Inspired by the Idiots

Slow Play, Part 1: A Fiery Cockpit

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 07:54:00 +0000

The drive to Tess's apartment isn't especially long. From Vommy's office, it's as simple as hopping onto the expressway and getting off two exits later. Martin isn't expecting it to be an eventful trip, and that's a good thing. He's a bit nervous about confronting someone hell-bent on ruining his life. He's still angry, too, but as far as he can tell, that's not really his problem.

Landon is kind enough to be silent as he turns up the on-ramp. Martin is lost in his thoughts somewhere far away from this car. A loud bang pulls him back.

"Holy shit," says Landon, and he instinctively hits his hazard lights before coming to a hasty stop at the edge of the road that has Martin bracing against the dashboard. A car just ahead of them had careened into the guard rail. Its radiator grill is crumpled beyond repair, the hood folded like an accordion. Landon gets out of the car.

"Where are you going?" Martin shouts after him, but when someone like Landon has their sights set on a goal, the confused yelps of a stand-up comic aren't much of a deterrent. Martin also gets out of the car.

At first, Martin expects to see his life flash before his eyes as the cars on the road whiz past them, but everyone has been kind enough to either stop or slow down to rubberneck as Landon tears off his human costume to reveal the Superman outfit underneath. Martin joins him at the driver's window. He's just some ginger kid, the driver, and he's all alone in there. Martin can't imagine he's been driving for long.

"I can't get the door open," Landon mutters as he pounds on the glass. The kid's slumped over the steering wheel, but it doesn't look like he's suffered any head trauma.

"Just call 911. They know how to handle this shit."

Another car pulls over behind the accident, a hulk of chipped white paint and rust. A young black woman hustles to get out and over to the car. She begins to take pictures of Martin and Landon. Martin thinks she might be kind of cute if she weren't being weird and annoying.

"What are you doing?" Martin says, approaching her. "Isn't it kinda creepy to take pictures of an accident?"

"I work for the paper," she says, taking another picture of Martin before turning her lens back to the crashed car. Martin doesn't think he likes this sort of journalism, if only because she seems a bit too happy to have stumbled across this wreck.

Landon puts his phone back in his pocket. "Figures that he'd do this right at the midpoint between exits. With the traffic backing up, it's gonna be a while before anyone gets to us."

Martin notices a strange light flickering inside the crashed vehicle. "Dude, what is that?" he asks, pointing.

Landon presses his face to the glass, putting up his hands up to cut down on any glare. "Oh shit," he says. "Shit shit shit." He's gone from impatient to downright frantic as he runs to his car and pops the trunk.

"What?" Martin says, realizing he'll have to look for himself to see what the problem is.

Fire. Fire is the problem. The kid must have been trying to light a cigarette before he crashed, because now there's a small flame burning its way through the middle of his passenger seat. Martin doesn't even hear sirens yet.

"Look out," Landon says. One quick swing of the tire iron shatters the kid's window. "Get ready, Martin." Landon unlocks the door and pulls it open. Martin fumbles at getting the kid's seat belt undone. His adrenaline-charged brain can't seem to solve such a simple problem. Landon pulls him out of the way to do it for him. The lady from the newspaper continues to take photographs instead of helping, a point Martin intends to bring up later. "Got it," Landon shouts, and suddenly Martin is helping Landon pull the kid out of the car and away. The reporter follows them closely, trying to capture the scene from multiple angles.

"Oh fuck off!" Martin yells, and she most certainly grabs a picture of his frustration. He looks to Landon and to the car, still on fire. "Do we have anything to put that out?"

"Not at this point," Landon admits. He looks defeated, but Landon's done more than most people would have by now. This reporter woman has done absolutely nothing. Martin has to make a conscious effort to resist yelling at her more before the police, an ambulance, and later a fire truck finally make their way through the traffic. The car is a blackened skeleton once the fire is doused.

It's another thirty minutes after help arrives before the police let them go on their way. Thankfully the woman from the newspaper is more interested in chatting with the police, paramedics, and firefighters at that point, so Landon and Martin have no problem sneaking away. Landon asks Martin if he still wants to see Tess, but Martin just shakes his head. He's too unsettled by how contagious Landon's desire to do the right thing turned out to be. How can Martin be angry about Tess's book when he's just saved some kid's life?

Landon drops Martin off at his house. Ray isn't around, so the night turns into Martin's typical night in: beer, naked girls on webcams, and streaming television on his computer.

The next day he decides to get coffee from an actual coffee shop instead of drinking the shit he brews at home. He's not hung-over when he orders his coffee, but nor is he fully awake when he picks up a copy of the morning paper.

"Two Men Called Heroes in Expressway Crash" jumps out at Martin. He flips to the continuation a few pages in, and there's an action shot of him pulling the red-headed kid out of the car. There's no mistaking that it's Martin, though the article is mostly about the great and powerful Landon Freeman tacking another medal onto his jacket.

Damn it. This is yet another hit on Martin's scumbag reputation. First the book, and now this? It's like he's forgotten how to be dick to people, how to let idiot kids burn themselves to a crisp after they realize they can't drive and light a cigarette at the same time. But how's he supposed to be a jerk when he surrounds himself with decent people like Landon Freeman? Martin needs sleaze to tarnish this good. Martin needs shitty to scuff up this not-so-bad. Martin needs another ginger, an asshole to make Martin forget what it's like to be nice.

Of all the people Martin could need, Martin needs Max Enberg.

Lair of the Silken Palms

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Sat, 01 Sep 2012 08:20:00 +0000

Landon pulls into the small alley parking lot at 1:50 PM. Their appointment is at two o'clock sharp, and neither Martin nor Landon knows what to expect.

"This should be pretty interesting," Martin says. "I can't imagine why he has a secretary."

"You read his website. He's a philanthropist. Maybe that...requires a lot of scheduling," Landon suggests, but signs point to him being just as baffled as Martin.

Turns out that Vommy Bamboo wasn't the hardest guy to find. A quick search of his name turned up the "Vomit Bamboo Foundation", apparently a way for Vommy to use his trust fund wealth and cantankerous spirit for the greater good. Perhaps the Vommy Bamboo videos had just been a convincing act. Even that might be helpful, though.

The building containing his office is neither lavish nor run down. It looks to be home to several office-dwelling entities, from talent managers' offices to other non-profit organizations. The location, at least, is not intimidating.

"Yeah, let's just get in there and see what's happened to the guy," Martin says.

The two men exit the vehicle and enter the building, noting that the foundation's office is on the third floor. Martin tries to get Landon to take the elevator, but he is of course too fit for that.

A nondescript sign marks the entrance to Vommy's office, where Landon holds the door open for Martin to venture forth. Waiting to greet them at a clean, modern desk is a cheery plump woman sitting behind a keyboard.

"Hello!" she beams. "You must be Mr. Avery and Mr. Freeman."

"Uh, yeah," says Martin. "We're here to see...Vommy, Vomit, whatever."

"Mr. Bamboo is ready to see you whenever you're ready," she says. "His office is right through those double doors." Martin looks at the plain doors. Everything's too normal so far. Perhaps the interior of Vommy's office is a terrifying mess.

Inside, a wall of skunky perfume hits Martin like a warm bucket of water to the face. It smells like Vommy has been trying to mask his weed with cheap incense. Martin gives Landon a look of uncertainty when Landon crinkles his nose.

"Gentlemen," says Vommy Bamboo in a lilting trill. His hair is short and dark, just like his beard. Silver-framed glasses sit high on his nose. He is wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, carrying his signature ukulele, and a large iguana rides across his shoulders. "I'm so happy to see neither of you is black."

"What?" says Martin.

"Have you ever touched dicks?" Vommy asks.

"Have we..." Landon starts.

"Touched dicks," says Vommy. "Have they touched?"

"Not recently," says Martin.

"Hmm. I guess that will have to do," says Vommy. He shakes hands with Landon, then with Martin. After releasing his grip, he runs his fingers down the side of Martin's face. They're disturbingly soft, like the hands of a eunuch. "Please have a seat."

He points to a leather couch opposite his armchair. There's no desk to be seen, but there is a low coffee table in the middle of the seating arrangement. It seems odd to Martin that there are several other doors leading out of the "office".

"You are welcome to one doughnut or one danish and a cup of coffee." Martin notes the two mugs with a small pitcher of creamer and a bowl of sugar. There are also two plates with one of each baked good on them. Martin wonders what Vommy would do if he ate both, but he doesn't feel like testing this man.

"So Mr. Bamboo," says Landon, taking a sip from his coffee and picking up his doughnut, "do you know why we're here?"

"No," says Vommy. His fingers pull out a pleasant tune from the ukulele while his iguana swings its tail.

"Okay," Martin says. "Well, you've probably never heard of me--"

"Nope!" Vommy blurts out. He laughs to himself as he continues playing his song.

"Right," Martin continues, "but I saw your videos a long time ago, right around when I was moving here, and they became a source of inspiration for me." Martin wasn't going to touch the food, but his pastry is starting to look delicious.

"I can only imagine what sort of dull imagination you must have," Vommy says. "Would you boys mind if I touch myself a bit?"

Martin is caught completely off-guard, but Landon is mentally present.

"A bit," he says. "I think that would be a bit traumatizing for Martin."

Vommy snorts his disapproval.

"Anyway," Martin says, trying to keep a grip on the reason he's here in the first place, "I don't really know how busy you are these days with this foundation, but if you have any tips on being a jerk, I could really use them."

"For what?" Vommy asks.

"This woman is publishing a book about me saying that I'm really nice at heart, and that will ruin the reputation I've cultivated. How can I convince everyone that I am truly a bad person?"

"I don't know," Vommy says, staring at nothing in particular. "You could marry a black man. That would be the ultimate middle finger to society."

