Considering how much everyone enjoyed the last Bedtime Story I shared with you, I thought you might like this. It’s a shorter tale that my mom used to tell me during those days when she would rather be watching Quincy than tucking me into bed. It’s been a while, but I think it went something like this:

Once upon a time, inside a small aquarium, there lived a tiny fish by the name of Elmer. Unlike the other fish, Elmer didn’t like to hang out by the fake coral or play peek-a-boo in the plastic cave. No, she would rather stare at herself in the aquarium glass and daydream.

You see, Elmer was what we grownups call an “outcast.” None of the other fish liked her. She had an odd looking brown spot on her left side, and since her owners were too stupid to realize she was a female fish, she was christened with the name Elmer.

Elmer did have one friend, though: Pierre. Pierre was a snail who came from France, as all snails do, and he spoke with a funny French accent (as if there was any other kind of French accent). Whenever Elmer was feeling down, Pierre would be there to pick her back up.

One day, when the other fish were taunting Elmer, Pierre happened to be passing by.

“Don’ le’ zem upse’ you,” Pierre said in a barely coherent way.

“Ha ha ha,” Elmer laughed. “You talk funny.”

“Peez off,” Pierre replied. “Ween ah yew going to ge’ over id?”

“Ween ah yew?” Elmer mockingly replied. “What are you trying to say?”

Pierre gave Elmer a dirty look and then went about writing his message in the aquarium gravel. This took about three days, since Pierre couldn’t move too fast and he had no limbs in which to write with. The first message read: You Need To Get Ou.

“I need to get ou?” Elmer asked.

Pierre meant to write “Out,” but he failed to consider the size of the tank, and by the time he got to the end of his sentence, he had run out of room.

“Oh, fug me,” Pierre said.

“Ha ha ha,” Elmer laughed. “You talk funny.”

Three days later, Pierre had erased what he wrote in the gravel, and after three more days, he had managed to rewrite the “You Need To Get Out” message.

“Get out?” Elmer asked.

Pierre nodded, but it was difficult to notice, since he was a snail.

Six more days went by and Pierre managed to write in the gravel about a world outside of the aquarium. A magical world where fish could live free. Well, in not so many words. It was, after all, a small aquarium and Pierre was just a snail. Elmer asked Pierre how he could get to this magical place, and Pierre explained in his annoying accent that when the time was right, he would tell her.

Well, about two weeks later, Elmer was in a particularly down mood and was crying in the corner of the tank. Of course, since this was under water, you couldn’t really see the tears, but you could tell she was crying because of the way her little fish body was convulsing. At least I’m pretty sure she was crying. She may have been having a minor seizure. In any case, Pierre happend to be inching his way by on the side of tank.

“Wuzz wrong, Almare?” Pierre said with his funny accent.

“Oh, nothing, Pierre,” Elmer said. “I just got into a big fight with the other fish and they told me I wasn’t allowed on their side of the tank anymore.”

This was a particularly bad situation, since Elmer lived in a very small aquarium.

“Dohn wary, Almare,” Pierre said (duh, who else would it be?). “Averything whale be alrigh’.”

But Almare, I mean Elmer, continued to cry:

“Oh, Pierre. I want to go to that magical place. I want to be free.”

“Ane time, Almare. Ane time.”

“What?”

“Ade wheel ‘appen ane time.”

“Huh?”

“Naver mine.”

“What?”

“Fug! Yew won to go to zat ‘appy place?”

“Oh, yes, Pierre! Oh, yes!”

“Zen go! Now!”

“Now?”

“Oui!”

“How?”

“Go do zee dop of zee watare an jump as ‘igh as you can.”

It took Elmer a few minutes to figure out what Pierrre was trying to say. Then she quickly swam up to the top of the tank and attempted to leap out. Pierre inched his way up the tank, shouting words of barely-understandable encouragement:

“Eye-er! Eye-er!” he shouted.

Elmer tried with all her might to leap out of the water. As she was doing this, she drew the attention of the other fish, who swam up to have a laugh.

“Ha ha!” laughed one fish. “You can’t leap an inch, let alone an entire three inches to get out of the tank! Give it up, loser!”

Elmer looked back and saw all the fish laughing at her. She furrowed her brow and dove down to the bottom of the tank. She swam around the tank as fast as she could, then made a mad dash towards the surface of the water. Before she knew it, she was out of the water and arcing her way out of the tank. Elmer turned and smiled at the other fish who couldn’t believe what they were seeing. She was so high in the air, she seemed to be flying. After what felt like minutes, Elmer landed on the soft cushion of her owner’s couch and let out a tiny gasp.

As Elmer attempted to catch her breath, she smiled and looked around at her surroundings. The feeling of the air on her scales felt so strange. Still panting, Elmer decided she should get up and see what she could find. She moved her little fins and flapped around, but she couldn’t make herself upright. That’s when she realized that she couldn’t breathe. As Elmer gasped for air and flailed around in agony, she glanced up at the little fish aquarium and saw all the fish and Pierre laughing hysterically. Elmer’s vision became cloudy and then a bright light appeared before her. And then she died. The end.

The moral of this story: Never trust a snail. They’re from France.

