Rachel was dead. The shot gun blast had pretty much ripped off her face. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out whether or not the baby survived. Of course it didn’t, her belly was shot up to hell. I had myself another mini freak out. Wearing only my hospital gown, I got out of bed and left the hospital. I was still pretty hurt, but nothing I couldn’t handle at home on the couch.
I hailed a cab back to the condo and when the cabbie dropped me off, I told him to go fuck himself and exited the cab. I guess he could tell I was having a shit day because he didn’t bother to chase after me. Maybe he was afraid if we got in a fight my dick would flop out of the hospital gown and brush up against him.
My baby momma was dead.
She may have been the only woman I ever loved. My thoughts were too quick and constant. I couldn’t concentrate on any one thing for more than 3 seconds. I needed weed or some vodka. Where was the closest bar? I wonder if I masturbate it will calm myself down? I used to suffer from crippling panic attacks and jerking off was one of the only things that would calm me down. Anytime I felt one coming on I’d rush home and start jacking off like I was trying to spark a flame with my dick. But this wasn’t a panic attack, it was lost love. I loved that dumb bitch, damn it. Rachel was gone and she’d never come back. Her murder was never solved and I of course was never questioned in the death of the woman I booted over the bridge. Two women had been violently pushed out of this existence and no one was prosecuted. I would sometimes image myself going all vigilante and hunting down the gangsters who killed Rachel. I’d be just like the Punisher except with a fatter ass and instead of a skull for a calling card, my distress symbol would be the silhouette of a smaller than average peen. One of those tiny limp dicks with a nut sack too big. It doesn’t match and looks like it has a disease. It appears old, wrinkled and dying. By no means is this dick as warm as morning toast. Whenever the city is in trouble look for the giant 2 inch limp peen in the air and I’ll appear in the alley from behind a dumpster where I just puked. I’m drunk, pissed all over myself and ready to tackle the job at hand. I’m that Will Smith in the movie Hancock kind of superhero who’s basically a shitty person, but manages to shine from time to time. When the mugging victim gets her purse back more than likely 40 dollars is missing. The crook didn’t take it, I did. Weed and malt liquor money doesn’t grow in my underwear. I thought about calling myself The Rocketeer. Mostly because my uncircumcised penis looks like a rocket, no head. Plus anytime you add “teer” to the end of anything it sounds like a winner. Too bad I was losing at life and had absolutely no idea what to do with myself.
Twenty years later…
I’m now 58 years old and sometimes wear a diaper. Putting a diaper on a grown man is like covering the coffin with dirt and rocks. Game over, dude. You’re cashed. My bladder has completely called it quits and let’s loose whenever it pleases. In line at the bank, in line at In-N-Out Burger and in line at the bar, I’ve pissed them all.
You’re probably wondering why a 58 year old man would ever wait in line at a trendy downtown nightclub. The truth is I’m a pervert with nothing else to live for. I’ll tell the doorman I’m a music producer or directed whatever piece of shit film is currently playing in theaters. Once inside I never talk to anyone. Instead I like to lurk around the shadows looking for change on the floor while I wait for the girls to get drunk enough to bend over in their skirts. You know, they’re not always wearing panties. Nightclub chicks are the best. Put five or six vodka cranberries in one and ten minutes later she’s in the bathroom taking on a quintuplet of Mexican bar backs. She’ll bring them all to orgasm, too! But I mean how hard is it to make 5 different dudes cum when you’re passed out drunk on the wet counter and having a train run on your ass. Illegal aliens live for this shit. It’s just like the loser porno assistant who works in the industry and hopes that one day he’ll get laid. One second he’s holding the boom mic during a bukaki scene and the next they’re waving him in. Just in case you’re unaware a bukaki scene is when 20 different dudes blow their load in one girl’s face. It’s pretty fucking disgusting and every father’s worst nightmare to come across a bukaki scene while jacking off on the Internet and his daughter is starring in one. Why do white girls automatically resort to group sex with 3 or 4 black guys when they want to piss off their father? I’m glad I’m not a father. Not because of the bukaki scenes, but what if she was really hot? Like Miranda Kerr hot. What if she’s too much of an idiot to find a job and move out? I just know the little 90 pound bitch is going to stroll around the apartment naked with only a towel tied around her.
“Daddy, can I have 40 dollars?
Of course you can pumpkin, but first why don’t you come over here and slob Daddy’s knob. Dad wants to get some of that from behind, but don’t you dare look at me! So help me God, don’t you look back at me!
Pretty standard really. Most deranged killers don’t want their victims looking them in the eye while the murder is happening. This same principle goes when a father is fucking his daughter.
Sick fuck.
He’s basically murdering her anyway. But I’m not a murderer and this is just jokes. The truth is I’m lonely as hell and go to bed most nights remembering Rachel. Since her death twenty years ago, I had yet to find another woman willing to date me. Or maybe I had given up completely? Either way, she was the last woman I slept with. I was a washed up old pervert in diapers and had no choice but to embrace my shitty place in life. I didn’t need love, only booze. It’s easier to wake up in a bed full of piss when you’re drunk.