"Sure, sure," Martin says, hoping to move away from the bigotry, "but what about something that doesn't involve reshaping some of my major characteristics? I'm not, y'know...gay."

"Look, you're the one who's trying to be a jerk. I don't want to give you advice anyway. You're just trying to take my routine." Vommy stops playing his ukulele and stands up. "If you think I'm such an asshole, then why would you think I'd help you? That's absurd."

"Point taken."

"If you need help, go get it somewhere else," Vommy says, trying to push his glasses up his nose even though they haven't slipped. "That's not what we do around here."

"We? You and your secretary?" Martin asks.

"What exactly does your foundation do?" asks Landon.

"That, I'm afraid, is none of your business." Vommy walks to the double doors and opens one, standing to the side. "I'm going to have to ask you boys to leave." Landon just finishes his doughnut, and Martin decides now is the time to take both options and split. He makes no attempt to hide his theft from Vommy and walks out just behind Landon.

"Do you need another appointment?" asks the secretary.

"No, that's quite all right," says Landon. "Let's go."

As they're walking back down the stairs, it dawns on Martin that he still doesn't have a plan to keep his life from imploding.

"Any ideas for a Plan B?" he asks.

"It may not be your idea of a plan, but we could just talk to Tess, see what she has to say."

Martin sighs. "You really are always right."

Think Tank (Pt. 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Sat, 11 Aug 2012 08:55:00 +0000

After a brief stint of pacing across Ian's living room with his head down, Martin looks back up to the concerned faces of his audience. He is just now impacted by the image of friends and acquaintances looking at him with anticipation, all gathered here for his benefit. He is still confused by some of the faces, though. It is odd to see Max Enberg eating a hastily assembled cold cut sandwich in a room that is so familiar to Martin. He still has no idea why such a welcoming spread of food was put out.

"So...is there some kind of speech planned?" Tammy says. Everyone's heads turn from her to Martin.

"Yeah," Gay Martin adds, "I still don't get why we're here." Ray voices his agreement as well.

"Okay," says Martin. "It's pretty clear that Ian didn't follow my instructions at all, so let me start again from the beginning. Tess Carter is trying to ruin my life."

"Who's that?" asks Francisco.

"She's uh, hmm." Martin had forgotten that not all of the people he wanted here were familiar with the Countess, and there are also people here who never should have been invited. "Landon here," he says, pointing, "used to date her. At some point she decided that I am really interesting and that it would be a big adventure to dig into my psyche and see what she could find."

"I'm guessing she found an asshole," Gay Martin joked.

Martin sighed. "The problem is that she claims she didn't. And she wrote a book about it."

"What?" says Leanne. "Are you telling me she wrote a book about how nice you are?"

"Yes," said Martin.

"No way was she telling the truth," Leanne snorted.

"I might not agree with her opinion, but from what I've heard, everything she talks about in the book objectively is one hundred percent true."

"You're kidding me, right?" says Max. "Someone's writing a book about you. They're putting you in a good light. You're really upset. Do you not see the disconnect here?" Apparently Max has no desire to get on Martin's good side.

"But I have a reputation! Look at Francisco," Martin suggests, "someone who could easily rip me in half. He's one of the nicest guys I've ever met, and I bet he'd rather people not know that."

"I'm okay either way, bro." Francisco shrugs. "Someone comes at me thinking they're gonna have an easy time because I'm nicer than I look is still gonna have a pretty bad time." Martin puts up his hands as a sign of deference for forgetting that Francisco was superhuman.

"That works for you, but what if someone hears about me from this book and tries very excitedly to get me to sign it for them? In that case I should just scream and start punching them?"

"If you wanna be an asshole, just ignore them," says Francisco.

"But then they think it's just my crunchy outer shell and all they have to do is work a little harder to get to my soft nougat center. Do you not see the problem with this? I can't live like that."

"What exactly do you propose we do about it?" asks Leanne.

"I was kind of hoping you'd help me with that," Martin admits. "The first thing that comes to mind is silently getting rid of Tess, but that's not really feasible or morally acceptable."

"You could always beat her to the press," says Landon, this time crunching on a meaty celery stalk.

"Meaning what?"

"Before her book comes out, do something publicly that proves you are, to the core, little more than another city-dwelling asshole. Go back to your roots from when you first decided you wanted to become a comedian."

Huh. Good old Landon Freeman is onto something here. Before Martin had moved to the city, he had enjoyed a couple of videos on the Internet made by a guy who called himself Vommy Bamboo -- a name that was never explained -- ranting about anything and everything he could think of, most of it highly politically incorrect. Some of it was just oddly humorous, though, like Vommy's predilection for the ukelele, which he would strum throughout his videos. He also felt society was judging him too harshly for taking good care of his hands. Vommy went over, in detail, his moisturizing routine for each finger, ending with "And if that's too much for you, then fuck you. I love my hands."

"That gives me a great idea, I think. Either that or a really, really terrible one."

"What's that?" says Landon.

"I may need all of you to help me eventually, but in the interest of getting back to my roots, I need to go pay a visit to Vommy Bamboo."

"Who the hell is Vommy Bamboo?" says Leanne.

"Exactly," says Martin. "I think, if my judgment is correct, that Vommy Bamboo is a tremendous asshole."

Think Tank (Pt. 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Sat, 28 Jul 2012 20:07:00 +0000

Such a familiar sight, and yet Martin is nervous. He needs everyone to be on board if he's going to maintain his dignity.

Martin knocks on the door, such a familiar sound. The door opens just a crack, and inside, the house is dark.

"Password?" says the guardian.

Martin furrows his brow. "I...have no idea."

After a brief pause, the door opens wider. "That is correct." Ian flicks the lights on, and everyone behind him groans at the sudden change in brightness. It's late, and their eyes were probably tired already. Martin charges forward, lifting Ian in a firm bear hug. "Okay, that's enough, sailor," Ian hisses through his crushed ribs. Martin sets him down heavily and looks around the room.

On the couch, the occupants from left to right are Gay Martin, Ray, and Leanne. Standing around the room are an unidentified yet familiar woman, Tammy the Genius, and an unidentified man.

"Ian, who are the extra people?" Martin whispers.

"Oh, that's Leanne's sister and Tammy's husband. I told everyone they could bring guests if they wanted."

"What? This was supposed to be a private meeting."

Ian looks as though he's just heard a good joke. "Ohhh. I totally thought you said 'friendly party.'" Martin shakes his head.

He then steps forward, away from the door. "You all know why I've gathered you here tonight," he begins. Ray raises his hand.

"I have no idea what's going on right now," says Ray. Martin lowers his face into his hands.

"Yeah," echoes Leanne, "I'm kind of confused. Ian told me we were gonna burn some things."

"Ian just told me to bring a tray of snacks and some drinks," says GM. "He said we were going to play strip solitaire."

"I don't even know who you are," says Leanne's sister.

"I tried to brief her on the way over," Leanne offers, "but she still didn't see why she had to come."

"Well," says Martin. "I mean...she didn't. I don't think Ian told you guys anything he was supposed to."

Landon Freeman enters from the kitchen carrying a plate full of vegetables and dip. He looks around at the people greeting his entrance with silence. "What?"

Martin looks wildly back and forth between Landon and Ian. "And why the hell did you invite him?!"

"There's a device in my brain that translates every rational thing you tell me into whatever the hell I want it to be," Ian replies. "Like, just now, you asked me why I invited him, and as I was coming up with the answer, my brain kept whispering 'I think I'm gonna go get high.' and 'Unicorns are amazing.'" As he said this, Ian was slinking off toward the kitchen with no shame.

"Martin, you don't understand. I'm not the bad guy," Landon insists. "I know why you're upset, and maybe you'll be happy to know that Tess and I are no longer together." He crunches through a celery stalk, chewing pensively while he gauges Martin's reaction.

"Did you know what she was doing for her book?"

"Nope," Landon replies, and this time he pops a baby carrot into his mouth.

"Okay," Martin relents. "You're a good man, Landon Freeman." Landon nods in agreement.

"I have asked for some of you to be here tonight because I need help," Martin announces. "I am being slandered in a new book by Tess Carter. She wants to claim that I am a decent and intelligent person living some kind of life-affirming human experience in the middle of the city, and that's neither true nor good for my career."

The door opens behind Martin. He turns around to see Francisco Panza, and behind him is a tall man in a wheelchair.

"Hey, bro. Sorry we're late," says Francisco, and he reaches out a hand to shake Martin's. Martin has no intention of denying Francisco anything, but then his attention is turned to Max Enberg.

"Uh, hey. How's it going?" Martin greets him. Max punches Martin in the stomach, though not hard enough to drop him.

"I'm all right," says Max, and he follows Francisco into the room with a gentle push of his wheels.

"There are snacks in the kitchen," Landon tells them, pointing the way.

"Hey, when they come back, can you start over?" Ray asks. "I'm a bit lost."

Martin holds his stomach, looking around the room. This is not going according to plan.

"Ian!"

Black to the City

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 08:26:00 +0000

Ring. Buzz buzz. Ring. Buzz buzz. Martin picks up his phone.

"Dude, I sent the check out already. Just have patience."

"Right," says Ray, "but the rent was due last week."

"I don't control when the rent is due! You fix that," Martin hisses, then he angrily taps his phone's screen to hang up on Ray.

His parents have been as accommodating as always, and this chance to hide has proved itself a welcome break from all things to do with the city except for Ray. Ray is being a dick. For five months Martin has sent a check for his half of the rent on time, and the one time he's late, Ray begins to call him every day to remind him that he's late. Seriously, what a dick.

Money has become less of a problem for Martin, but at the same time his comedy career as he knew it has all but evaporated. Without Herb and The Glorious Hole, he realized that he was a nobody. He wasn't a famous comedian. He was just a club regular, and that sucked. It wasn't good enough.