CHAPTER 1: The Beginning

John was born on a hot winter’s day in the middle of a Wal-Mart parking lot. His mother, Anne, was so busy loading her bargains into her car that she didn’t even notice when she gave birth. In fact, had a passing motorist not yelled “Hey, you stupid bitch, you just gave birth!” the umbilical cord probably would’ve been severed with a car door. Ouch. Fortunately, this was not the case. As soon as Anne looked down and discovered a baby crying on the blacktop, she put out her cigarette, finished placing her bags in her car, then picked up John and sped off to the doctor’s office.

As Anne patiently sat in the doctor’s waiting room, she started to think about everything that led up to this moment: how she drank a little too much wine and slept with a few too many men. Not that Anne was in any way a slut. No, she just liked to have sex with anyone who would look at her. Or anything. But who really gives a shit about Anne? This is the story of John.

OK, let’s face it, Anne was an idiot. For the entire duration of her pregnancy, she had no idea she was with child. She just thought she was eating a few too many Oreos. And who in their right mind goes to the doctor’s office after giving birth? You go to the fucking Emergency Room, am I right? Yeah. But really, that’s enough about Anne. This is the story of John.

Oh, there’s one more thing you need to know about Anne: Not only was she the town whore, she advertised it proudly. She even had one of those magnetic signs stuck to her car. “I’m The Town Whore,” it read. Which you’d think would be pretty effective. But business was limited, since she forgot to include her phone number on the sign and stupidly stuck the thing to the roof of her car.

Yeah, you might say that when they were handing out brains, Anne probably screamed at hers, dropped it on the ground and stomped on it until someone could sedate her. That would explain why from the moment John had teeth, Anne fed him nothing but Oreo cookies. Regular Oreos were for snacks and the Oreos with Double Stuff were for dinner. For a side dish, Anne would painstakingly scrape out the filling of about 100 Oreos and serve it all in a bowl as sort of a mashed-potato-like thing. Only it tasted nothing like mashed potatoes. It tasted like sugar. And Crisco. Which is not good.

Needless to say, after a while, John’s teeth started to hurt. Anne explained that it was just because his jaw was growing and that the pain would eventually subside. And she was right. The pain did eventually subside, after John’s last tooth fell out. That’s when Anne realized John couldn’t survive on Oreo cookies alone. After all, since John no longer had any teeth, he was unable to get the nourishment that the dark chocolate Oreo wafer provided. Instead, Anne put him on a strict diet of whipped cream and pudding.

Now, when I say “pudding,” I’m not talking about dessert in general, as you Brits tend to do. No, I mean good old-fashioned American pudding. Chocolate Vanilla Swirl with calcium for growing bones. Anything but butterscotch. That shit is disgusting.

So where was I? Oh, right, John. The story of John. Do you really want to read about this? He’s just your average toothless pudding-eating guy who has a very popular mother. Are you sure? OK, fine. Fuck. I was hoping you’d say you didn’t, because I really have no fucking clue what to say about the kid. You know, when a guy asks you if you really want to hear about something, it usually means he doesn’t feel like talking about it. He also might say that if the person he’s telling the story to has fallen asleep or has shoved the barrel of a shot gun into his mouth.

I mean, if this was the story Anne, I could have told you about how she turned tricks for cookies and cake. Or how John wasn’t the first child she gave birth to in a parking lot. But like I said, this isn’t the story of Anne. It’s the story of John. Damn it. Why didn’t I make this the story of Anne? It would’ve been so much more interesting to read. Well, I guess this is the end of Chapter One. Fuck. I am so screwed. Which reminds me of another story about Anne.

Needless to say, the case of the Long-Distance Jumper didn’t go so well. About twenty minutes into my investigation that night, a real detective showed up and confiscated all of the cool things I had managed to put into little plastic bags. He then proceeded to lecture me on the consequences of destroying evidence and blah blah blah. Whatever. I decided to walk back to my office to have a scotch and soda.

After finishing my scotch, I cracked open a soda and took a swig. Bleh. It was root beer—not a good combination. I took a seat in my bitchin’ retro office chair and propped my feet up on the desk. The neon light from the strip joint across the street bathed the room in a soft pink hue. I kind of liked the effect, and for a moment, this made me wonder if I was gay.

That’s when she walked into the room. She was wearing a short, black raincoat and black heels that required a lot of balance to walk in.

“Mr. Keen?” she inquired.

“Who’s asking?” I grumbled.

“I’m Lorena Michaels. I require your services.”

“Have a seat, doll face.”

Lorena looked around the room. There were no seats to be found. Fuck. I blew that one. I quickly got up and offered her my seat. Lorena sashayed over and parked her caboose on my bitchin’ chair.

I started to pace around the room, because that’s what I figured I should be doing. “So what brings you here, Mrs. Michaels?”

“Ms.,” she replied, but she pronounced it as if it had nineteen Zs attached to the end of it.

“I see. So what brings you here, Mizzzzzzzzz Michaels?”

“I require your services.”

“Ah, that’s right. We’ve already established that. Well, let me explain my rates. I get $200 per hour. I play my own stuff. No Top 40 shit. If you want to hear Top 40, you need to find yourself another DJ.”

“DJ? I thought you were a private investigator.”

“Oh, well, that’s just a hobby.”

“I see,” She took out a cigarette and slid it into her perfect lips, letting it dangle just slightly from the corner of her mouth.

“I’m sorry. There’s no smoking in this building.”

