Shit’s about to go down. Humanity’s penance was at stake, and apparently I was chosen, once again, to clean up the mess.
I’m a cop. A super tough cop, who’s been through 6 divorces, 9 open heart surgeries, 3 failed businesses and a fuck ton of rehab. I fall asleep smoking and I don’t give a shit; I’m jaded, a time traveling prick, who apprehends and brings to justice, alien scumfucks who have perpetrated the annals of our precious history. Confused? You’ll understand soon enough. But don’t worry. I’ve been paid a generous sum for my services.
Boom, Boom, Boom …
“For fucks sake! I’m taking a dump!” I yelled.
The pain ripped through my entrails, reminding me of last night’s exploits, working its way down my left leg, through my ankles, up my spine, right into my fucking nutsack. My balls felt as if an invasion force of tiny drunken clowns, posing as a SWAT team, busted inside juggling broken Coke bottles full of hot sauce and mustard gas. The fumes were so bad, Gandhi himself would’ve evacuated the room on the spine of a screaming nuclear missile. Only a fucking asshole could think of this stuff. But I’m not an asshole. I actually knew Gandhi in a past life.
I looked down to admire my new artwork; the rapping continued; it was green with sunny hues, textured as if I just shit through a screen door. It had all the pop and pizazz of an indigenous masterpiece; peculiarly lovely, yet potentially insidious; subjective I suppose, but what a mess. Eat your heart out, Henri Matisse. Fuckin’ hubristic prick.
Flush …
I carved my way through a soupy haze of stale cigarette smoke, paved carefully by old porno mags and dirty laundry, staggering my way through 250 sq. ft. of acerbic bliss, scratching my balls to the tune of AC/DC’s “Rocker.” Knowing the agency was coming for me, I was so ready to tell these bastards to go fuck themselves until Monday, but I knew I’d have to go if they wished. I have a penchant for answering the door wearing in my stained tighty whities; there was no reason to begin disappointing anyone now.
I turned the lock- -Click!- -and opened the door swiftly. The change in pressure greeted me with a plume of fresh air. Cough! There he stood, stoic faced, my favorite mythomane, Detective Jorge “Double-A” Tsoukalis of the Southeast Louisiana Alien Task Force, all 140 lbs. of him. I expected a group. But no. It was just my old partner stopping by perhaps for a chat.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” he said with a glint of sarcasm. “You, ummm …”
“Yeah. I was fucking sleeping.”
“It’s 3pm, man. You know what day it is.”
Oh, shit. I thought it was Saturday. Fuck. I guess it’s time to put some clothes on and get to work. If only the great people of Louisiana knew what I really did for a living.
… To be continued …