So instead of working to get gigs at other places, he moved in with his parents, but only temporarily, that's what he told himself. His parents didn't allow alcohol in the house. This made getting himself righted and back to living in the city remarkably urgent. Martin had been able to score a miniscule bag of pot from a wannabe white gangster up the street, but in the end he had paid too much for a product that didn't live up to its description.

Now he was neither high nor drunk, just staring at the different documents and websites open on his screen. Martin had managed to grab several freelance comedy writing jobs that paid very little but were highly rewarding in terms of exposure. Coupling this meager income with most of his expenses removed by parental housing and a strict alcohol policy, it was pretty easy for Martin to make rent these days. He had even chipped in a few bucks toward paying back Michelle, though they had begun to talk less and less after he escaped the city.

The third ghost that had haunted him all the way from the city was Tess trying to apologize and tell him that she wouldn't follow him around anymore, but he said very little back to her and what he did say was harsh. Landon never came to her defense.

"Martin, what do you want for dinner?" Martin's father yells up the stairs, and though most people say his dad looks like Morgan Freeman, he certainly doesn't sound like him. This dinner question is the nightly struggle, even though his mother usually has something planned. His father is too meek to remind her of this, however, so he asks Martin for a suggestion.

"I'll just eat whatever Mom's making!" Martin yells back, and he can hear his Dad trudge away from the stairs. Whether or not this answer is satisfactory is beyond Martin's scope of knowledge. It's certainly satisfactory to Martin. His mother has been in the kitchen all her life, inheriting generation after generation of recipes and techniques from a proud line of Southern black women. In short: when you eat a meal of hers, it stays eaten.

In a few minutes, Martin's polished off another small article, and this means another paycheck. Glorious. He's also under the impression that having fans on the Internet isn't such a bad thing. Maybe he can get a proper turnout when he's on stage now.

Dinner ends up being another of his mother's extravagant feasts set out for twenty people despite a guest list of three. Martin watches his parents eating silently as he takes a couple of bites of everything. It's all delicious, but it's too rich for his skinny frame.

"So Martin," his Dad starts, "how's the writing going?" Okay, maybe he does look a little like Morgan Freeman, but his eyes are too sad. Martin's father looks like a weathered man, like a coastal rock face that's had the ocean bearing down on it for as long as it can remember, and while it may not look different to you, you're certain it's changed.

"Just finished another piece, actually," says Martin. "I'm hoping I can get a few more done this week. If I can get some more regular publication then I'll probably head back into town and try writing from there."

"No need to feel rushed," says his Mom. "You can stay here as long as you'd like."

"No, I know. I just want to get back there at some point. Might as well have a goal." He wants to say his Mom looks like an older Queen Latifah, but for some reason that seems racist to Martin. He really has no idea where to draw the line. Martin is reminded of Kiefo for a moment, an odd memory to be cropping up now, but hey, the guy's black.

"Maybe you should write a book," his Dad says, just like he's said every day since Martin told him he was trying out written comedy.

"Yeah, maybe."

"Or you could try writing for the newspaper," his Mom suggests. It's more practical, but it still has nothing to do with his writing.

"That's true. I'm probably just going to do more stand-up, though."

"When do you think we could come to one of your shows?" asks his Mom, and Martin is choked by the guilt. They always ask when they can go to one of his shows, but he doesn't like the idea of swearing and talking about sex in front of his parents. Martin can see the shame and anger they'd feel after he accidentally makes some fantastically racist joke just before remembering that they're in the audience. They've raised him and given him a home. He doesn't need to remind them that they're a different ethnicity. "Your sister must go to your shows sometimes, right?"

"Michelle? Yeah, she goes every once in a while, but I don't really tell her when the shows are. It's really not a big deal, y'know. Just a hobby."

"I'd still like to go sometime."

"Alright, well I'll try to let you know when I've got something good coming up after I get back to the city. Maybe I can get a good time slot in a grocery store parking lot." When his parents laugh, Martin feels a lot better. If he focuses on his goals, everything is right in the world.

"Oh, I read about your book," says his dad. "Saw it in the paper."

"What?" Martin's father can be a bit...forgetful sometimes, but this is confusing in that it sounds like a new topic. "What book?"

"The one about you," says his father. Martin sits up straight. "By someone named Jess something."

Martin had assumed. He had made an ass out of him and himself. When Tess stopped bothering him, that should have been the end of it. She didn't pay him anymore, she didn't follow him, and there was nothing to write. What could she have written?

"Tess," his mother corrects.

"Oh right, Tess. She called us a while after you moved back here, asked us some things about how you were growing up."

"No," Martin says, standing up. She had sidestepped him completely, and his parents were much, much too kind.

"Well the book's about 'Marcus Ivory', but we'll know it's you," says his Dad, still happily eating.

"Excuse me," says Martin, and he runs upstairs to his computer, quickly typing in the fake name along with Tess's. The book is simply titled The Comedian. Not bad so far. Martin looks for the synopsis, but he's distracted by a video that automatically plays on the book's website.

"We're here with Tess Carter, author of the new novel The Comedian. Hi, Tess."

"Hi."

"This book is fairly remarkable just for some of the stories you've come up with, but I'd say that disbelief gets ratcheted up a notch when you say that this is all true, that's it's about someone you know."

"It is, though. The names have all been changed--"

"Except yours."

"Well right, except mine and Landon's."

"Landon's, yeah."

"But I was there for a lot of this or I talked directly to people who were there, so I'm willing to go out on a limb and say this is at least ninety-nine percent true."

"That's bold." The interviewer and Tess both laugh.

"It's pretty close."

"And your main character, Marcus, he's an interesting guy. A young white boy and his sister are adopted by a black family, then he moves to the city and lives under the radar as a mildly successful stand-up comic."

"Right."

"And you say a number of times in the book, well, excuse my language, folks, but he's an asshole."

"He is, and he'd admit it."

"And you also say he admits it because that's the reputation he wants."

"Exactly, see, this whole experience started when I just thought he was an interesting person. I wanted inspiration for my art, normally paintings, and he seemed to stir up something in me that I can't quite elaborate on. I figured it would be worth my time to learn more about him, and in doing so I found out that he's quite different than how he appears most of the time."

"He's a good guy, you mean?"

"More or less." Oh no.

"Like this one time he repossessed his friend's car and then borrowed money to get it back for her?" Oh no.

"Yes! I couldn't believe that when I first heard it. Everything about him seemed to rub the wrong way, and yet people loved him. I knew there was something about him I wasn't seeing."

"And he's generally a sensitive guy?" Oh no.

"I don't know if that's the right word. He's a human being, I guess. That's more obvious with some people than it is with others. He hides it well, or at least he distracted me from it for a long time. This is a man, though, who grew up without his biological parents, then he and his sister graduated near the top of their classes in high school. He graduated Summa Cum Laude from an Ivy League school after she graduated from a prestigious business school. Then he decided that his best bet was to follow his dreams and be a stand-up comic. His sister works in the financial district. In some ways, I think that's the thing I find most inspirational about him. He followed certain societal expectations for a long time in his life, but when it came time to actually make a living, he did exactly what he wanted. He lives in a cheap house with a roommate, he drinks too much, and he can seem very heartless sometimes, but I think that in the midst of all that he is still a great person, not in the sense that he's good for everybody else, just in the sense that he is exactly who he wants to be." Oh fuck.

Martin pauses the video and stares wide-eyed at Tess's stupid face. She knows everything. He needs to get back there, back in the city to clean this all up. Martin had a reputation, after all, a small one, but it was growing and growing exactly how he wanted. Tess is set to nuke that reputation with a poorly masked tell-all that has no reason to exist except for her own idiotic whims.

Martin grabs his phone and flips through his contacts.

"Hello?"

"Hey, this is Martin. I need you to get ready for my homecoming, because you and I have some serious brainstorming to do, okay?"

"I'll set out some bowls of lightning and clouds. Maybe some cats and dogs or something." Ah, "brainstorming". And "raining cats and dogs".

"Wait wait. I thought you didn't like animals."

Ian snorts into the phone. "Just the ones that come out of my brain, dude."

Spies

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 06:45:00 +0000

“Like...how about this? ‘I have this fear that one day I’ll meet a truly paranoid person who is technologically illiterate. What’s gonna happen when I tell them that the screens on computers are called “monitors?” I don’t think anyone wants to be around for that.’” Martin smiles.

“Okay, that’s pretty good. Not a lot of punch to it, but you have plenty of time to let that shit stew. So come on, who was that girl?” Martin has been pestering Tommy constantly since the party, meaning Tommy has had to suffer through a whole day of Martin calling him a coward.

“Or this one, I guess.” Tommy lines up his finger on the correct line of the notepad. With Ray out of town for a day or so, Martin figured Tommy could hang out there around the clock in preparation for a show at some point in the near future. “‘On a wall near my apartment, there’s a section that’s a mishmash of graffiti and flyers. One day I noticed that two local bands had put up flyers for shows on the same night at different places. Seemed harmless, but the next day I saw that one of the bands had printed about thirty more flyers and covered up everything else on the wall. Kind of a dick move, but hey, they’re proud of their music, right? The following day, the other band has done the same thing, but their flyers are the brightest, most obnoxious neon yellow I have ever seen while not on acid. So I bought a ream of paper, grabbed a permanent marker, and made my own sign out of paper that covered the whole segment of the wall. It said, “PLEASE STOP SHOUTING! I CAN’T SEE WHERE I’M GOING.”’”

“Seems a bit long, for one,” Martin suggests, “but also...did that really happen?” He gives a look to Tommy meant to pry out the truth, but his apprentice offers it freely.

“No. I just came up with it.”

Martin crinkles his nose. “You’re gross.”

“What? Comedians make up stories all the time.”