“Uh huh.” She pulled out a silver lighter from her coat pocket and brought it to life with one sexy flick of her thumb.

“No, seriously, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Who’s gonna stop me?”

I looked at her and she looked at me and I knew I was powerless to stop her. Not because she had weakened me with her seductive stare. No, she just looked like she could kick my ass.

The flame licked at the tip of her cigarette until the end began to smolder. She took a long drag and blew the smoke up, creating an ironic halo effect over her head.

EEEE EEEE EEEE EEEE EEEE! The smoke alarm shrieked, echoing off the walls.

“CAN’T YOU TURN THAT THING OFF?” she screamed.

“NO. IT’S HARD WIRED TO THE BUILDING!”

“FUCK! WELL, I NEED YOU TO FIND SOMETHING FOR ME!”

“WHAT??”

“I SAID, I NEED YOU TO FIND SOMETHING FOR ME!”

“YEAH, I HEARD THAT. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO FIND?”

“MY BLACK LEATHER HANDBAG!”

“YOUR BLACK WHAT-Y WHAT-WHAT?”

“MY BLACK LEATHER HANDBAG!”

“WHAT ABOUT SINBAD?”

“NO!!”

“I’M SORRY, I CAN’T HEAR YOU VERY WELL.” Actually, I could hear her just fine. I was only fucking with her head.

“NEVER MIND!” She stormed out of the room and slammed the door, leaving only me to listen to the wailing siren.

I reached into my drawer and pulled out my trusty sledgehammer (Not that the drawer was that deep. It had no bottom. See, I thought it would look funny if I opened this tiny drawer and pulled out a giant sledgehammer. Unfortunately, nobody was ever around when I wanted to do it. So, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have cut the bottom of the drawer out, since I had no place to put my pens and paper clips) and then I proceeded to beat the living shit out of the smoke alarm, taking out a good chunk of the wall in the process.

By the time I was done, I could see into the office next door. Those fuckers had G5s! And flatscreen monitors! Bastards. I decided to torch the entire building and go out for a Cherry Slurpee. Of course, in the process, I destroyed all of the evidence I had gathered as well as that really cool retro office chair I found at the flea market. But it didn’t matter. After all, I’m a fucking DJ. The private investigator thing? It’s just a hobby.

I found her corpse sprawled out on the sidewalk: a jumper, they said. Of course, I didn’t believe them. Sure, all the signs were there: the position of the body, the giant pool of blood, the shattered bones. But still, something wasn’t right.

Me? My name is Richard Keen, Private Investigator/Disc Jockey Extraordinaire, available for weddings, bar-mitzvahs and homicidal investigations. If you require my services, you’ll find me at The Badlands, spinning the latest Drum ‘n’ Bass grooves and chuckling to myself while I watch the crowd trying to figure out how to dance to the extremely erratic beats. The Private Investigator thing? It’s just a hobby.

You’d probably think it would be difficult to get past the official yellow police tape without flashing a badge and a mustache. But actually, there’s nothing to it. The key is to look like you’re supposed to be there. Nod at one of the officers as if you know him. Then pull out your notebook and say something like, “What’ve we got here, fellas?” Next thing you know, you’re smack dab in the middle of the crime scene, picking up objects with a ballpoint pen and putting them in little plastic baggies as if you had a lab to bring them to.

So what of that corpse? Like I said, something wasn’t right. One officer believed she fell ten stories and died immediately upon impact. Another suggested she might’ve been pushed. They were both full of shit. That woman wasn’t pushed. She didn’t even jump — not from this building, at least. After all, the closest structure was a one-story house and it was positioned at least 12 yards away.

I don’t know how anyone could leap nine stories up from a one-story house and land twelve yards away. Maybe if they were fired from a cannon? I glanced up at the roof: no cannon. I walked to the backyard to investigate another theory. There was no catapult either. Death by cannon and catapult could be ruled out. There was only one explanation. Unfortunately, I had no idea what that explanation was. I’m just a fucking DJ, for godsakes. The Private Investigator thing is just a hobby.

Since y’all liked my last bedtime story so much, I thought I’d go on ahead ‘n share with ya a new’un. This’n was done told to me by my ma, back when we was livin’ up in the Ozarks and I was, I reckon, no more than a pea. Hope y’all like it. It go somethin’ like this:

Unce a time, thare was these four bears. Ya got yer ma bear, yer pa bear and one of them thare baby bears. The fourth bear don’t matter none. Anyhoo, they all lived in one of them thare houses out in the woods. And then they all be eatin’ their porridges and such. And then it’s just too darn hot fer all them, so the ma bear, she say, “we gots to get.” Then the pa bear, he say, “Yeah, we better get.” And baby bear, he just sit thare and shit his pants.

So ma bear he done changin’ the diaper and then they all gets to steppin’. Then this here cutie pie by the name o’ Gold Locks, she goes a knockin’ on the door, but thare ain’t no answer, on the account of them three bears be out gathering fire wood or somethin’. The fourth bear don’t matter none. So Goldie, she done smash the winduh and start ransackin’ the place. She start rifling through da drawers and lookin’ fer some tobaccy fer her pipe. But thare ain’t none, on the account a pa bear be smokin’ it.

