King of the Perverts (8 page)

Interlude 5

The Phone Call

It’s late in the afternoon and I’ve only gotten a few hours of sleep. Too much on my mind, I guess. I’ve got so many conflicting emotions going on right now.

Am I doing the right thing here? Am I doing anything considered right or good?

Just because Pauline told me to hit her, does that make it right that I did it?

She’s a grown woman, after all. There are people out there into much more depraved shit than what Mongo and I are doing here. Sadists and masochists out there strapping up in leather and whipping and beating each other, autoeroticism and all that weird basement shit. And those people like it. They want to do it. Consenting adults.

We’ve been consenting so far, right?

Yes and no, I guess.

Danielle didn’t ask to have a cum-and-pubes beard smeared on her face. And Pauline didn’t ask for a money shot to the eye or to be caught on camera hobbling around and ridiculed, at least not in so many words.

That’s the real problem with this whole thing. It’s not so much about what I did with these women, but rather the way they’re going to be portrayed once the show airs. After what has happened thus far, I can’t imagine any of them will agree to allow the show to go on. Unless maybe they obscure their faces and don’t use their names. Didn’t they have to sign release forms or something? Dixar can’t just put these videos online without getting consent from all the subjects. Shit, I had to sign dozens of releases and insurance papers and agreements not to sue if I hurt myself or got an STD or got some girl pregnant, which was weird because I also had to sign a legal document stating that I would use condoms the entire show and would not
‘
be intimate
’
without wearing a rubber. But what about the girls?

I consider asking Mongo about this, but he’s snoring loudly on the other bed, and he hasn’t exactly been very forthcoming about anything so far. The last thing I want to do is poke the hibernating Russian bear. I’m starting to get the feeling he not only doesn’t like me at all, but has other plans above and beyond just trying to get a cut of the prize money. Like maybe something else is going on here I’m not being let in on. This whole thing just feels… off.

I’m lying on my bed trying to piece things together when my cellphone buzzes. I pull it out and check the number. It’s a local Muncie area code, but I don’t know who the hell would be trying to call me. I sneak out of the room as quietly as possible and head out to the balcony to answer it. Mongo never stops snoring.

“Hello?”

Silence for a beat. Then, a girl says, “Um… hi, is this Dennis?”

“Yes it is. Who’s this?”

“This is… jeez, I can’t believe I’m calling you. You probably don’t want to ever have anything to do with me again.”

That scares the shit out of me and I try to place the voice. Is this Danielle or Pauline trying to track me down? Did I give them my phone number? I don’t think I did. The only girl I remember giving my number to was the first one, the lovely Golden Shower Goddess. What the fuck was her name again?

“Dennis, it’s Tricia. Do you remember me?”

Fuck, that’s it, Tricia! You bet your sweet, gorgeous ass I remember you!

“Oh, yeah, of course. How are you doing, Tricia?” Nice and easy. Smooth. Not too excited. That’s the ticket.

“Oh, I’m fine. I just wanted to call and apologize to you for… you know. The other night. I can’t believe what happened.”

“Hey, that’s alright, you don’t need to apologize for that.”

“No, I really do. I had to call you and let you know that that’s not normally me. I don’t know what came over me. I never drink like that. You must think I’m a boozing bimbo or something.”

“No, I don’t think that at all.”

“Are you serious?”

Hmmm… Am I serious? I think I’m serious. I don’t think the pee girl was a drunk or a bimbo. Maybe just an overzealous Ball State sorority girl who couldn’t handle her appletinis, but not a drunken whore by any stretch.

“Yeah, I mean it. I had fun the other night. The ending just wasn’t expected.”

I can feel her blushing through the phone and immediately regret saying that.

“Yeah, I know that was bad,” she says. “But maybe I could make it up to you.”

Holy shit. Is she asking me out?

“I’m not asking you out on a date or anything, I just thought we could maybe get together for a cup of coffee or something, you know, to have a normal adult conversation and all.”

Wow. Totally unexpected. My fingers are tingling. What the hell is that about?

“Um, yeah, that sounds great. I’d love to.”

“Well, I have to get to work right now, but I’ll text you tomorrow and maybe we can meet up.”

“I can’t wait.”

“OK, talk to you tomorrow.”

We say goodbye and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming like an idiot. I’m almost too stunned for words. I asked this girl to urinate on my head. And here she
is
calling me to go out again. Not a date, but still, just the fact she wants to ever see me again is incredible.

What does that mean?

Did she like peeing on me? Or did she just like me pre-pee-pee? Maybe it was both?

I slip back into the room and find Mongo sitting on the edge of his bed. He’s wearing his rapey grin.