“But the whole thing? Was any of that true?”

“There’s a wall near my house,” Tommy says, but his tail is between his legs.

“Okay, well I wouldn’t suggest ending with that one; that’s all.” Martin looks around the dimness of his place at dusk. It’s not very clean, but it’s not dirty. Clutter. It’s cluttered, and Martin is starting to hate it. “You wanna get some weed?”

First Tommy looks at his notepad with what seems to be a mild case of despair and fear, but as his brain chugs along, he snaps out of it. Tommy shrugs. “Yeah, why not?”

“Exactly.” Martin calls Ian to arrange for a purchase. Tommy heads outside for some reason, but when Martin exits the building, Tommy’s just sitting in his car.

“You all ready to go?” he asks as Martin gets into the car.

“Why would I get into the car if I’m not ready?”

“Just asking,” Tommy says, backing the car into the street.

“I don’t know what the rush is. The whole reason we’re making this trip is to chill the fuck out. You especially. You need to calm down. Your first show isn’t a big deal, man. Go ahead and be nervous all you want, and go ahead and screw up a few times and bomb some jokes. You just need to get it out of your system, then next time you’ll know what to expect. It’s as easy as that.” Tommy just nods along as he drives. Has he really listened? Martin can’t be sure.

When Tommy pulls up to Ian’s place, Martin can already spot Tess standing uncomfortably near the door. “Damn, she’s like a bloodhound,” Martin says.

“Seems like you kind of owe her anyway since you didn’t leave the house yesterday.”

“Oh shut it.” Martin climbs out of the car and walks glumly up to the Countess. “I thought you were going to try to stay out of my business. Just observe, y’know?”

Tess looks stunned. “You didn’t complain about it for the first few days.” Tommy steps up behind Martin.

“You were better at it back then. I call my friend for a weed hook-up, and you’re already waiting here? At the door?”

“If I may be honest, I was a bit afraid to knock after what happened at the club.”

“He was just being protective,” says Tommy.

“Exactly!” Martin agrees loudly, then he knocks on the door. “Ian is harmless. Hell, just ask Francisco. He’s fine.”

When the door swings open, an arm appears from inside, extended and holding a large pistol. Tommy jumps back. Tess recoils in fear, slumping against the house.

“Hey Ian,” greets Martin. “What’s up with the gun?”

Ian hesitates before holstering the gun. “I’ve been having these hallucinations about a skunk...an elephant, I don’t know. Animals freak me out.” Martin nods sympathetically. Tess is only just barely standing up.

“I understand. So.” Martin rubs his hands together. “Do you have the goods?”

The wiry blond stoner disappears from the doorway and is suddenly replaced by an enormous bag of marijuana, although not quite as large as one Martin once saw Ian bring into the house. “Wow,” Tommy whispers.

“Jesus, man. That’s way more than I asked for.” Martin looks around for potential witnesses, but this part of town is pretty empty. “I’m not paying for that much.”

“Oh whatever,” Ian grumbles. He shoves the bag at Tommy and holds out a hand to Martin expectantly. “My scale’s broken. So sue me. Yeesh.” This is the first time in a while that Martin has been surprised by a side of Ian’s personality.

Martin shakes his head and hands the money he prepared over to Ian.

“Wait a minute,” Tess interrupts. “Don’t you owe your sister money? And you’re buying drugs?”

Martin holds his hands up and squints at everybody in turn. “I knew something was up. How the hell did you know that?”

“I...” It’s obvious that she’s caught up in some web of lies, but Martin doesn’t know where it starts, where it ends, or who exactly the spider is.

“I told her,” Tommy says. Martin whirls around.

“And why are you telling her about my problems? Did you tell her to meet us here?” Martin glares at Tommy. He can’t seem to find his words either. “Why are you working for her? Is she paying you?”

“Martin,” Tess starts, but he holds up a hand to silence her.

“I just want everything out in the open,” Martin says calmly.

“I saw Gay Martin’s testicles once,” Ian mutters from the doorway.

“Ian, go inside!” Martin yells, and Ian complies reluctantly.

“There’s nothing to explain, Martin,” Tommy begins. “She needed ways to track you, so I said I’d help. I think you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“But I thought she was doing fine on her own. When did she start getting info from you?” Martin worries about where this interrogation might lead, but he doesn’t like unexpected information about the people close to him.

“From the beginning.” Martin maintains eye contact with Tommy, hoping to see a tell if the man’s lying.

“I asked him to get close to you,” Tess adds. “I wanted someone near you so I could keep a closer eye on you and get more information.”

“Wait.” A horrible realization is dawning on Martin. “Tommy, tell me the truth: do you want to be a comedian?”

Tommy’s jaw drops, and then so does Martin’s.

“What about Mary?” He stares at Tess with a calamitous mix of anger and hope.

“I just, I didn’t know how you’d be with a woman.” So that is Tess’s excuse for being a horrible person. Martin’s blood is boiling.

“I want you to both just go to hell,” he says as he storms away. “And I hope they extend eternity a couple million years just for people like you!”

Tommy: fake. Mary: fake. Martin wants so badly just to punch someone in the face over and over again, but the most he can get himself to do to expend more energy is walk a bit faster. As it is, it takes him two hours to walk home -- including a stop at the liquor store -- and he’s still furious when he gets back.

Martin sets down his packs of beer on the table. Ray is home, apparently, and he comes to the kitchen to greet Martin. “Uh, hey,” he says.

“Hi,” Martin says hastily as he rummages through their utensil drawer for the can and bottle opener. The first sip after he wrestles a cap off is a relief.

Ray laughs. “Are we drinking tonight?” He opens the fridge and grabs one of his non-alcoholic beers. Martin looks at Ray, then down at Ray’s beer, which he slaps out of Ray’s hand onto the floor, splitting the bottle open and spilling beer all over the floor. “What the hell was that for?”

In no mood to play, Martin grabs one of his beers and plants it in Ray’s open palm. “You’re drinking for real tonight.”

Ray looks wide-eyed at the alcoholic beer in his hand. “Alright, if you thin--”

“Dude, just shut up and drink.” Martin carries the bottle opener and some of his beer into the living room, where he claims one half of the couch as his own and turns on the television.

“Is, uh, is everything alright?” Ray asks as he sits down.

Martin continues to stare at the screen. “Yup.” He takes another sip of his beer.

The Human Canvas, Part 3 Epilogue: The Sultans of Swing

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 04:15:00 +0000

The police are yelling at Martin, telling him to get out of bed. He’s going away for a long time, something about child abuse. Tess is angry about what he did, but all she does is paint her feelings, something blue and orange that doesn’t make sense to him.

“Martin?” He takes a sharp breath as he wakes up. He’s relieved to be back in reality. Mary is sitting on the edge of the bed in short shorts and a tank top. “Bad dream?”

He closes his eyes and rolls over toward her, then says into a pillow, “The worst.”

“Maybe breakfast will make you feel better,” she suggests as she rubs his back.

“Okay,” he says, still muffled. There is the smell of something delicious and comforting wafting down the hall. Mary leaves him prone on the bed while she alerts her other guests about the impending meal by knocking on their doors.

Martin manages to get himself out of bed a minute later and gather the bare minimum of his clothing from the floor before walking out into the hall. Tess exits one of the bedrooms sleepily, and, upon seeing Martin, closes the door behind her and hurries past him.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Hey,” Martin says, following her with his head as she zips by. Strange.

A moment later, Jebediah exits the same room. Martin leans his head back, jaw dropped, and points at Jebediah. He only smiles back at Martin before pushing past him. Can it be true? The Countess and Jeb the Mute?

Another door opens behind him, and out of it comes Landon Freeman, laughing at something or someone in the room. Landon turns to see Martin, still wearing his look of surprise.

“Hey,” says Landon as Herb exits the room after him.

Martins jaw drops back down as he points back and forth between them. All of the rumors, the speculation, the naming of Herb Rollins as a “gay Casanova”; suddenly there’s very little air of mystery about it all. Martin wants to speak, but it only comes out as a whisper. “It’s true.”

The Human Canvas, Part 3: The Party

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 06:31:00 +0000

Tommy notices that Martin is grinning and fidgeting like a man possessed when he picks Martin up on the way to Mary’s party.

“Tommy, do you have any idea who she is?” Martin asks, knowing quite well already that he’ll get to explain what he means.

“No? You mean Mary?”

“Yes Mary! I tried typing in her name, ‘Marilena’, just kind of guessing at the spelling, and there was only one name that popped up: Marilena Trombitas. Fuckin’ Mary Trumpets!” Martin says. Tommy keeps his eyes on the road, but he furrows his brow.

“I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Okay, her name isn’t ‘Mary Trumpets’, but that’s what ‘Trombitas’ means. So like, have you ever heard of The Watcher & the Leviathan?”

That manages to ring a bell. “That’s a movie that’s coming out soon, right? The one with the dragons and zombies or something. I’ve only seen the commercials for it.”

“Well, I...I mean sure, yes. It’s based on the book with the same name, written by one Marilena Trombitas. That must have been what the tattoo on her back was for.” Martin thinks back to the large black and gray picture of dragons with what must have been the original Romanian of the title. He’s also thinking about her body and how it’s only nineteen years old.

“Oh, no shit. I was wondering how she had a friggin’ house in the hills. I thought maybe she lived with rich parents.”

Martin’s excited. “This could be a hell of a party, y’know. Oh shit.” He just now remembers that it’s a birthday party. “Shit, should we have gotten her a present?”

“What?” Tommy takes a moment to look at Martin, filling his need to make sure that the comedian’s being serious. “We just met her. I think she’ll forgive us if we don’t bring her a gift. I really don’t think everyone is going to get her something. I mean, do you think Landon and Tess have a present for her?”