So then Goldie, she sees them thare porridges sittin’ out on that thare table. And she goes to chowing down. She eats the first porridges and near clean burnt her mouth off. She eats the second porridges, but it’s a bit too lumpy. She eats the third porridges and it too salty. The fourth porridge don’t matter none. The problem be that ma bear can’t cook worth a darn. After Goldie eats all the porridges, she has the shits something awful and end up passing out in them thare baby bear’s bed.

So the three bears get back to them thare house, and go to eat them thare porridges. But thare ain’t no porridges. Goldie done ate ‘em all. Pa bear figures it be some kind of varmit, so he go fetch him his shot gun. Ma bear fetch her her shot gun, too. And baby bear, he done dirty his diaper ‘gain. The fourth bear don’t matter none.

So pa bear he done got his shotgun and he’s a walkin’ on through the house, lookin fer them varmits. And ma bear, she’s right thare behind him, waiting fer any critters to peak their little heads out. So baby bear, he done go to his room to take a nap, on the account he was all tired from walkin’ and shiitin’ himself. So ‘course, he find Goldie Lock all in his bed and she wake up with a start and scream. And baby bear scream and go and dirty himself up again. And ma and pa came a runnin’. And Goldie, done flew out that the door. Pa didn’t think none. He just fired away and done blow Goldie’s head clear off. Ma fired a round into her, too, accidentally killing the fourth bear. But that’s OK, ’cause he don’t matter none.

That’d be that thare end of the story. Now ya get yerself some shut-eye.

Day 1:

Holy fucking shit! I’m fucking invisible! I can’t believe it really worked! Look at me! Oh wait, that’s right. You can’t! Hahahahahaha! Fuck you! Fuck you all! I’m fucking invisible! YEAH!

Day 2:

Woke up this morning in the lab: still invisible. That must have been some potent shit I cooked up. Better work on the formula some more. On a side note, it’s kind of cool how when I’m typing, the keys on the keyboard seem to move themselves. Hollywood can’t pull off special effects like this.

Anyhow, I’m not sure if any of my colleagues are ready to know about what happened to me just yet. So I’ve decided to pretend like I’m not here, a kind of sociology experiment, if you will.

Ladies locker room, here I come!

Day 3:

Fuck. I’ve never had so many doors slammed in my face. Elbows in my ribs. Shoulders in my chest. And high heels dug into my feet. I am aching.

The ladies locker room idea? Sucked. First of all, in order to be completely invisible, I had to walk around naked. What’s worse, it seemed like all the hot girls decided to take the day off—but the grandmas were out in full force. Ugh. I tried to close my eyes, but I forgot my eyelids were invisible, too. I hope this shit wears off soon. I need some sleep.

Day 4:

I can’t believe this. I had a hard time sleeping with no eyelids, so I ended up injecting myself with some experimental drug I found in the lab. Let me tell you, it’s not a good idea to be tripping when you’re invisible. I was freaking out because all of these objects were moving around by themselves. My head is aching. I need some breakfast.

Day 5:

I had a really shocking discovery this morning. Apparently, while my body is invisible, the food I consume isn’t. Sorry, but I do not need an anatomy lesson at 7:30 in the morning. Disgusting.

Oh, and get this: Since I’ve been absent for so long, they’ve decided to start looking for someone new to take over my job. That’s when I made a huge mistake: I tried to speak to one of my coworkers. Freaked the shit out of Janice. She ran screaming out of the lab. Of course, I ran after her, but . . . yeah, I got a door in the face again. Thank god my blood is invisible too. Ouch.

Day 6:

Well, they called in the paranormal investigators today. Those nut jobs claim they can sense an energy in the room. Yeah, right. I just wanna go over there and slap them around a bit. But to be honest, those contraptions they have scare the shit out of me.

Day 7:

Four priests showed up today to perform an exorcism. So I figured it was time to come clean. I just spoke up and told everyone exactly what had happened. And you know what? Those fuckers did the exorcism anyway! The ceremony went on for hours. Every time they’d stop, I’d try to explain my situation and they’d start right up again. Finally, I gave up and left to get a taco. That’s when I realized I had no way to buy a taco. And I had left my security pass in the lab. Let me tell you, it was a cold night.

Day 8:

I have feet now, about up to the ankle. That’s it. When I look down, I can see into the marrow of my bones. Pretty disgusting, even for a scientist. Which means, if anyone finds where I’m hiding, they’ll discover these severed walking feet. Probably try to chase them around the room with a broom or something. I should’ve become a lawyer like my father.

Day 9:

Okay, I now have legs. Just up to the knees, though. And no hair. I guess hair takes longer to show up, or maybe it never will. I’m starting to appreciate the benefits of animal testing. PETA can eat my invisible ass.

Day 10:

Fuck. Remember what I said about my invisible ass? Well, it ain’t invisible anymore. I just wish the rest of me would show up so I could quit hiding in the equipment supply room. Incidentally, that guy they got to replace me is really doing well. They keep talking about how much nicer he is than me. Little did I know that the equipment supply room was the main place to go to share the latest gossip.

Day 11:

Well, I’m delighted to report that I have a torso. Now all I need is a head. And hair. What the fuck is up with the hair?

Day 12:

I’m back! My beautiful body is back! Yeah! I never thought it would happen, but the hell is finally over! I can’t wait to see everyone’s faces when I show up for work on Monday.

