Fucking Day: The Maltese Asshole (Patreon)

Once, long ago, there was a comedy website that only wanted three simple things: to make people laugh, to teach them a few things, and to fight the entire cast of Step by Step in order of hilarity. It succeeded in two of those goals, before getting piledriven into the dirt by corporate scavengers. Some of its archives have been deleted, some of them have been corrupted, and some just suck. You decide which one this is. It’s…

She walked into my office like she was walking onto a beach in France. Sophistication, sex, grace. From the moment I saw her, I knew she was going to get me killed. Dames who look like that are a walking death sentence, just waiting for some poor schmuck to be the period, exclamation point, question mark, or semicolon (depending on use). She had legs that ran forever, clean and straight like the 15 to Vegas. Just like the 15, she probably had more truck drivers than you’d like in there, too. A lady like that, she's not an event, she's a situation -- she unfolds over years. Wow. Gross.

"Can I ask a favor?" She said, in a voice as deep and smoky as a philosophy debate for smokers.

"You can ask, doll," I replied, pouring myself an S&K (Scotch and Kool-aid).

"Is that… did you call me doll?" she asked, crossing and uncrossing those shiny meat ribbons she called legs.

"Only because I don’t know your name, sweetheart. Call me old fashioned, but I don't do favors for strangers."

I motioned at her with my drink, as if to offer her one. It was an empty gesture - I only had the one sippy cup, after all, and I put my name on it (because it's mine).

"It's me. It's Michael Swaim."

"Michael," I let my lips wander ahead of my thoughts, "curious name for a broad. Probably French for 'Michelle.’"

My thoughts ran my lips down and hit ‘em with their car. I clammed up -- something was off here. That accent, where was she from? Only one way to find out.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

"Uh...down the hall?"

“Ah,” I said, trying out the exotic name. “Downehall. Explains the accent. Well, now that we're finally acquainted, Michelle -- do you mind if I call you Michelle?"

"So, so much."

"What’s your business here, honeybucket?”

"Listen, we’ve got a problem here, I -- Honeybucket? Like the port-a-potties?"

She was disturbed, but curious. That’s how I choose to define “horny.”

"Hold on a second -- what's all this 'we' talk? I haven't agreed to anything yet."

This was moving too fast. I needed a minute to think. I walked to the window and looked out into the night. The night: The only lover that's ever stayed with me through the bad times, and the worse. The night: The only gal who's ever held me like a mother when I was too sick to stand. The night: When I was kicked and bleeding (often by horses; it's complicated,) she was always there to nurse me back to health. Her velvet snuggle was my constant companion. Yeah, I say ‘snuggle,’ what of it? The night, my night - my angry, sexy, kind of slutty night. I forgot where I was going with this, but my erection always points true north.

"Wh-Jesus Christ! Why! Why do you have a boner?" Michelle protested like she'd never seen one before.

A girl like that, she'd probably seen more boners than the second season of Growing Pains.

"I always get hard at sunset," I explained, "I'm a man of the night. But that's neither here nor there-"

"No, I'm pretty sure it's right there," she said, averting her eyes.

"You came to me for a reason," I steered her back to the matter at hand.

She was obviously a flighty little bird. I'm told that's not an unusual thing to be, for birds.

"Look, Jack says somebody's been stealing office supplies. Like, to an insane degree. Eighteen cases - cases, mind you - of toner went missing this morning. He said he's gonna have to fire somebody if it doesn't stop."

"So you want me to solve this case for you. Is that it, hotpants?"

"No, I want you to stop stealing toner.”

"Fine. I'm on the case. I get two hundred dollars a day plus expenses."

"You personally owe me over six hundred dollars."

"And there's one condition."

"No. The answer is no. Just stop stealing."

"When this is all over, you owe me a kiss. A broad like you, I figure you can get your hands on money without much ado. But a kiss? That'll mean something..."

She horked a little in her mouth. My flighty little bird.

Foster was an office supply manager with a nervous habit of chewing whenever he lied. I had lunch with him every day. The son of a bitch never told me a word of truth.

"A little birdie tells me some office supplies have gone missing," I said, giving him the steel eye.

"Because you steal them. Or is that you? Do you call yourself ‘the little birdie?’ now. That’s cool,” He said, lying into a Turkey sandwich.

"Nothing big before today, but it looks like somebody got a little greedy. Got in over their heads, maybe."

"Nothing big? Last month you stole a copy machine and rode it down the hill and into the marina. That was pretty big."

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"I...yes? I just told you about it. Just now."

He was playing pattycake with me, but with words. Pattywords, the rat bastard. I knew how to make him talk.

Tires screamed into the darkness like murder victims. The car rocked violently, swerving from lane to lane like a drunk after a three day bender. Also I was pretty drunk from this three day bender.

Sometimes you forget how mad this city is, and then you get on the roads and you see it up close and personal, smell the rotten stink of crazy on her breath. Life doesn’t mean much on these concrete rivers. Sometimes you'll turn a corner and they'll just be standing there in the middle of the road: Blank. Unaware. Waiting. Hoping. Praying for the sweet release of death. Sometimes that road is a sidewalk. Foster's face went pale when he spotted me. Joke’s on him: I was paler. I always am.

***

I scored myself a meeting with a man they call 'The Jack.’ He knew everything that went on in this town - hell, the bastard was responsible for half of it. If I was going to catch a lead anywhere, it would be here.

"We need to talk about Foster," he said, pointing at a seat.

I sat. People say a lot of things about me, but I’m no butt-dummy.

"What, you like my work?" I sneered.

"Like your...? You hit him with a car! My car!"

"He talked, didn't he?"

"I don’t fucking think so! His teeth are in your radiator! The man is in a coma!”

