thought it was a very good joke to pilfer every last possession owned by the very cop who was trying to put him away. (He also thought it was a hoot to dress like a cat in the act--ears, tail and all.) Pablo could do nothing but leave the British Virgin Islands in shame, so he boarded the next flight he could get and ended up in Quebec. (It should be noted that Pablo's luggage was lost by the airline and he had to rely on Canadian fashions to get him through the day.) And, to add insult to injury, all three of his pierced nipples had become infected. He really WAS in Hell.
Pablo then noticed a young man with a rather uneven gait walk up to his table.
"Deputy Escobar. Fancy meeting you here."
Pablo blanched. It was none other than Jeff, the exotic pole dancer whose life he had ruined. He gulped. "Hey...Jeff! So...how's the limp?" he asked, then clamped his mouth shut. Of all the things to say...
Jeff seemed unfazed. "I wouldn't mind so much, you know, but it's in my favorite leg," he said conversationally.
"You mean..."
"Yes," Jeff answered matter-of-factly. "Apparently, even the little blue pill can't take care of that. He sat down in the chair opposite Pablo's. "Well. This is awkward. I suspect you're feeling rather uncomfortable, what with you ruining my life and all."
"I suppose a little guilt is to be expected," replied Pablo cautiously.
"I should say. It's hardly polite to plant cocaine into the fishnet stockings of some poor, random exotic pole dancer. Damned bad form. "Jeff waved over a waiter and ordered a Shirly Temple. "I'm here on business, scoping out the international competition and what not. It's not bad here." He accepted his beverage from the waiter and took a sip, smacking his lips in appreciation. "What brings you out to lovely Quebec?"
"Uhm..." Pablo's mind raced. "My dog. Needs surgery. Reconstruction, re-attachment...hum drum, really."
"I see. Well, I must be off. No hard feelings, eh?"
"Of course." Pablo watched Jeff limp out of the nightclub and settle into a waiting limo.
"Some guys get all the breaks."
Now's probably a good time to tell you that we lied. Jeff did, in fact, make a second appearance--a comeback, if you will. We kind of felt bad about the sad state of affairs we left him in, and evidently, he was far more interesting than we gave him credit for.
A few weeks after Pablo's encounter with Jeff, the limping pole dancer took pity on Pablo and gave him a hefty sum of un-traceable money. (Oddly enough, all in singles, which we don't happen to have in Canada, but which are readily available in the United States, and with the exchange...) If you can find it in your heart to feel pity for Pablo's predicament (or perhaps just appreciate a good alliterative phrase) send money (singles not necessary) to us and we'll keep it safe FROM him. What? The guy was part of an inter-office drug ring. He;d probably just spend it all on a good fix anyway. We'd be doing him a FAVOUR by keeping drug money away from him, if you really want to know...
Carlos Sanchez was enjoying himself immensely. He had a banana daiquiri in one had and a slippery pole in the other. The gay nightclub's name had been derived from its patrons' tendency of getting liquored up and attempting a pole dance. Carlos was no exception, and if he was the worst dancer that anyone in the club had ever seen (by far), the other denizens of the club opted not to notice due to the fact that he hadn't put out anyone's eye. Yet. He was working on it though. The song ended and he tumbled off the pole and the stage in one prolonged fall.
"I am...OKAY!" slurred Carlos, noticeably drunk. "Jush can' sheem to get up off th' floor. An' I ashume the floor is shiftin' because of the erno..emor...enormous earthquake shakin' out our way. No? Right then, I'm smrah...shmashed. Wha's wrong with my mouth..." He promptly passed out, wrapped around a table leg.
The couple sitting at the table, including a young man in drag, jumped up and moved to another table. The he/she clutched at his pleather mini skirt and shuffled away precariously on his 9-inch heels. (With The Hooker Strap TM.)
The young man's companion raised an eyebrow and asked, "Paolo, is THIS Carlos?"
"Yes, he's my--er--well, I'm his Mexican lover-boy. Miss Elph, do you see my plight? He treats my like dirt half the time, and he is constantly dragging me to these seedy establishemts."
Backtrack a little, Romeo--Mexican LOVER BOY?! If that's what you are to him, what is he to you?"
"Money," said Paolo quite simply. "Food, board, travel..."
"But you don't have any affection for him?" she askeed, looking at the now-hula-ing Carlos out of the corner of her eye, "do you LOVE this man, even in a non-freaky way?"
"IS there a non-freaky way?" He sighed. "No. My parents sold me in the Caribbean when I was just a young boy. I will never love."
Elph rolled her eyes for what seemed like the umpteenth time that night. She checked her pocket watch. (It was all the lolita-rage.)
Carrot emmerged from the bathroom limping and breathing heavily. His hair was messy, his white dress shirt grimey and misbuttoned. He was weaving on his feet and he looked rather punch drunk.
A small crowd gathered, murmering curiously. "Uh...tough night?" he offered, blushing uncomfortably.
"It's about time you vegetable. We've been waiting FOREVER, and your pervy friends keep hitting on me," Elph said, gesturing to a bunch of leering men lingering around the bar.