Day 13:

OK, that didn’t go so well. I walked in and everyone looked at me like I had just drop kicked their favorite pet. Nobody wanted to hear about my great discovery. And those that heard any of my story, didn’t believe it. Oh sure, they have no problem believing that the fucking lab was haunted, but they wouldn’t believe that I discovered a way to turn invisible? Anyhow, within minutes, security was on the scene and quickly escorted me out the door.

That’s where the diary ends. Oh, and as for that secret formula, I have no idea what happened to it. But shortly after the lab’s janitor mysteriously disappeared, the ladies locker room started being haunted by what the papers called “The Groping Ghost.” Coincidence?

When we last left our hero, he was riding a man-beast towards the entrance of a swanky hotel/resort. And if you have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, stop what you’re doing and scroll down and read Part One first.

And so, without further delay, I bring you Part Two:

So there I was, riding this gentle giant towards the gold-plated doors of the Montagery Resort, wondering what might be waiting for me on the other side:

A gold-plated wonderland with gold-plated walkways and gold-plated walls and gold-plated elevators and gold-plated elevator attendants with gold-plated teeth and . . .

Just then, two non-gold-plated attendants opened the doors for me, ushering me into what could only be uncreatively described as nirvana: The floors were adorned with the finest Italian marble and exotic plants seemed to be growing from everywhere, making the place seem like some kind of fantastical jungle paradise. In Italy. OK, so maybe their interior decorator could have used a few tips, but his (or her) heart was in the right place.

“Good morning, Mr. Googlethorp,” came a soft, feminine voice. “I’m glad to see you’ve arrived safely,”

I glanced down from the height of my man-beast to find an adorable woman smiling up at me. “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there.”

She was dressed all in white and her hair was the purest blonde.

“I’m Angela,” her vocal chords chimed. “We spoke on the phone this morning.”

“Oh, right. Thank you again for your help with the traffic.”

“It was my nothing, Mr. Googlethorp. Here at the Montagery, your pleasure is our pleasure.”

Your pleasure is our pleasure. Your pleasure is our pleasure: I knew it was a line they fed all their guests. But I liked the way it sounded pouring from her lips, like fresh-spun honey, thick and sweet. I imagined that phrase stamped in gold at the employee entrance. Or maybe stitched on a baseball cap. Printed on a bumper sticker. Or tattooed just above one particular hostess’s angelic derrière.

As I continued to have impure thoughts about Angela, she led the way to the bar and my man-beast followed. Within minutes, we arrived at my reserved table and to my surprise, my favorite drink was already waiting for me: Lemon-lime Gatorade and Bourbon. They even trimmed the glass with a plastic monkey, just the way I like it. I mean, some people prefer those stupid fucking little mermaids that hang on the rim of the glass. But really, when it comes to drink decoration, nothing beats a good monkey.

So I downed a couple or six G & Bs, and before I knew it, I was in my room, sleeping soundly. No, seriously. I have no idea how I got there. But once I managed to open my eyes and crawl out of my 500-thread-count cocoon, I discovered just how much the staff had done for me:

A pair of heated slippers was waiting on either side of the bed, to ensure my feet would remain warm and comfortable. And a fluffy robe was left out for me to slip into. Which was a good thing, since I was only in my boxer shorts . . . Wait a minute, how the fuck did I get in my boxer shorts? Was I really that drunk?

As I slipped into my robe, I glanced over and noticed some additional gifts that were left for me on the night stand: a small box of chocolates and a flute of chilled champagne with a strawberry resting at the bottom of the glass.

I chugged the champagne and devoured the strawberry, then stuck my fingernail in all the chocolates. They were all the same: Dark chocolate Pepsodent creams. My favorite. It’s like eating candy and brushing your teeth at the same time.

I invented Pepsodent creams when I was ten years old. First, I sucked out the liquid filling of a cherry cordial with a cocktail straw, then injected the Pepsodent into the resulting cavity using a standard everyday toothpaste syringe. Needless to say, it’s an acquired taste. And thanks to the Montagery Resort, I was lucky enough to have acquired an entire box of them. How did they find out about Pepsodent creams? Did they interview my friends and family? I sure as fuck didn’t tell them. What else did they know about me?

Just then, the phone rang. It was Angela again. I knew her voice the moment I heard her breath hit the receiver.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Googlethorp.”

“Hey, Angela.”

“I didn’t want to call until you woke up.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You’ll see that we took care of everything for you. Please let me know if there is anything else you need.”

“OK, sure. Thanks.”

“Enjoy your afternoon, Mr. Googlethorp.”

“Uh huh . . . Hey, wait. How did you know I just woke up? . . . Hello?? Hello???”

Fuck. As nice as the place was, it was really starting to give me the creeps. What I needed was a relaxing hot shower. I went to my suitcase to get some fresh clothes, only to discover that someone had unpacked for me and placed my clothes in various drawers. It was a nice gesture. But exactly who was folding up my underwear while I was passed out in the bed? And come to think of it, who undressed me for bed? What kind of fucking hotel was this anyway? Rather than go into panic-attack mode, I headed for the shower.

The bathroom was breathtaking. The same Italian marble that was in the lobby, covered the walls and floors. I guess they got a great deal on Italian marble, or maybe they knew a guy. The shower itself was so advanced it took me over twenty minutes to figure out how to turn it on. Jets of water were shooting at me from every angle. It wasn’t as much invigorating as it was frightening. By the time I figured out how to turn the shower off, I was exhausted.

I stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel.

“Enjoy your shower?”

I quickly covered myself up and spun around, expecting to see someone standing in the bathroom, but no one was there.

“Angela?”

“Yes, sorry to startle you like that.” Her voice was coming from a speaker in the ceiling.

“Are you watching me, right now?”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“Is that even legal?”

“Well, I think it is. After all, you’re aware that we’re watching you. And you signed the agreement before you were even accepted to be a Montagery guest.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Please, finish drying off. I’ll send Edgar up to take you to lunch.”

“No, no. Thanks. Uh, can you not watch me for a few minutes, please?”

“I’m sorry. That’s against the Montagery Doctrine.”

“Well, it would really please me if you stopped watching me for thirty minutes.”

“As you wish, Sir. Your pleasure is our –”

“pleasure. Yeah, yeah. I know, I know.”

I quickly dried off and got dressed. I could’ve spent an hour trying to find all the concealed cameras, but I decided it was best just to get the hell out there. I packed up my things, pulled on my shoes and went for the door.

It wouldn’t open. It was as if it was locked. From the outside.

“Is there something you need, Mr. Googlethorp?” the demonic Angela said.

“Yeah, how the fuck do you open this door?”

“Do you need to go somewhere? I’ll send Edgar.”

“NO! NO! NO! I just want to get the fuck out of here!”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Googlethorp. Everything you need is right here.”

I started to wonder if that tattoo I imagined on Angela’s back might actually be a branding.

“I don’t give a fuck! I just want to go get some fresh air!”

“Edgar is on his way.”

“Fuck Edgar! I’ll walk!” I yanked on the door handle.

“Mr. Googlethorp, please, show some restraint.”

“Restraint? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

I ran for the porch and jumped over the railing. (Fortunately, I was too cheap to get a room above the first floor.) The moment I landed on the unnaturally green grass, sirens blared. I looked up and saw three businessmen in their three-piece suits, riding their man-beasts to their next conference. Everybody who wasn’t working for the resort was riding on someone’s back. I knew there was some kind of stupid metaphor in there somewhere, but I didn’t have the time to figure it out.

I stood up just in time to see a swarm of those fucking Montagerites running towards me. Rather than wait and discuss things in a civilized manner, I chose to run like hell. I ran through the golf course, where I was chased by several electric carts. I ran through the parking lot, dodging most of the parking attendants. And then I ran right into Edgar, man-beast extraordinaire. Fuck.

Edgar grabbed me by the back of the neck and squeezed just enough to keep me in check until a winded Angela caught up with us.

“Phew,” she panted in an unfortunately non-sexy manner. “you gave us quite a scare there.”

“Sorry. I just want to go home.”

“Nonsense. There is so much more to experience.”

“I don’t want to experience anything. I just want to go home.”

“I think what you need is pill #3.”

Angela reached into her bag of tricks and pulled out a bottle of pills.

“You’re going to drug me?” I stated the obvious.

“Drug you? We like to think of it as more like help you enjoy things more. Now open your mouth.”

Angela brought the bright yellow pill up to my tightly pursed lips.

“Oh, c’mon, Mr. Googlethorp. You’re going to make us do this the hard way? You’ll like it. It tastes like lemon. Yummy-nummy lemon!”

I shook my head. Angela looked at Edgar and gave him a nod. Before I knew what was happening, Edgar used his free hand to pinch the sides of my mouth and open my jaw.

“eh oo ee ee, eh I oo ee!” I screamed incoherently.

Angela lowered her hand and snapped her fingers. Immediately, Edgar let go of my face.

“What did you say, Mr. Googlethorp?”

“I said . . . ” I paused not so much for dramatic effect, but to stretch my sore jaw. “It would please me, if I could leave.”

Angela stood there like a brainwashed freak caught in headlights.

“This is highly unorthodox, Mr. Googlethorp.”

“But that is what would please me.”

“Well . . . ” The program clicked in. “Your pleasure is our pleasure.”

And so, they allowed me to leave the Montagery Resort, under one condition: that I ride Edgar to the valet station. So I hopped on old Edgar one last time and let him take me to my car. And as I drove off and saw the attendants waving to me in my rearview mirror, I breathed a sigh of relief. I vowed from that point on to stick to the understated elegance of five-star resorts, and leave the extra two stars for those who can appreciate them . . . Then again, they did have Pepsodent creams.

When I heard the hotel I’d be staying at was given a seven-star rating by the AAA Travel Guide, I knew I was in for quite an experience. After all, the AAA star-rating system only goes up to five stars. Which led me to the question, just what was it about this hotel that made it so special? Two-stars special. Fortunately, it wouldn’t take me long to find out.

There I was, speeding down Pacific Coast Highway, ignoring all the rules of the road, when my mobile phone started to ring. I turned down the volume of my Best of Quarterflash CD and answered the call:

“Hello?”

“Mr. Googlethorp?” *

“Yes . . .”

“This is Angela from the Montagery hotel and resort. How are you this morning?”

“Fine, thank you. Is there something wrong with my reservation?”

“No, not at all. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t having any trouble getting here.”

“Oh, no, I’m good. Right on schedule.”

” . . . ”

“Hello?”

“Well, not necessarily. I’ve pinpointed your location and it looks like you’re headed straight for a traffic jam.

“You pinpointed my location?”