I got up to leave.

"Where the hell are you going?!" Poor fish just gaped at the air, sick to find it wasn’t water.

Most men don't turn their backs on The Jack and live to tell about it. Probably makes standing in line a god damn bloodbath.

"Seems like you're the one that's got questions for me. You want answers, you know where to find me.”

The Jack and his goon scooched into the diner booth like dogs that pooped dumb.

Yeah, I say ‘scooched.’ What of it?

"Who's the muscle?" I asked The Jack, downing my drink in one go.

I flagged the waitress for another. The headaches were killing me; if I don’t cut back on this crap it’s gonna kill me. Unless The Jack’s mook does it first.

"This is Harold Muntz. He's with Human Resources.”

"We've actually met before, Mr. Brockway,” Muntz mooked every word out like it overstayed its welcome in his mouth. “Every single day since we hired you, actually.”

"Man like that," I said, taking an eyeful of Muntz’s mookness, "seems like you only bring him around when you want to make a point."

"Why does he keep talking like that?" Muntz asked The Jack, his thick mook lips lubricating each word with idiocy before fucking them out into the air, "is he doing like a detective thing?"

"Ha ha, yeah it’s -- holy shit that’s it, isn’t it?” The Jack grabbed my lapels and shook. Got a good shake out of them, too. I like a hefty lapel. "You are not in a detective movie! You are in a Dairy Queen. You just got thrown out of the children's play area for fighting! You are drinking a Girlscout Cookie milkshake with extra sprinkles! You could not be any further, atmospherically, from a detective movie! You are wearing swim-trunks and combat boots!"

The Jack was screaming about something, but I couldn't focus. My head was spinning. Spinning with thoughts instead of booze, this time. Also some booze, to help the thoughts spin.

It all clicked: Somebody was playing me for a sucker here, and I had a pretty good idea who.

I bolted up and dropped Muntz with a fork to the neck before he could make a move on me.

"FUCKING!!” The Jack screeched.

He was rattled. A guy like that isn’t used to being ignored. Probably doesn’t like blood in his eyes, either.

I made for the door before the door could make for me. Don’t think about that one. Not every card’s an ace.

"I've got a theft to solve,” I told The Jack. “And if that life support doesn't hold out - maybe a murder."

"But you're the murderer!” He screeched nonsense. The only kind of sense he had left. “You hit him with my car!”

I left The Jack there, picking pieces of Muntz out of a chicken strip basket. I think it was a four piece. Whatever it was, it definitely had Texas Toast.

"Thought I'd find you here, Hot Pockets."

Michelle woke with a start, one hand scrambling to cover all the best bits with a sheet. It was fine, I already took two eyefuls. I paid for that show in blood and she didn’t give me any change.

"Wh....Brockway? This is my house, of course you'd find me here." Her voice was thick with sleep, but she took one look at my face and came right awake. She knew I had it all figured out. Or at least she knew I had a sword.

"Why do you have a sword?!"

"Because I figured it all out, donut holes," the sexy nicknames were losing some punch.

The poison must be taking effect. Too late. I put it all together too late.

"It all came together," I slurred. “Once I realized where I knew you from."

"The office, where we work together every day?"

"Cairo."

"Neither of us has ever been to Cairo. I am kind of amazed you know where that is."

"The museum job. You thought I could forget? Sure, you may have fooled me with your fancy accent..."

"I'm from San Diego."

"And I’ll admit, I was distracted when you flashed those pretty legs of yours, so long they could kick eternity in the face..."

"Okay, maybe I do show off my legs a little-"

"But then I remembered that necklace you wore, and it all clicked. The Japan heist."

"Egypt. Cairo's in Egypt."

"The Emperor's jewels went missing, along with this: The Sword of Omens."

"That’s from Thundercats."

"Then things went south for you, so you came to LA to find the one man you knew couldn't resist your charms. Me."

I swung the blade wildly into her headboard. She flinched, but she knew I couldn't do it. She peed a little just to sell the act.

I brought my face close to hers, our desire filling the air like smoke. I did light the entire downstairs on fire before coming up, so some of it was probably real smoke.

"That poison, though. I did not see that coming," I laughed a little. She played me like a sousaphone. The hardest to play instrument.

"What poison? Why does your breath smell like Project Reports? Have you...have you been drinking copy toner?"

"I did it for yoooouuuu," The room bucked like a rowboat caught in stormy waters. The poison was kicking in hard. My legs felt like cheap meat. My arms felt like discount meat. My eyeballs felt like free meat. I was all meat and none of it was full price, is what I’m getting at.

"You got me, baby, you got me good. But not before I solved the case."

"The office supplies? You stole them. That’s not ‘solving’ the -- ohhh, you drank all the toner. Right. I guess that's a solution.”

" You remember what you promised me? One consideration," I reminded her, "a kiss...a kiss before dying."

I seized her head and held the blade to her throat. It was an empty threat until I slipped and cut her some. It was an accident, but you know what they say: A threat’s just one accident away from the truth. They fucking say that.

“I always knew a woman would be the end of me,” I said.

"Okay. One more time: I am Michael. I have man parts," she protested.

"That's okay baby, we all have our man parts. I already know what yours are: Violence, greed, deception. Me? Mine's a penis."

"Mine t-"

I crushed my mouth on top of hers. The last thing a man hears shouldn't be meaningless words. My final sounds were the soft murmurs of the woman who killed me, the ebbing static tide of a distant highway, the questioning screech of smoke detectors, and for some reason the one song that's like "in the big country/ dreams stay with yooouuu!" Man, I hadn't heard that in forever.

Good song.

Junior Detective’s CrAzY cLuE: Some kids made this their film school class project! It’s the best! I hope they passed, but they probably didn’t!

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