“What is happening outside?”

I shrug and try to act natural. “Nothing. Just went out for a second to get some fresh air is all. Couldn’t stand being stuck in here much longer. You fart in your sleep.”

Mongo doesn’t say anything. He just sits there staring at me with his serial killer smirk. It’s seriously unnerving as fuck but I try to act cool and stroll over to the desk. I sit in front of the laptop and pull up the video for the next challenge.

I watch it twice, but the dirty sanchez is not at all what’s on my mind.

The Dirty Sanchez

We hit a new bar, something even dirtier than the night before. I’m praying Pauline likes her regular haunt and doesn’t barhop. If I see her, my ass is running. That’s all there is to that. Chick just flat scares me.

No Pauline in sight, which is good, but to be honest, I’m hardly even here myself. I keep getting lost in my thoughts, which are dominated by Tricia. I don’t even know who I’m talking to right now. She’s right across from me at a standup table in the middle of this country and western themed dump we’re in. The place still has a mechanical bull, but it’s in a dark corner and covered in layers of dust. The Russian bull is in the other corner sitting at a booth with a clear line of sight, looking out the corner of his eye every few minutes. He seems much more twitchy and irritated than normal tonight.

“Hello? Earth to Dennis.” The girl in front of me snaps her fingers in my face and waves to get my attention. When I focus back on her, she brightens with a slightly gap-toothed smile and says, “There you are. Thought I’d lost you for a second.”

“Sorry…” Shit, I forgot her name already. “… Uh, kiddo. Went a little spacey there for a second.”

“Yeah, I could see the stars in your eyes, alright.” She winks at me real conspicuous, like she’s letting me in on a joke. I, of course, have no fucking clue what she’s hinting at. I’m not even sure how many vodka tonics I’ve had, and that’s never a good sign. When I start losing track of the
V
&Ts, crazy shit tends to happen.

But do I let that stop me?

Fuck no. I motion for our waitress and point at my near empty glass. “Hey, keep these coming, would ya?” I turn and point at Mongo over in the corner. “And put them on my comrade’s tab over there.”

The waitress looks at Mongo, who waits for a second before nodding his ascension. The waitress just shrugs and grabs my empty glass. I turn my attention back to what’s-her-face Gloria something-or-other. She’s been going on about something in my ear, but I haven’t heard a word.

I say to her, “So, Glenda, what do you like?”

She smiles and says, “It’s Misty, and I like lots of things. I like muscle shirts. I like sleeve tattoos. I like chocolate sauce. I like full frontal nudity. I like my German Shepherd.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of stuff you like, Missy.” The waitress returns with a fresh V&T and I take a long pull from my glass.

“What about Mexico? Do you like Mexico?”

Interlude 6

The Hospital

The hospital?

Why the fuck am I in the hospital?

I try to sit up and a blinding pain knifes through the center of my brain. I feel nauseous and panic for somewhere to puke. Someone in the room plunks a plastic tray in my hand and I fill it up with vodka, tonic water, and what looks and smells like recently consumed summer sausage. Where the fuck did I get summer sausage?

And why the fuck are the little puke trays in the hospital so goddamn little? Why would you give an upchucking patient a narrow, shallow plastic tray shaped like a smile? How about a big fucking bucket that I can bury my head in so I’m not sloshing vom all over everything? This stupid thing looks like you should be serving hotdogs in it, not catching ralph.

I lie back on the bed and close my eyes, but the room just spins worse that way so I open them up and try to figure out what’s going on.

I appear to be in an emergency room. I’m on a movable gurney bed thing in a very tight room with
a
drape for a door. My head hurts like hell, but it goes beyond the normal hangover headache. I touch the right side and feel a bandage there and massive pain when I poke it. Note to self: don’t poke your head bandage. It’s there for a reason, most likely to cover up a wound of some sort.

So how the hell did I end up in the hospital with a head wound? And where the fuck is Mongo? And there was someone else from last night, too. What was her name? Mary, I think. Or Sissy? Mimi? Fuck, I don’t know.

I sit up again, much slower this time to keep down the heave.
A
faint smell of ass in the air does not help. A nurse-type lady walks in as I’m swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

“Morning, sunshine!” she says way too fucking loud and cheery. “How’s our favorite drunk ass patient doing?”

“Ugh.”

She laughs and flips through a chart. I look at her nametag and then ask Sarah, “How long have I been in here?”

She flips to the first page of her stack and says, “Let’s see… you were a dump-and-run at four thirty-nine this morning.” She looks at her watch. “Which means you’ve been here for almost four hours.”

“Dump-and-run?”