Now that Martin thinks about it, it doesn’t seem likely. To Tess, Mary can’t be much more than sort of, kind of an employee. “I don’t know. I just realized, though, why does she do modeling if she has all this book and movie money at this point? You would think she’d spend her time writing the next bestselling novel.”

“I hadn’t even thought about that. I don’t think it takes all of your time to write a book, though. Maybe she models because it’s fun. She’s certainly got the body for it.” For a moment Martin wants to stretch over and bite Tommy’s arm, growling and tearing at him for thinking that he can edge in on Martin’s mentally claimed nubile territory.

“I agree,” he says instead.

The house Tommy eventually pulls up to is gated, two stories, and a beautiful example of the modern usage of glass to really open up the first floor. Plenty of cars are in the driveway, so Martin’s question of whether or not this would be an intimate affair is answered quickly. Several large flagstone platforms make up the steps to the front door.

At first, both of the men are wondering why the house is so dimly lit. The walkway is dark, and the house barely glows at the end. When they get to front door, it becomes clear that the real party is out back by the pool. A horde of strange teenagers in all manner of dress are crowded around Mary’s pool, and the doors are open at the front and back of the house to channel new guests toward the old ones.

As Martin and Tommy pass through the house, a familiar voice calls to them from off to the left. Off in the western wing of the house, Landon and Tess are chatting with Herb and an unfamiliar man with a very round head. Upon getting closer, Martin realizes that this new man plus Herb, Landon, and Tommy are all of a similar height, that is to say several inches taller. He’s never felt so short. Assholes.

“Tommy, Martin,” Landon begins, “you guys know Herb and Tess.”

“Hi,” Martin says.

“Hey,” says Tommy.

“And this is my friend Jebediah,” Herb introduces the unfamiliar man. “He’s visiting for a bit just to see the big city.” Jebediah is carrying a small memo pad and a pen in his left hand, and Martin notices it while shaking the other.

“What’s that for?” he asks. “Are you a reporter or something?” Jeb laughs and looks to Herb.

“Ah, no. Jebediah is mute, actually,” he clarifies. “He carries the pad around for communication.”

Martin is genuinely surprised. “Huh.” He turns to Tess. “Where’s the birthday girl?”

“Out by the pool, I believe.”

“Ah, then excuse me while I go give her my regards.” Martin leaves Tommy with the rest of the familiar faces and ventures off in search of Mary. On the way he spies a table with punch and snacks, and realizing he’s famished, he grabs a cup of the sugary drink and a few finger sandwiches.

“Enjoying the spread?” Martin turns around with a sandwich pressed halfway into his mouth to see Mary in a shimmering silvery white dress with her hands on her hips. He decides against pulling the sandwich back out of his mouth and takes a large bite. Then he nods. “I’m happy you came,” she says, and Mary proceeds to give him a hug made awkward by the food and drink in his hands. “I wasn’t sure if you and Tom would come on such short notice.”

Martin just manages to finish chewing and swallow. “Hell, it’s not like we’ve got anything better to do. If it weren’t for this we’d probably be stabbing people at night clubs.”

Mary laughs. “Tess told me you were a comedian. I guess that makes sense.”

“Yeah, well the Internet told me that you’re friggin’ Marilena Trombitas. I had no idea until I got home earlier.” Mary shrugs. “I never realized you were so young.”

“Does it matter?” she asks coyly. Her accent creeps back in at the end of the question, but Martin’s comforted to know that it is most assuredly Romanian.

“Matter? Depends on the context. It’s really just impressive. Pretty accomplished for not even being twenty.” Martin can only wish he’d followed a career path with more opportunity to get lucky and become famous. As it is, he’s only really known around the city, and even that might be a bit generous.

“Well, storytelling is my passion. You don’t have to go to college or be a genius to create a good story,” she says.

“So,” Martin says, “you’re dumb?”

“No!” she insists, “I am not dumb. I am just uneducated. There is a difference, Mr. Avery.”

“Ha.” Martin smiles. “Thank you for enlightening me, then. You’ve made me a better person.”

“Mmm, and if you ever feel like returning the favor, perhaps you can teach me a thing or two.” A young blonde Romanian girl writes a bestselling novel that gets turned into a highly anticipated movie, makes millions of dollars, inks up her body, and then she giggles after delivering innuendo to a shaggy-haired, unshaven comedian who Martin suspects just might be him if he thought about it a bit more. Yup. This is happening.

Martin takes a deep breath and focuses on not showing the surprise on his face. “Sure, you just let me know what I can help you with.”

“I will, I will. Come, let’s go see what Tess and her friends are up to.” As Mary walks past Martin, back toward the house, he sees that the back of her dress is non-existent from the waist up. He grabs another sandwich and follows closely behind her.

Back inside the house, the group Martin left has largely dispersed. He spies Tommy sitting on a couch with a dark-haired girl who looks to be not much older than Mary. She seems fascinated by something Tommy’s saying, and he’s looking very confident. Interesting. Landon is off entertaining Herb and some other party guests with one of his stories, so Tess is left to slowly communicate with Jebediah. From the look on Tess’s face, Jebediah has just written down something especially funny.

“You found her! Very good,” Tess condescends. Martin scowls at her.

“He is an astute navigator, that Martin,” Mary says. There seems to be some subtext in the exchange that Martin can’t quite tune into. “Is everything alright in here? Are you sure you guys don’t want any snacks?”

“No, that’s fine. Landon and I ate dinner before we came.” At the mention of food, Martin takes a bite of one of his sandwiches.

“Oh, good! I’m going to go say hello to Tom. Excuse me,” Mary says, and she begins walking to the couch.

“Who’s he talking to?” Martin asks.

“I’m not sure. Half the people around here seem like babies to me, and we’re hardly older than they are. Tom may want to get a look at her identification before he tries anything unsavory,” Tess suggests.

“Yikes.” Martin looks around at the sea of jailbait. He hadn’t considered how many of them might be underaged. Thank goodness for nineteen-year-olds. Martin looks at Mary playing the chipper hostess with Tom and his new lady friend.

“And don’t try anything with Mary.” Martin’s heart sinks.

“What are you talking about?” He realizes now that he’s still staring at her, so he looks back to Tess. Smooth.

“I know she’s beautiful, Martin, but she’s young, she’s new to the country, and she’s vulnerable. I have doubts about your ability to handle that with the proper delicacy.”

“What? How do you know she needs someone delicate? I get the feeling that she can handle herself pretty well.” Martin remembers that Jebediah is standing there as well. “What do you think?”

Jebediah quickly scribbles something out on his pad and holds it up facing Martin. “Dude, go for it.” Martin laughs maniacally.

“See? Jeb knows what I’m talking about.” He raises his hand for a high five. When Jebediah hesitates by only slightly raising his hand, Martin winds up and connects with it, causing a pronounced slap to fill the area. Jebediah winces.

Tess shakes her head at him, but Jebediah only shrugs.

As the night wears on, much of the younger crowd filters out. Tommy remains firmly planted on his couch cushion. At some point he and the dark-haired girl started making out in front of everyone, much to Martin’s disgust. Granted, they were not in the center of the room under a spotlight, but somehow even Martin found it disrespectful. All he’s managed to do is get a few of the kids interested in seeing him do a show, even though he’s not a big fan of networking. The flirting with Mary has continued, sure, but it has yet to be fruitful. Tess and company apparently decided to go to bed, which Martin didn’t even realize was an option. He’s confused as to why they didn’t just drive home.

As Mary sees people out the door, Martin leans against a wall far away from Tommy, but with line of sight maintained so he can stare at him with hatred in his eyes. When the last few guests have left, Mary joins him in his lean, though not until after she’s looked with confusion at the spectacle taking place on her couch.

“Did the others go to bed?” she asks him.

“Yeah, I guess.” Martin looks to the bedroom doors down the hallway. “I’m not sure why they didn’t just go home.”

“Probably didn’t want to drink and drive.” When Mary sees that he’s confused, she says, “I saw them sneaking pours from a flask into their punch.”

Martin’s face suddenly loses all expression. “Are you shitting me? Son of a bitch. I figured I could live through a dry party if the hostess is underaged, and those assholes are sneaking in booze.” He growls.

“Aw, so you didn’t have a good time tonight?” The disappointment is so playful that Martin almost doesn’t want to play along.

“Sure, I had a good time. It just seems like Tommy got to have a slightly better time. Makes me look at myself, y’know?” Mary looks on sympathetically. “Have I made some wrong decisions in my life? Maybe I should have staked out the couch as my personal bone zone.”

“You know, there are other couches,” she says, reaching her hand in front of Martin and placing it on his crotch. Martin jumps away from the wall reflexively, his brain flooded with doubt. Mary pushes away from the wall. “What?”

“I...” He thinks back to what Tess said, and it keeps ringing in his ears, especially the word “vulnerable”. As much as he was hoping to ignore Tess’s warning, “vulnerable” is on a deeply engrained list of words in Martin’s head that indicate a partial retreat is in order. “I just don’t know if this is right. Honestly, I’m not sure what you see in me right now. We just met.”

“That’s okay. There’s plenty of time for us to get to know each other.” Oh god. Martin’s defenses are weakening.

“I’m sorry, Mary, really. You’re gorgeous, okay, but we should go about this with all the caution we can afford, right? No need to rush things. I think I ought to get going.” Martin turns on his heel to leave, and he’s met with the sight of an empty couch. Tommy was his ride. Hmm.

“Martin, you can just spend the night here. It’s fine! You don’t need to worry so much.” Rather than desperate, Mary is sounding resolute, determined. Logical.

“And where am I gonna sleep, your bed?” Martin says, laughing it off.

“Sure, you can sleep in my bed,” Mary says. “After we’re done fucking.”

She presents her hand for Martin to take, but his heart is beating too loudly for him to see properly. Mary finally gives up on waiting for him, takes his hand in hers, and leads him off to her bedroom.

