Saturday, October 17, 2015

Pay To Play.

There, at the bottom of Burgundy Road, a freshly severed head came to a standstill. It had made its way down from the top of the street, rolling feverishly at a rapid pace as it bounced down the hill. Just a few moments before, the head had been attached to a body of course. That body, known to his Ivy League fraternity brothers as "Gobbler Reggie", had a penchant for cycling at night. It would prove to be a fatal hobby. No sooner than Gobbler Reggie had reached the peak of Burgundy Road did the mysterious Patched Jeans Killer swipe his head clean off. His weapon of choice? A dull, jagged lawn mower blade with an improvised grip comprised of wrapped electrical tape.

Arriving at the bottom of the hill, the Patched Jeans Killer kicked Gobbler Reggie's head like a soccer ball. He gleefully watched as it wobbled into the gutter. There, it became stuck in a storm drain. Gobbler Reggie stared vigilantly at his victorious predator, right up until one of the neighborhood feral cats came to feast upon his perfectly toned, smug face.

Wiping his blade on a strip of grass, the killer removed his plaid cloak. Beneath stood a rather unremarkable man of average height and weight. He had the face of a mall security guard -- nonthreatening, forgettable and largely unimposing. His barely-there mustache was wiry, with stray strands of brown hair twirling in multiple directions. Behind the killer was a little red wagon. In it was the headless body of Gobbler Reggie. The Patched Jeans Killer continued to pull his bounty down Burgundy Road, under the brisk chill of the Autumn wind. The flickering street lights provided little visibility for anyone, though this was obviously to the killer's advantage.

Up ahead sat the abandoned Vargas Jelly Factory, long since shuttered in the mid 1980's. The killer was familiar with the location -- his grandmother used to work there before it closed down. On this particular evening, fate would have it that the murderous savage needed to complete a task most foul. Well, not more so than what he had already done to poor Gobbler Reggie.

The Patched Jeans Killer had to take a poop.

Parking his wagon of flesh behind a rusty old fuel tank, the monster busted into the musty building. Fumbling through his fanny pack, he searched for his mini flash light. Flipping the torch on, he gazed back and forth for the nearest restroom. At long last, he found one in the far back corner of the administrative offices on the second floor. Hurriedly rushing into the ebony pit of grime and muck, he frantically slammed open a dilapidated stall door. Before him sat a throne of pure filth. This was no time for being picky, though. The eponymous mystery man of refurbished denim ferociously dropped his pants, which were covered in multiple mismatched sections of cloth. No sooner had his jeans hit the urine stained floor did a massive explosion of gastric juices blast into the porcelain bowl. For what seemed like a full five minutes, the killer filled the toilet with a foul batch of butt pudding. At the end of it all, sweat dripped from the butcher's brow and trickled down his legs. His jeans were soon soaked with sweat.

Leaning back to recover his breath, the Patched Jeans Killer flashed his torch beam at the decrepit bathroom stall. On the back of the entryway hung a tattered poster of Rocky IV-era Brigitte Nielsen. She'd long since been given a black marker beard and had her eyes crossed out. At the bottom, scrawled in block letters, said "PAY TO PLAY." The killer couldn't help but notice the gaping hole below the poster, amateurishly layered in duct tape as a method of padding the jagged edges. One could only imagine how twisted and disgusting those jelly packers were in their heyday.

While waiting for his bowels to settle down, the crafty manhunter retrieved his smart phone. He was eager to experience a free-to-play potato farming simulator which he'd downloaded yesterday, entitled Spud Buster Saga. Gliding his fingers carefully over the phone screen, the killer took joy in planting various crops of potatoes. Unfortunately, his potato-packed potty break soon came to a screeching halt. A perplexing image of slicing swords and ninja stars spun onto the phone's screen. Where once stood a virtual potato palace now rested an annoying ad for another mobile game. A crescendo of pulsating violins, now violently blaring from the device, brought the tension to a boil. Rapid flashes of bright colors radiated like a strobe light. It was enough to induce an epileptic fit.

The killer pursed his butt cheeks in sheer terror.

A boisterous voice-over announcer with a terrible Asian accent screamed "They slice! They dice! And now... they're coming to your smart phone! Kung Fu Warriors... Available Now!"

The shock of the startling advertisement sent the Patched Jeans Killer into a frenzy. The flashing lights baffled his brain, delivering a strange cacophony of nerve impulses throughout his body. His face cast aglow by the ninja-laden commercial, the murderer gripped at his chest. He could feel his heart, pumping uncontrollably, finally explode like a duck trapped in a microwave oven. The phone slipped from his hand and rolled into the crotch of his patched jeans. The intense glare from the screen painted the deceased killer's body in a plethora of colors, a curtain call to what would be his last great performance.

There, in a forsaken house of pectin, sat a barbarian in a bathroom. No courtesy flush. No washing of the hands. And no one cared.

If you listen carefully to the wind on Burgundy Street after the midnight hour, some folks say you can hear the ghost of Gobbler Reggie chanting from the shore of eternal twilight. In a cluster of meteoric laughter, the headless phantom will scream...


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