Sarah sets my chart on the small desktop tucked in the corner of the room and looks me over. “Yeah, that’s what we call the drunks who get dropped outside the door by their friends who obviously don’t want to get in trouble, so they just dump ’em and then run off. Front desk security didn’t get a good look at your buddy, but a paramedic said she heard a stream of what sounded like angry Russian, and then there you were with a nasty cut on your head.”

Shit, what the hell happened? I can’t remember a thing since the bar. I don’t remember leaving anywhere. Was there a bar fight? Did I get hit with a bottle? That doesn’t seem familiar at all.

I can see stairs.

Did I fall down stairs?

And why do I still smell ass? Something in here definitely smells like a butt. I wonder if another patient in the ER has shit themselves, but Sarah sees me sniffing the air like I’m tracking foxes on a morning hunt. She solves the mystery for me by pointing at the tiny sink set in the wall next to the tiny desk.

“That smell is you,” she says. “Wash your hands and face really well with that antibacterial soap. Wouldn’t want anybody getting E. coli because of you, Senior.”

•

About an hour later, a really young doctor named Singh gives me a final check, waving his pen back and forth and up and down and holding it in my peripheral vision. He has me do a few simple balance tests, which I guess I pass because he signs my chart and tells me I don’t appear to have a concussion. He’s got dark circles under his eyes and that malnourished look of a resident nearing the end of a twenty-hour shift, which might explain why I’m being sent out the door so quickly. I don’t think Dr. Singh knows if he’s coming or going.

So now I’m standing in the lobby of the ER, wondering exactly where I am, where I’m going, where Mongo is, if he’s skipped town after dumping me in front of the hospital, what happened to last night’s challenge. Though by the smell of me, I have a feeling something went down, and that it got a little messy. Fuck, I don’t even want to think about it.

I’m about to head outside and find a bus stop when I hear, “Dennis?”

I look around but don’t see her until she’s standing right in front of me. Even then I don’t recognize her at first. The last time I saw her, she was wearing nothing but a thong and her hair was done up different. Right now her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, she’s wearing scrubs, and her face looks to be pretty much clear of any makeup at all. I’m struck by how naturally beautiful she is.

“Wow, Tricia?”

“Yeah, hi!” She turns and tells her other scrub-clad companions she’ll catch up with them in a little bit.

“What are you doing here?” she says to me.

“Um, I’m not sure.”

She looks at the bandage on my head. “Oh my gosh, are you OK? What happened?”

“Again, not really sure. I guess I took a tumble and hit my head last night. I honestly can’t really remember.”

“Jesus, do you have a concussion or anything?”

“Not according to the sleep-deprived kid who just released me.”

She shakes her head and pulls at my arm. “You have to watch out for those residents sometimes.”

“What are you doing here?” I look her up and down. “Are you a nurse or something?”

She shakes her head again. “No, I’m a radiology tech.”

“Oh. I thought you were still in school.”

“I graduated last May. This is my first job.” She pulls me toward a café on the far side of the hospital lobby. “You look like you could use some coffee, and I have a few minutes before my shift begins. Come on.”

•

After ten minutes of talking to Tricia, I’ve forgotten about my head. I’ve pretty much forgotten about everything. I’m kind of lost in her right now. I love hearing her talk. Her voice soothes my aching body and mind. Hearing about her life takes me away from what mine has become.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I haven’t stopped talking since we sat down.”

I smile and wave a hand at her. “No, I don’t want you to stop. It makes my head feel better.”

She looks concerned, her eyebrows knitting together in the cutest way when she looks at my bandaged noggin. “Are you sure you’re going to be OK?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I don’t sound very convincing. I suck at lying.

Tricia sets her cup down and looks at her phone. “Shit, my shift starts in two minutes.” She stands and shoulders her purse. She looks me over again, her concern turning to consternation. “Is there something going on with you that I should know?”

There’s not enough time in the day to answer that question properly. And I don’t have the energy to try and lie. “Maybe we can get together again to talk some time when you don’t have to go into work and I’m not recovering from a recent head injury.”

That brings out a smile, but it’s a small one, like my suggestion is not enough to ease her mind. “I think we should. There’s a lot about you that I don’t know yet.”

“And you want to actually find it out?”

She pauses as though truly contemplating that question and I think I fall a little bit in love with her right there. “Yes,” she says. “I think I do want to find out. There’s something about you that I find … intriguing. Something in your eyes that’s compelling, like you have a really long and interesting story to tell and you’re dying to unload it. When will you call me?”