The Human Canvas, Part 2: Tee Pee

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 23:06:00 +0000

“Tell me something interesting about yourself,” Tess tells Martin. “Tell me something that you would keep as a secret from most people.”

“A secret? Whatever secrets I want to keep are kept for a reason.” Martin has no desire to mention the theft of Hilda’s car, his feelings about his sister or his parents, his hopes of somehow getting money from Landon...

“Yes, of course, but what major consequence would there be from telling me of all people?” Tess places another line of paint with a steady hand as Martin watches.

“I can’t say. It might give too much away.” Martin grins at Tess, but she just shakes her head.

“That’s childish. You could probably get more out of life if you were more honest.”

“Oh what, that’s the big conclusion you’ve come to after observing me for all of two days?”

“Not at all. I’d say that’s good advice for most anyone with your maturity level.” Tess continues to paint with a striking calm.

“Screw you,” Martin says, realizing too late that maybe storming off is a mark of immaturity. He follows through with it regardless. Whatever Tommy and Landon are discussing can’t be too important to interrupt, right? “Hey Tommy, when do you want to go do some open mic work?”

Tommy struggles to come up with a response. “Anytime? I don’t know. I was hoping you had something planned for me since I’m more or less at your beck and call right now.”

“He’s pretty funny, Martin,” says Landon. “I don’t know if his brand of humor is quite the same, but he’s got some good material.”

Martin looks down his nose at Tommy. “Good material, sure. We’ll see. Let’s go.”

“What? No,” Tommy says, “why don’t we hang around here a bit longer? I’m sure Tess is almost done with this painting.” Then Martin remembers that he actually does need to talk to Landon, but he doesn’t really have a scheme in mind for getting money from him.

“Fine. Landon, tell me about your numerous feats. You must have a zillion stories to tell.” Martin flops onto what looks to be the comfiest part of the couch.

Landon leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, apparently his storytelling pose, and begins. “I think my story for you doesn’t actually involve any heroic feats or heartwarming encounters with the less fortunate. You might appreciate this, Martin. I was at my publisher’s building to go over the manuscript of my first book, but they had me wait outside the editor’s office for whatever reason. One of his subordinates was outside in a cubicle doing some kind of busywork, maybe editing or retyping some manuscript that was illegible, in the wrong format...you get the idea. But I looked down at her foot, and there was a parade-sized streamer of toilet paper sticking out from her shoe.” Martin gives the most incredulous look at Landon that he can muster. It sounds made up. “I considered not telling her just to see how long it would take before someone else noticed.”

“Aw, of course you told her. Pfft.”

“Well, the worst part was not the size of it or its mere existence. Even from a distance, it looked like it was just covered in shit.”

“What?” Tommy isn’t buying it. “I’m calling bullshit.”

“Nope. It looked like it had been used to wipe up an enormous amount of crap, and it was trailing from her shoe.”

“That’s disgusting,” says Tommy.

“Yes, so I got up, went over to her, and I said, ‘Excuse me, but you have some toilet paper stuck to your shoe.’ Guess what she said to me,” Landon says excitedly.

Martin says, “‘Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing.’”

Tommy says, “‘Oh, that? That’s not mine.’”

Landon shakes his head. “As soon as she turned to look at me I knew something was off. When she looked down at the toilet paper, she immediately vomited all over her lap, her shoes, my shoes...it was a mess.”

“Ew,” Tommy says.

“Jesus Christ,” Martin says as he recoils. “Why is this a good story?”

“Sorry, I know it’s disgusting. It really was a shit-stained stretch of toilet paper. Apparently this girl had just gotten the job, and her manager was on her case about taking sick time within her first couple of weeks. Poor girl had food poisoning and was trying to just hold it in or hide it so she wouldn’t have to go home. She’d been in and out of the bathroom all morning.”

“That’s the nice part about being a comedian, I think. If I have stuff coming out of both ends of my digestive tract in the morning, it’s probably just from a good night of drinking, and there’s no management of sick time or hours involved.”

“Really? Is that all there is to being a comedian?” Tommy asks.

“Basically.” Martin shrugs. “So is there more to the story?”

“Oh yes. I go in a few weeks later to pick up some free copies of the book that I wanted to give to people. They said they could just send them to me, but I figured it was a waste if I’d be around their office. So when I go in, I notice the same girl in her own office. I asked the secretary how she got her own space. ‘Oh, her manager is...no longer with us,’ she said, so I didn’t ask questions. I figured I’d congratulate her on moving up in the publishing world, though, so I went to the door to her office, knocked, and said a bit loudly, ‘No more food problems around here anymore, you hear?’ Seemed like a harmless thing to say, but I hoped she would look back on that incident humbly and maybe attempt a laugh. So then I laughed a bit to try to get her started, but I must point out that she looked horrified. People were giving me weird looks as I left, and I didn’t think much of it until later. It started to bug me, so I called up my editor and asked him if I said something wrong. Turns out her manager had choked to death the week before, and that’s how she got moved up.”

“Holy shit,” Martin says.

“I can’t believe you managed to pick the most precisely offensive thing to say there,” Tommy adds.

“I...think that’s why it’s a decent story, if I may say so,” Landon says, beaming.

“I don’t even know what to say to that. Maybe you’re just a bad person,” suggests Martin.

“Oh hush. I didn’t realize what I was saying,” Landon rebuts.

Martin glares at him. “Okay.”

Tommy shakes his head in bewilderment. Then Martin notices Mary saying something to Tess before heading into the bathroom. They are apparently finished with making art for the day. Tess puts down her brush and stretches dramatically before walking to where the men are sitting, taking her place behind Landon.

“Gentlemen, Mary has been so kind as to invite us to a party if you’re interested,” says Tess.

Martin is instantly excited by the prospect of partying with this inky sprite. “That sounds good to me...”

“Yeah, I guess I’m down,” says Tommy. The idea of Tommy getting drunk and hooking up with a hideous skank tickles Martin, and so he is glad that his apprentice will be accompanying him.

Mary comes out of the bathroom wearing a blue sundress. The girl clearly has some style. "Aw, you put your clothes back on," says Martin. She shrugs.

"I can always just take them back off once I get home." Martin closes his eyes to picture this, and it relaxes him greatly.

"Mmm, yes. That's a good point."

She looks around at Tommy, Tess, and Landon. "So are you all coming to my party tonight?" Mary asks.

"I guess so, yeah," Tommy replies.

"What's this party for anyway?" Martin asks.

"My birthday!" is her enthusiastic response.

"Oh, how old are you?" Tommy asks.

"Mary has only just turned nineteen," Tess says. Martin's heart beats just a little faster.

The Human Canvas, Part 1: Mother Earth

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 05:19:00 +0000

There’s a spring in his step and a smirk on his face as Martin heads to the elevator. Tommy follows closely, and they ride up to Tess and Landon’s studio space.

Martin knocks lightly on the door. The Countess must be busy giving bloody birth to her art, because Landon opens the door sheepishly and ushers the two men into the apartment without a word. Tess is standing in the middle of the open floor space. Surprisingly, she is not as lavishly adorned as she normally is, wearing only a black t-shirt and long white skirt, both of which are speckled with many colors. Just past her, Martin spies an obese woman lying flat on her back with her arms draped out over the edge of the bench she’s on. Disappointment begins to creep up on him until he notices a cute blonde girl in a bathrobe waiting off to Tess’s left. There’s hope yet!

“I heard you gentlemen caused a bit of a stir at Herb’s club last night,” whispers Landon.

Martin winces and says, “Was he pissed? I totally get him calling the cops, but I hope he’s not mad at me.”

“All in all, I wouldn’t say he’s pissed. If anything, I think he was a bit frightened by all of the blood that was left once they took you all away. Herb doesn’t have the strongest constitution, I’m afraid, but he’s a good man.” Martin suddenly thinks back to the rumors that Herb bedded Landon, but it’s just not possible. It can’t be true.

“Ian’s a bit of a wildcard, man. I only invited him to meet some girls we met at the bar, but he arrived mid-fight with a knife. I don’t think he’s usually a very violent person.”

“Right, but he just did what any friend does when he sees someone he knows about to get his ass kicked,” Tommy suggests. Martin concedes ceremonially to show Tommy that he did a good thing by destroying Max Enberg’s body.

“Tom’s right, Marty. Plus, it’s not the first fight the Hole’s ever seen, nor will it be the last. It’s a night club. People go there to get drunk and let emotions run high, whether it’s joy, anger, sexual arousal...you get the picture. If any of those get misaligned, there’s bound to be some squabbling.” Goddamn Landon Freeman and his voice of reason. Just listen to this guy, talking like he’s spent a year doing research on the social impact of late-night gathering spots.

“Cool,” says Martin. “I just really don’t want him to ban me or something.” Landon waves the concern off as if it’s nothing, and so suddenly it is nothing.

“Y’know, Marty, I’m a little surprised Tom managed to get you to come over. I thought you hated Tess.” Is Martin blushing? He thinks he might be, but he doesn’t like showing embarrassment.

“Me? Hate someone?” Landon smiles with half his heart. The other half is waiting for Martin’s explanation. “I don’t hate her, okay? She just makes me really uncomfortable for too many reasons.”

“Such as?”

Ugh. Martin was hoping he wouldn’t have to explain himself, but dishonesty doesn’t seem to have much of a purpose at this point. “At the club, for example. She was being far, far too open about your...private life, if you get what I’m saying.” A tilt of the head and a knowing raise of the eyebrows tells Martin that Landon shares some of Martin’s distaste for Tess’s disclosures. “Plus, I don’t know. This may seem like a weird thing to complain about, but it pains me to see how Tess dominates this place,” Martin says, waving his arm in front of him. Landon looks around the studio. “Why do you let her take control of this place?” Landon only laughs.