"I was...uhm...detained," replied Carrot. "Official business and whatnot."
"Looks like you were busy getting "serviced" by a priest," said Elph disdainfully. "You're flying low, Lothario."
Carrot grabbed at his fly, turned around and, ducking behind a handy transsexual, zipped up quickly.
A little too quickly.
"Aieee!"
A few uneventful days had passed since the fateful meeting at The Slippery Pole. Uneventful, unless you considered Carlos forgetting Paolo's birthday. Which he most certainly did.
"Paolo, sweetie, baby, I'm sorry!" exclaimed Carlos, in great dispair. "I really WAS thinking of something to get you, but I was distracted."
"By other men!" finished Paolo, sulking.
"But it's not like that! You know you're the only Mexican mammacita for me. Becides, I DID try to think of something you'd like..."
Paolo sniffled and, trying not to cry, wimpered, "But howm Carlos? HOW could you forget it was my birthday?" He shot Carlos a look and turned away from his guardian. He didn't turn away because Carlos was still wearing skin-tight leather pants and a mesh muscle-shirt. No, that unlikely outfit suited his tall, fairly muscular frame. He didn't turn away because the nurse costume he himself was wearing embarassed him. In fact, Paolo found the white of the uniform to be flattering against his pale skin. He turned away solely becasue at that precise moment, he had burst into tears and he didn't want Carlos to see him as even more of a wimp. It was not as if that was possible. Paolo was already know to have the masculinity of a My-Little-Pony.
"But...Paolo...I just didn't know what to get you!" said Carlos. "What would you want? You already have ME..."
"I don't care, just the thought would be enough!" cried Paolo. "Even jsut flowers! Or a rose! One single rose! A WILTED rose. A STEM, even! Just so I'd knnow you at least THOUGHT of me on my birthday."
With a final sniffle, Paolo leaped off the couch and ran out of the room with surprising agility for a stilleto-shod boy. Carlos called after him, but Paolo kept running through the maze of hallways of the Holiday Inn Express until he arrived in the lobby. There, he stopped to catch his breath and come up with a plan of action.
He thought long and hard until an idea finally came to him. Elph. she'd know what to do. Paolo left the hotel and becan walking down the street, in the general North-is direction where St. Sourira-du-Lac was located. How hard could it be to find a girl in a small-ish town anyways?
*
If life is not easy for a jobless transsexual police officer with three infected pierced nipples and a dickless dog, just think about how much it would suck to be the dickless dog.
Stumpy, a three-legged chihuahua with an attitude problem hobbled his way into a large structure in which his master, Pablo Escobar was in the process of making himself look like an ass. The establishment was called The Slippery Pole, which held absolutely no significance to Stumpy aside from the fact that inside could be found a very, VERY slippery pole. perfect to piss all over.
The whole "lifting the leg" business was a touchy subject with Stumpy.
He growled at a patron who was obviously a bit on the go, completely and blissfully unaware that he couldn't take anything bigger than a large-ish cockroach in a fight. He casually bit the leg of a customer so well into his cups that he would probably think it was a lover-bite (septic? quite possibly) in the morning. A few scratches, bites and many gnawed shoes and torn pants laater, Stumpy made his way to his master's table.
"Ahhh, little Stumpy," Pablo said, slurring his words just a little and scratching Stumpy on the neck, mindful of the leather jacket and studded collar. "You, my dear, have an aggression problem." He giggled.
Stumpy hears and assortment of sounds coming from the large hole in his master's face and cocked his ears.
Nothing.
Humans had to be SOOOO stupid. He gave a sort of grunt and a wuffle and pranced off to find some more stimulating entertainment.
He had never quite forgiven Pablo for the "neutering incident". Pablo, in an effort to save some cash decided to do the "responsible" thing and have a disgraced medical doctor have a go at "fixing" his dog, proving in the process the wise adage, "never let a doctor do a vet's job". (Or was it the other way around? Never mind.)
The alcoholic (and it must be said--at the time, inebriated) Russian doctor, Igor Lopitov, mistook Stumpy's raised leg for an entirely different appendage. In an attempt to rectify his accidental amputation, Lopitov also lopped off Stumpy's OTHER leg, if you get the drift. Re-attachment resulted in sideways urination, thus Stumpy's aversion to seein the proverbial man about his proverbial horse as well as his obvious aggression issues. All subsequent surgeries have failed.
If you would like to help poor Stumpy by a) getting him surgery to fix the whole "sideways urination" embarassment, b) getting him a prosthetic leg, c) getting him a prosthetic owner or d) buying him a new studded leather dog collar with 6" (15 cm) stainless steel spikes and bonus matching nose stud ($124.99 at Canadian Tire) send RRSP's, Canadian stocks, bearer bonds or various holy relics to us. After we have them converted into Canadian dollars, we ask you to send more, since the funds raised will obviously be enough to make options a) b) c) or d) a feasible plan. When we DO raise enough money, we will dutifully take our pay (as intermediaries) out of the total net funds, our pay most likely BEING the total net funds. All monies and/or priceless treasures are non-refundable, by the way. Thanks.