Then one morning I woke up to something other than urine soaked sheets. On this particular morning there was a tap at the door. I was living in Venice Beach with a cousin who had inherited a house by the beach when his mother died. Being that she was my aunt I figured that was enough a reason to let me live there. My professional surfer friend had kicked me out of his condo down in Ocean Beach after I sold all his surfboards for malt liquor money. I was in a very bad place after Rachel died and never really found my way out.
Anyhoo, once upon a mid-morning dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, tapping at my dead aunt’s chamber door. I’m of course ripping that bit from Edgar Allan Poe’s famous poem The Raven, but you get the idea. Someone was interrupting my hangover by knocking at the front door. When I finally answered I was surprised to find a young man standing there. Oh, and I distinctly remember it was in the bleak of December. This guy at my front door was wearing an Ed Hardy t-shirt, overpriced denim jeans with fake holes in the knees and brown leather sandals. I wanted to vomit on his hairy toes. The dude was a total douche bag – a 30k millionaire. He had spiky blond-tipped frosted hair and eye liner. I could already picture him in a skanky strip bar stealing an old watered down vodka tonic from the waitress station. He never tips, always touches and guaranteed he ate all the pretzels. He was just like me, but only dressed better. Sleazy piece of shit, what the fuck was he doing on my door step? So I asked him,
“What the fuck are you doing on my door step? Are you selling oranges or some shit?”
He gave me a look like I’d just broken his heart. His eyes watered over and just before he broke into tears he mumbled the word “dad.” Who the hell was this asshole? I asked again,
“Who the hell are you?”
This question prompted a hysterical string of explanations about how Rachel was his mother and he learned about me through her diary. Apparently Rachel kept one and I was the main focus. Rachel’s sister held onto it until this stranger claiming to be my son turned 18. At that point it was given to him and he’s been searching for me ever since. The fucking baby had survived the drive-by shooting! I had naturally assumed it died, too, and left the hospital before anyone could tell me. Then I disappeared and took myself off the grid. By grid of course I mean declaring bankruptcy and drowning myself in malt liquor. I’m talking about Olde English, BIAATCH! Better known as Olde Gold, the Olde Executioner and Dat’ Olde 8-Hundo! It’s the shit gangsters drink in Compton, California. This is how I was rolling in my old age. Straight gangster and this little pussy standing in front of me would probably vomit and piss on himself after drinking just one.
I invited him in so he could tell me more about the possibility of him being my son. Maybe he had a kickass career and a fat bank account? Or at least a joint we could smoke. Recently a “weed war” had broken out between California and Colorado to see once and for all who grows better pot. Colorado was winning with something called “Cannabis Caviar” which is their most potent pot soaked in hash oil. It’s the real one-hitter-quitter and sells for $1,400 bucks an ounce. This Ed Hardy billboard looked like the kind of moron who spends that much money on weed.
His name was Airborne.
He named himself. Until Airborne was old enough to talk and wipe his own ass everyone called him Danny. I called him bitch.
I once saw a movie about a mineral prospector named Daniel Plainview who established a successful oil drilling company during the Southern California oil boom in the late 19th century. One day a man shows up on Daniel’s doorstep claiming to be his half brother. After Daniel gives him some of that sweet oil money he finds out this man isn’t his half brother and kills him. This strange man lied and used Daniel. Fast-forward years later and Daniel beats a church minister named Eli to death with a bowling pin after making him confess he’s a false prophet and God is a superstition. Daniel was hardcore and didn’t take any shit from anyone.
But I wasn’t a billionaire and Airborne probably wasn’t in this for the money so I stopped calling him bitch. His story checked out and Airborne was in fact my son, but why he have to be such a hack? I’m 58 years old and can tell this dude is a douche. Isn’t he supposed to be this super successful guy with a wife and kid who drives a BMW and lives in a rich neighborhood? Isn’t that how these stories go? The good kid with the embarrassing deadbeat father who he still harbors feeling for, but can’t get over the fact Dad’s a loser until the end of the movie when Dad dies? I wanted that stereotypical son, not this sack of shit crying his eyes out on my couch. As you may have noticed I’ve become quite bitter with age. Nonetheless he was my son and I was happy to have someone in my life. We spent the next two weeks getting familiar with each other. Mostly Airborne buying dinner and picking up the bar tab. He worked for T-Mobile. You know one of those assholes with booths set up at the mall and harass the shit out of anyone walking by. This was my son. I asked if anyone has ever punched him in the face and surprisingly he said no. Then he went on to talk about all the slammin’ hot sluts he meets through his job. Apparently Airborne has game and reels in the chicks. It must be the Ed Hardy t-shirts and flip flops.
One thing we did have in common was the dying urge to become filthy rich with minimal effort. Believe it or not, one thing I’ve always wanted to do is rob a bank and it wouldn’t be long until I convinced my new son to make this dream come true.