“Yes. May I suggest an alternate route?”

“How did you pinpoint my location?”

“I’m sorry, sir. That’s a Montagery Resort secret. Now, if you’d please, make a left at the next street light.”

And so, against my better judgment, I followed Angela’s directions. And before I knew it, I was back on PCH and headed towards the resort. I thanked Angela, then hung up and turned my attention to the road.

As I sped past another cursing motorist, my mind began to race: Was Angela still watching me? And if so, how was she doing it? Did she track me through my cell phone? Was a helicopter tailing me from the sky? But more importantly, what was Angela wearing? And even more importantly, did she look as hot in person as she sounded on the phone?

After imagining a rather detailed fantasy involving Angela, myself and 500 pounds of partially melted sweet-cream butter (unsalted), I found myself pulling into the driveway of the Montagery Resort & Spa. To my surprise, not one attendant was waiting for me when I arrived.

There were five.

“Good morning, Mr. Googlethorp.” One valet opened my door and helped me out of the car, while another opened the trunk of my vehicle and removed my bags.

“Hi. Where do I check in?”

“Oh, no need, Mr. Googlethorp. Everything will be taken care of.”

I shrugged my shoulders and started to walk to the lobby. Another valet stopped me.

“Please, Mr. Googlethorp. What are you doing?”

“Uh, I thought I’d go to the lobby.”

“No, no, Mr. Googlethorp. There will be none of that here. This is a full-service resort. Our guests do not walk.”

“They don’t?”

“Of course not. Edgar will take you to where you need to go.”

“Edgar?”

“Edgar!” The valet yelled. And two seconds later, a large man, with a silk pad strapped to his back approached me, then turned around and crouched like a trained camel.”

“Uh, no thanks. I’ll walk.”

“Is Edgar not to your liking? He is a fine specimen, I assure you. You will be cradled in comfort wherever you go.”

“Yeah, I’m sure . . . I don’t know. It’s just a little creepy to me.”

“Creepy? Ha ha ha! It is clear that you are not accustomed to the luxury of The Montagery.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” I started to walk away again.

The valet grabbed my arm. “Please, sir, I beg of you, let Edgar take you. If the masters were to see you walking, they would no doubt take the lash to me.”

“The lash?”

“Lash? Did I say lash? Heh-heh, I meant cash. They would take the cash from me. You know, dock my pay.”

“You said lash.”

“Shhh,” he hushed me. The fucker hushed me! “Please, let Edgar take you.” His eyes pleaded with me.

“OK, OK. Fine. I’ll ride your man-beast into the lobby. But that’s as far as he’s taking me. I cannot believe I’m doing this.”

And so I hopped on Edgar, slipping my feet into the stirrups and grabbing onto the silk-lined handle attached to his back.
“Excellent. You won’t be disappointed. Take him to the bar, Edgar.”

“I’d really like to go up to my room, if you don’t mind.”

“Your room will be ready shortly. If you’ll just have a drink at the bar, we’ll come and get you after it’s been properly prepared. A table has been reserved just for you.”

“You reserved a table at the bar just for me? Why am I not surprised?”

“Ha ha. There a many other surprises in store for you during your stay, Mr. Googlethorp. Many surprises.” He said this with almost a sinister tone to his voice. I wasn’t sure if it was for foreshadowing or if he was just a stuck-up asshole.

Moments later, I was on my way. Amazingly, the ride wasn’t bumpy at all. Edgar knew how to to walk so that his body absorbed all the shock. It was like I was drifting on a cloud, only it was warmer and much easier to breathe. Within seconds, I got over the embarrassment of piggy-back riding my way around and found myself thinking about never walking again. If this was just a sample of what staying at the Montagery Resort was going to be like, there was no doubt in my mind, I was going to be a very happy customer.

To Be Continued. That’s what the “Part One” in the title means. Duh.

*My name has been changed because this one sounds funnier.

I thought I’d take a break from my usual true-to-life accounts to share with you a little fable my mother used to tell me after she tucked me into bed. This is exactly how I remember it:

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a great adventure took place . . .

No, wait. That’s not right. Sorry, it’s been so long. The last time my mom told me this story, I was just a wide-eyed child of 15. OK, let’s try this again . . .

Once upon a time, there was a tiny little house that sat in a tiny little town, just north of Devonshire. And inside this tiny little house, lived a tiny little woman whose only companions were two tiny little dogs. Occasionally, those tiny little dogs would need to go outside to leave tiny little poops on the tiny little lawn. And those tiny little poops would sit there for weeks, because the tiny little woman preferred to watch her tiny little TV than clean up tiny little poops.

Over time, the tiny little poops grew into one enormous mound of shit. It wasn’t cute anymore. It was fucking disgusting. The tiny little woman’s tiny little neighbors banged on her tiny little door with all their might. But the tiny little bitch wouldn’t answer her tiny little door.

A massive swarm of tiny little flies descended on the tiny little town, blocking out the tiny little sun. The tiny little mayor called in the tiny little police to break down the tiny little woman’s tiny little door. To their surprise, the tiny little woman had reinforced her tiny little door with a thick (but tiny) layer of impenetrable steel.

Property values quickly plummeted. People abandoned their tiny little homes to escape the overwhelming stench of tiny little feces. You’d think it would be like living on a farm: eventually, you’d get used to the smell. But, no, the odor kept getting worse and worse.