“Martin, I don’t live here most of the time. I have my own place in the hills. This is my legal residence for the moment, but it’s largely Tess’s apartment. That’s why I try to keep my things stuffed away.” Ah, of course Landon Freeman has his own place, full of masculinity and world record plaques and Landon’s musky manscent.

“Ohhh, that makes sense. But, so, you see? I don’t really hate her. She’s just not really my favorite person. The only reason I was mad the other day was because I wanted to talk to you privately.”

“What about?” asks Landon.

“Ha, silly. This isn’t exactly private, is it?” Martin says, leaning his head toward Tommy. Tommy looks back from the overweight model on the bench.

“What?” Tommy asks. Martin and Landon chuckle at their own little joke.

“My dear, I think I’m finished with you for the day,” Tess says suddenly to the current model. “Something’s just not clicking for me. I can’t explain it, but thank you for holding that pose. It was just what I wanted.” The model smiles shyly at Tess before donning her own robe and taking her handbag into the bathroom.

Tess lets down her hair as she walks over to the sitting area. She runs her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp with her eyes closed. Martin wonders if she’s trying to conjure up some talent.

“Hello, Martin,” she says, gathering her hair back up and tying it loosely at the top of her head. “And Tommy, hello. I was surprised to hear that they released you so quickly.”

Martin smiles as he recalls Ian’s strange gestures. “Me too. I guess Ian has magic powers.” He revolves his hands around each other in front of his face as he says this, though no one could possibly get the reference.

“That’s good to hear. I was a bit worried when Herb called the police, but I think it was fully justified.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, though at this point he’s already sick of talking about it. Tommy told him on the way over that Tess invited Martin to her apartment to look at the models and remain close to her. She claimed that she needed an “art day” -- stupid -- and wanted Martin to uphold his end of the observation deal. “So I don’t mean to be an ungrateful guest, but what do you really expect me to do while I’m here? I’m interested in seeing the other model pose for you, y’know, but otherwise I’m just hanging out with Landon and Tommy.”

“C’mon, that’s not so bad,” Landon suggests, but Martin isn’t having it.

Tess sighs. “I suppose you could give me some input on what I’ve done so far, but it’s really disappointing.” Martin remembers seeing a blob of yellow on blue, but that’s the biggest impression one can expect from several feet away. He gets up and walks over to the canvas while Landon strikes up a conversation with Tommy.

The image laid out on the canvas is unexpectedly spectacular and eerie and beautiful. The yellow blob he thought he had seen was in fact a yellow human figure, laid out much as the model had been, but with a filigree of golden floral pinstriping tracing out the lines of her body and exploding into the shifting blue-green of the surrounding space. Martin immediately gets the impression of a woman’s seed giving birth to the world, and despite it not making perfect sense, he’s moved.

“This is really good, Tess. I mean, in some ways it’s so simple, but it’s gorgeously done.” He leans in to look at the stripes. They’re so precise and smooth. Martin can’t imagine his hand placing anything so delicately. Martin is struck by how quickly his opinion of the Countess has changed.

“You think so? I was honestly considering just wiping it clean and starting over, but I didn’t want to keep her too long.”

“God, no. You can do more to it if you want, but it looks good to my untrained, barbaric eye.”

“Hmm.” Tess grabs the canvas and sets it down by the base of the easel. “Well, when it’s dry you can have it, a gift from me to you.”

Martin’s not sure where he’ll put it, but he’s nonetheless appreciative. “Thanks. So what do you plan to do with your next model? Same thing?”

“No no, Martin. It depends on the model,” Tess says, turning to the girl. “Marilena, could you come here for a moment.” The girl perks up at her name and puts down the book she was reading. She saunters coolly over to Martin and Tess.

“You can just call me Mary, Miss Carter,” says Mary, her words only just hinting at an accent. Now that Martin can get a good look at her, he likes what he sees. Her eyes are a deep blue, their shape both familiar and exotic, and he can’t help but notice the hint of a tattoo where her neck slopes into her shoulder. Martin can’t tell how long her hair is since it’s pinned up, but he’s hoping it’s short.

“Marilena?” Martin asks. “What kind of name is that, Italian?”

She smiles at him. “It can be, but not in this case.” Martin pauses, expecting a continuation, but she leaves him wanting. “Would you like me to pose now, Miss Carter?”

“First I’ll need to see your body.” At first Martin wants to laugh, but then he realizes she’s saying it as a matter of business. The demand is suddenly arousing.

“Of course,” Mary says happily, and she slips the robe off right there in front of Martin. When she begins to turn slowly for Tess’s inspection, Martin just about loses his grip with reality. She’s smooth, slender, fair of complexion, and her arms are covered in bright yet tasteful tattoos of all different varieties. A large black and gray arrangement of dragons, flames, and words in a foreign language takes up the entirety of her back down to her tailbone. “Will I do, Miss Carter?”

Tess looks unsure, but she nods. “You can try out whatever pose you like, and we’ll go from there. I’m not really sure what I’m looking for at this point.”

“Okay,” Mary chimes, and she walks lightly to the bench in front of Tess’s easel.

Martin’s attention returns awkwardly to the situation at hand as Tess addresses him directly.

“Sorry, what?” he replies.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just...” Martin just now realizes how long he’s been staring at Mary’s body. “I fuckin’ love tattoos.”

The Promise of Things to Come

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 07:40:00 +0000

As Martin sits on the curb, awaiting the inevitable revelation of his hidden truth, he realizes that it’s day three of Tess’s observation. Somehow, though, she managed to avoid being part of the incident at Herb’s club, and now she’s nowhere to be seen. It’s at once pleasant and mildly disconcerting.

“Hey Ian,” Martin says. Ian sits down next to Martin.

“Sup?”

“How is it possible for Francisco to just drop the charges on you? Isn’t stabbing someone a crime?” At the time of release, Martin had been too pleased, and perhaps slightly concussed, so he didn’t bother to question it.

“Maybe for some people, people without connections,” Ian says, pantomiming what looks like the sprinkling of fairy dust, but Martin can’t be sure. Ian follows it up with a wink.

“Connections? Do you know a bunch of cops or something?”

“No, but I have my...ways,” as Ian begins to make a strange waving gesture, Martin reaches out and gently pushes Ian’s hand back down.

The overall mood of the trio -- Francisco having walked off as soon as he was free to go -- is “decent but tired”. Martin gets the feeling that all of them could use a good nap. In fact, he’s struggling not to nap as he notices Hilda’s car approaching the curb. He looks up at Tommy, and the big oaf is screwing up his face in a lack of certainty.

“Is that the car-“

“Tommy, you shut the hell up right now. Don’t mention the fucking car. Just don’t do it. I will murder you.”

“But is it the same one?” Tommy asks.

Martin tries his best to channel all of the fury he can summon into a death stare, but he undoubtedly looks more worried than anything else. Tommy shakes his head at him, and Martin hopes that that is a deal between the two of them.

“Shotgun,” Ian mutters as he climbs into the passenger seat. He tousles his own hair a bit before crossing his arms snugly and slumps against the window. Martin and Tommy get into the back, and Hilda pulls away from the curb.

“Thaaaanks, Hilda,” says Martin.

“Yeah, thank you for the ride,” Tommy adds.

“Oh, not a problem, boys.” Hilda looks at Ian with concern, but as far as Martin can tell, she’s quick to remember that Ian has no shortage of peculiarities. Martin pictures Ian waving again and shakes his head in an attempt to clear the image. “Are we just heading to the Hole?”

“Yeah, I think the necessary vehicles are all there.”

“I walked,” Ian interjects without lifting his head. Martin glares at him for the unnecessary addition.

“So you guys got into a fight, huh?” Martin doesn’t really want Hilda probing too deeply into the situation, but it was somewhat exciting.

“Have you ever heard of the band Maximus Shmaximus?” Martin asks.

“No?”

“Well, they suck. As people. Except Francisco. Max sucks.”

“I don’t think you really gave him much of a chance,” says Tommy.

“I didn’t need to! I’m a good judge of people, dude. When that ginger bitch stepped up to me, I knew he was an asshole.”

“Not to mention taller than you. Next time maybe pick a fight with someone you could actually beat. Like a five-year-old.”

Martin laughs. “I don’t need to fight five-year-olds when I’ve got Tommy the Paralyzer by my side.” He pats Tommy on the shoulder.

“Jesus Christ, Martin. Don’t say that.” Tommy begins to slouch and leans his head toward the window.

“The Paralyzer?” Hilda needs some clarification. Martin had forgotten to mention that part on the phone.

“Oh yeah. Tommy threw Max across the room. Broke his arm and maybe his back.”

“Oh my god. And what about the stabbing?” Hilda asks.

“Well, Ian stabbed Francisco a bunch of times, but he was really cool about it. He’s kind of a badass.” Hilda looks at Martin through the rearview mirror, eyes wide.

“Sounds like you guys had quite the night.”

“No shit. All I want to do now is take a shower and go to bed.” He assumes roughly the same position as Tommy and Ian, but by the time he gets comfortable they’re back at the club. Martin yawns as he gets into his car. Tess apparently went home after the confrontation, or at least someone stole her car. His thoughts flash back to taking Hilda’s car for the repo guys, but it’s too depressing. As he starts his car, he sighs.

He wakes up later in the day to the sound of his cell ringing. His face is still tender, a marker that reminds him to never fuck with Francisco Panza again.

“Hello?” Martin can hear that his voice is drenched with the paralysis of sleep, but screw it.

“Hey man,” Tommy says. “You up for a little midday entertainment?”

“I-wh-I’m barely awake, dude. What do you want?” Martin cannot believe that Tommy is already up and about after nine hours.

“Naked women?”

“Okay. Continue.”