I don’t know what to say. I can’t exactly be going out on dates with this girl while I’m trying to lure bar tramps back to the rape cave to pull stupid stunts on them in bed. But I also have no clue how much longer this fucking show is going to go on. At last check I was halfway to the end, but it seems I’ve only gotten this far on my own dumb luck. How much longer would that luck last? And why am I even still in this thing anyway?

Stupid question. There’s a million reasons why. So far my moral debasement has not been enough to top that pile of cash waiting for me if I win. But what about now? What about this girl across from me? She’s clearly interested, and she gives me that magic bubbles feeling in the pit of my stomach. I really want to get to know her. But if I make her wait for a week, three weeks, two months, what will happen?

Is she enough to make me walk away from a million dollars?

I tell her, “Soon. I’ll call you real soon.”

She seems to accept this, but the worry is still etched in her face. She knows something is up. I stand and step around the table and she leans in for a quick, unexpected hug. God, she smells so good.

She pulls back and touches my face just below the bandage, mindful not to hurt me. “Please be careful,” she says. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

Before I can respond, Tricia turns and walks out of the café. I watch her go, mesmerized by the movement of her body even underneath those modest scrub pants. I wonder if she’s wearing that thong again. I wonder if she’s wearing anything at all under those scrubs. My mind reels at the possibilities. I stand there watching until she’s out of sight. Then I slowly return to the world around me.

That’s when I finally notice Mongo, sitting two tables away.

Something snaps in me when I see him. A sea of boiling anger, at him, at myself for what I’m doing, at everything about what is happening in my life right now, it just explodes. I stomp over to his table and stand much closer to him than I probably should, but I don’t care because I’ve already decided that if he makes one move at me, I’m smashing in his stupid, fat, Slovakian face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I’m hovering over him, trying my best to be menacing, which basically consists of clenched fists and a snarl. I realize the bandage on my head and the hospital bracelet around my wrist don’t make me look very tough. Probably more like I’ve just escaped from a mental facility.

Mongo looks over his shoulder, in the direction that Tricia went, and returns my snarl with his trademark molester smile. “Is lovely little lady you are talking to. She looks very familiar to me.”

It takes everything I have in me not to kick his teeth in. “Fuck you, Mongo. You stay the hell away from her.”

Mongo points at the seat opposite him. “Why not have seat and talk like civilized person.” It’s not a suggestion. I hesitate before sliding into the chair, never taking my eyes off him.

“How is superstar?” he says. “Head is feeling better, yes?”

“I repeat, fuck you, Mongo. Why did you dump me off and split? What the hell happened last night?”

“You are not remembering Misty girl and the
sanchez
?”

“What happened to my head, dude?”

“Ah, well, you took tumble down steps outside. Was a wonderful session, was very funny. Your
dirty sanchez
was perfect. Finger insertion was deep in anus, lip swipe was perfectly placed, shit mustache came out beautifully. But you were very drunk and stumbled out of room and down steps to ground. Not a pretty sight. I think you are dead, so I take you to hospital. I don’t stay and hold your hand because I can’t have police asking me questions, especially if you end up as corpse. That, and you smell like shit.”

The anger swells in me at the thought of the dirty sanchez, of me wiping that poor, unsuspecting Misty girl’s own feces across her upper lip. The fury kicks up stomach bile which lingers in the back of my throat and I feel like I’m going to puke again. “That’s it, Mongo. This is over.”

Mongo’s smile dissolves. “What are you talking about?”

“This, you dickhead. Everything. The show, the girls, these stupid fucking challenges. I’m done with it all and I’m going home.”

Mongo’s voice drops to just above a whisper and there’s acid in his words. “Nothing is over, little homosexual asshole. We are winning contest, and you are giving me half of money. Be grateful I don’t make you give me all.”

I guess the head injury has given me some unknown fount of courage because I lean over the table and hiss right back at the Russian bear. “Fuck you, Commie. I’m not giving you shit. You can take this contest and that money and shove it all up your ass.”

Mongo’s upper lip quivers ever so slightly and his eyes burn with murder. Then he smiles and leans back and looks like we’re having just the most pleasant conversation. He pulls his cell phone from his coat pocket and sets it on the table.

“I knew you were pussy,” he says. “This was anticipated. I try to think of motivation for you when you get to this point. Honestly, I am surprise you make it this far. Did not have much faith in you. At first, I think great re-motivator would be threaten to sell you to sadist friends of mine to use in next snuff film if you try to back out.”

I have no doubt this bastard not only knows the kind of people that make such films, but he also wouldn’t hesitate to do it. I lick my lips nervously and fight to maintain my fading defiance. “Try it, asshole. This hospital is full of people. Try getting past the cops at the front door with me yelling my head off. You can’t do shit to me right now. This is over.”