The tiny little dogs couldn’t even go outside anymore to do their business. The door was blocked with their own waste. Instead, the pooches would sit there at the window, yipping away at the swarm of flies outside, as the tiny little woman sat in her tiny little hazmat suit, watching her tiny little TV, inhaling oxygen from her abundant supply of tiny little tanks.

She was quite happy, this tiny little woman. She had the whole town to herself. Occasionally, she’d take her tiny little dogs out for a walk (wearing one of her many hazmat suits) and let them leave tiny little poops all over the tiny little sidewalk. Before too long, there was absolutely no place left for this tiny little woman to walk without stepping on tiny little poops. Still, it was better than going through the trouble of cleaning up after her dogs.

Then, one day, a carpenter ant scurried its way through the tiny little village, crushing the tiny little woman and her tiny little house and her fucking tiny little yippy dogs. The moral of this story: Don’t be such a lazy ass and pick up after your dog. Now shut up and go to sleep.

Before I knew it, I was crying my way to slumberland. Ah, memories.

Sometimes, I get to a point in my life where nothing seems to be going right. That’s when I close my eyes and think about Richard Legman, the man who could not walk.

Once you get past the irony of Mr. Legman’s problem, there’s really nothing funny about it. But, man, that is pretty funny, with the Legman and the not walking thing.

Anyhow, the worst part was, Richard didn’t always have this problem. He used to be able to walk just fine. That was before The Incident: an event so horrifying, so disturbing, it needed to be capitalized and displayed in italics.

Here’s how it all went down:

It was just a typical day for Richard. There he was, walking down the middle of the highway, eating a corn dog and reading the latest Danielle Steele novel. Cars whizzed by on both sides of him. Horns honked. People shouted. But Richard kept his eyes on the page and savored his sweet battered meat. . . Damn, that didn’t come out right at all. I was referring to the corn dog, of course.

Anyhow, you can probably guess what happened next, but I’m going to tell you anyway. A couple miles away, a semi truck was charging down the highway. The driver, Mike Hamburg, had been on the road for 34 hours straight and was beginning to hallucinate. The vehicles ahead now looked like pink polar bears and the asphalt below was resembling a frozen lake. Suddenly, the surface began to crack and Hamburg swerved to avoid plunging into the icy depths. In doing so, he blind sided a few polar bears, then found his truck jackknifing and skidding towards what looked like a lone eskimo.

Richard looked up just in time to see the big rig barreling towards him. He took another bite of his corn dog, then lowered his eyes back to his book. That must have been a real page-turner. Hamburg leaned on the horn and turned the wheel as hard as he could. Richard turned the page. And then suddenly, the truck crashed into the center divider, missing Richard by just, well, a mile. But one of the big rig’s nude-woman mudflaps flew off the truck and bounced off Richard’s right knee.

Richard dropped his corn dog and grabbed his leg. He felt a burning sensation in his calf that made him want to fall to the ground and cry in pain. But then he remembered the words of his high school drama coach: “Just walk it off.” So, that’s exactly what Richard did. He stepped forward with his good leg. And then he took another step with his right. But as he put some weight down on his right foot, Richard came to the horrible realization: He could no longer walk. He could only run.

Richard ran all the way down the highway at Kenyan speed, leaving his novel and his corn dog behind him. At first, it was kind of a thrill, until Richard realized that he could not slow down. Soon, his spasming leg was moving so fast, it was hard for the other one to catch up. He was passing cars, as if they were parked. Which in this case, they were. But he was still really fast.

Finally, Richard couldn’t take it anymore and he dove off the highway and tumbled down a grassy hill, where he passed out from exhaustion.

When Richard came to, he was in a hospital bed, surrounded by people he didn’t know. Turns out, they thought he was someone else. The nurse shooed them all away and the doctor came in to check on his patient.

“How are we feeling?” The doctor asked.

“Okay,” Richard weakly replied.

“You’re a lucky man to be alive, Mr. Legman.”

“I am?”

“Yes, that sexy mudflap may have caused a little nerve damage, but we performed an operation that we think will remedy the situation.”

“Oh, wonderful!”

The doctor explained that the operation was a rather difficult one, on the account of all the blood and the tiny nerves and shit. But he thought they did a pretty good job in making the necessary repairs.

Richard asked the doctor when he could plan on walking again. When the doctor replied “Right now,” Richard should’ve question his authority, not to mention the fact that this so-called doctor was wearing a grey jumpsuit that had the word “Janitor” stenciled on the back.

But Richard wasn’t a very bright man. He slid his legs out from under the covers and lowered his feet to the floor. Oddly enough, he felt okay. He took a step with his good leg, then took a deep breath and took another step with his right. Unfortunately, he still could not walk. He could only skip.

Richard skipped his way out the door and down the hall. Children giggled and tried to follow his lead. Soon, Richard had a train of children skipping behind him. Their parents yelled at Richard to stop. “I can’t!” Richard screamed. Eventually, the orderlies tackled Richard to the ground, then a doctor — a real one, this time — shot Richard up with some kind of major sedative.

Anyhow, to this day, Richard still cannot walk. But that hasn’t broken his spirit. Every morning, you can find him skipping down the highway, reading his novel and devouring his corn dog. And when I think about what a fucking idiot that guy is, it makes me feel so much better about myself.

The End