“Tess is painting nude models today, and she said we’re welcome to stop by during the day to hang out with her and Landon.” This sounds promising.

“But wait, I have a few questions. Just women? Do I have to see any penises today? Is Herb going to be there? Do I have to paint anything?”

“Uh, let’s see. As far as I know, not that I know of, maybe, and probably not?” Martin nods approvingly to himself.

“That’s a good list of answers.”

“I thought so, yeah. I can pick you up if you want.”

“Ah, you’re a gentleman, Tommy. I need to get dressed and...whatever anyway. See you in a little bit.”

Martin continues to nod to himself. Despite last night’s shenanigans, this day is starting out on exactly the right foot.

Francisco Panza Is a Kind-Hearted Badass

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Mon, 11 Jul 2011 05:51:00 +0000

Mariah?

Laura?

Carla?

There’s a name in Martin’s head that he can’t shake, and suddenly his vision resolves. In front of him is a grisly soul wrapped in bandages and chatting happily with the skinny blond fellow next to him.

Francisco mothereffing Panza. Kayla! Martin suddenly snaps out of his daze and looks around. Ian and Francisco are sitting next to each other on the other side of the cell. Tommy is sitting directly next to Martin looking dejected. Max Enberg is nowhere to be seen, though there are a couple of other gentlemen occupying the cell with them. Then Martin receives a signal from his face warning him of impending pain.

“Ow,” he whispers, gently touching a couple of fingers to his throbbing cheek. Tommy looks to him quickly, then leans out in front of him.

“Are you alright, dude?” Tommy looks back and forth at Martin’s eyes.

“What the hell, Tommy,” he says, swatting him away. “You’re creeping me out.”

“Jesus, you’ve been out of it all night. The medics said you’d probably be okay, but we weren’t allowed to let you sleep. Do you remember talking to them?”

“Do I remember...” Martin tries to recall a recent memory. Kayla. “I remember Kayla and the chick with the...hand.” He covers up one hand with the other and shoves his stump in Tommy’s face.

“Yeah, Kayla and Sylvia. Then the cops showed up after you punched Max and Ian stabbed Francisco.”

Martin looks across the cell at the happy couple, chatting away about who knows what. He’s stunned to think that he actually saw Ian stab someone.

“Man, who’s such a dick that they’d call the cops for a little stabbing?” Martin chuckles.

“Herb,” Tommy says. “After he got the bouncer to break up Ian and Francisco, he called the cops himself.” The implications of that phone call are not good for Martin’s career. He can potentially work other locations, but The Glorious Hole is his most repeatable moneymaker. Martin just hopes that Herb isn’t too pissed about such an incident.

“Christ. I hope he wasn’t too angry.”

“I think he was more worried about everyone’s safety, really.” Tommy stares vacantly at the floor.

“And what happened to that ginger dick Max Enberg anyhow? Did he not get arrested?”

Tommy’s eyes go wide. “He’s uh. They took him to the hospital.”

Martin furrows his brow, trying to remember what happened to him. “What the hell? I don’t even remember anything happening to him after I tried to punch him.”

“Well,” Tommy sighs, “I saw you about to pick a fight with two people who could kick your ass, so I figured I’d try to get one of them out of the way as quickly as possible.”

“Oh yeah!” Martin suddenly recalls seeing Max flying through the air. “You actually picked him up and fucking threw him! That was amazing, man.” Tommy chews the inside of his lip.

“Yeah, well...his back might be broken. And one of his arms definitely is.”

A part of Martin wishes that he hated Max enough for this to be inappropriately funny, but he just can’t enjoy it. It’s too real.

“Oh dear.”

“Yeah...” Seeing that Tommy’s distraught, Martin wants to find a new topic.

“So what’s up with Francisco and Ian? Best friends? What the fuck is this?”

Tommy shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t really want to talk to Francisco after what happened at the club.”

“Oh, you wimp,” Martin says, standing up. He’s a little light-headed, but he manages to navigate to where Ian is sitting and plop down next to him.

“Hey Martin,” Ian says. “You feeling better now?”

“Sorry about your face, man,” says Francisco. “I just gotta step in when people are hassling Max. He’s more of the sensitive type, y’know? That’s why he keeps around a bruiser like me to keep the crazies off his back. He’s got some nutty fans, bro.”

“I...” Martin wants to be mad at Francisco, but he’s being really nice. “Didn’t this guy stab you a bunch of times?” Ian laughs.

“Yeah, I went sort of crazy there, huh?” He laughs again. Francisco smiles.

“What, bro? You think I haven’t been stabbed before?” Francisco starts to laugh.

“Are you kidding me?” Martin asks. “What the hell kind of life have you led to get to the point where being stabbed isn’t a big deal? Is that some kind of secret Mexican power?”

Francisco shakes his head. “Man, I’ve seen some shit. Back when I was just a little shit roaming the streets with my friends, we saw a couple of gangs clash in an alley behind some rundown houses, and I say to my friends, ‘What do they have to fight about?’ So I stepped in between their knives and bats and shit, and they stop fighting each other just long enough to tell me and my friends to get the fuck outta there.”

“And? Jesus Christ, dude, why would you get in the middle of that?” Martin is enthralled.

“Well what the hell were they fighting for? Drugs? Territory? Just trying to kill each other? Tell me what a good reason is for them to stab and beat each other in the middle of the neighborhood, bro. Now, I wasn’t as big as them, and I wasn’t as strong, but I told them to stop. You know what they did?”

Martin shakes his head.

“They beat the shit out of me and my friends. I woke up in the hospital with a tube in my throat and bandages on my face.” Martin stares at the scar running down his face. “One of those gangbangers slashed his knife right down my face as a reminder that people weren’t supposed to fuck with him or his brothers.”

“And what about your friends?” Martin asks.

“Two dead. Two in the hospital for weeks. They had my back, though. That’s what friends do.” Martin looks at Tommy, then back at Francisco. “I told myself I’d never get beaten up like that again, so I started working out, and I stayed the hell away from gangs. I ended up playing drums just as a way to stay indoors when I could. You ever feel scared to leave the house when you were a teenager?”

“I lived in the suburbs. The worst problem we had was people driving too fast while kids were outside.”

“Then consider yourself lucky, bro.”

“I do, man,” Martin says, nodding. “So did you ever track down those thugs and kick their asses or what?”

“Naw, man, at this point they’re probably dead or rotting in prison. They’re not my problem anymore. But you’d better believe it, if they ever come my way again,” Francisco places one hand around his neck, “I’m tearing out their fucking throats.” Martin and Ian have no doubt that he’s serious and fairly capable.

“You three!” An officer points into the cell at Martin and company. “And you,” he says, pointing at Tommy. “You’re all free to go.” He unlocks the cell door.

A wave of relief washes over Martin. “What? How is that possible?”

“It’s basically all Francisco,” Ian explains. “He has Max’s power of attorney while he’s unconscious, and he’s not pressing charges against anyone.”

“You’re not gonna press charges against Tommy? For real? I mean, I don’t want him to go to prison, but it sounds like he wrecked Max.”

Francisco sighs. “It was my job to protect him. It’s my fault he was hurt. I never should have let Tommy get close to him, so when he wakes up, I’ll explain it to him. I’ll take the blame. As for Ian, I already told you that getting stabbed ain’t too bad, man. Adrenaline covers the initial pain, and drugs take care of the rest. I’m feeling pretty good.” Francisco smiles and pats Martin on the shoulder as he walks out of the cell.

As Martin, Ian, and Tommy leave the police station, Martin has a painful realization. “Shit, guys, how are we gonna get home?” Ian and Tommy look at each other, but they have nothing to offer. “Dammit.”

Martin looks at his phone, carefully picking through his list of contacts in order to find a good friend who won’t judge him too much, or at least one that will actually come to pick him up. Then he remembers that he hasn’t seen Hilda in a while, and she has a car.

“Ah, maybe this’ll be our ticket home,” he says. It’s kind of early in the morning, so Martin prays that she isn’t heading to work yet.

“Hello?” she answers.

“Hiiii. It’s Martin.”

“Martin? Why are you calling me so early?” She doesn’t sound too groggy. There’s a chance he didn’t wake her up.

“Well, I kind of got arrested last night-” he starts.

“For what?”

“Uh...I started a fight at Herb’s club. Ian stabbed someone. It was crazy.” To Martin’s left, Ian mimics the stabbing motion and laughs.

“Martin, I don’t have the money to bail you out.”

“Ah, you assume too much. We’re actually free to go home, but all of our vehicles are by the club or anywhere but at the police station. Any chance you could swing by and pick us up, pleeeeease?”

“Well, I do owe you for helping me get my car back.” Martin’s heart leaps into his throat. He looks at Tommy. Uh oh.

“Oh yeah. I had kind of forgotten about that, to be honest. We at least just need a ride to one of our cars so everyone can get returned to their proper vehicle.” Shit shit shit. Martin had forgotten who Tommy was.

“Okay. I still need to get ready, but I can come get you guys before work.”

“Awesome. Thank you. You are an excellent friend.” And hopefully very forgiving.

Hilda laughs. “Alright, bye.”

Martin looks at Tommy and briefly considers calling Hilda back and telling her not to come.

“Fuck,” he says, and Ian nods in agreement. Martin plans on doing his best to ignore the coming catastrophe and just relax for a bit.

Max Enberg Is an Egotistical A-hole

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 22:47:00 +0000

Stupid damn Michelle. Around midday, Martin is mulling over all the reasons for why he usually avoids her and why those reasons abandoned him when he agreed to go out to breakfast with her.

His best hope for money at this point is probably Herb, although he doesn’t want to let go of the idea that Landon Freeman has hidden millions at his disposal. Martin pulls out his cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Herb. This is Martin.”

“Martin! How are you? You stormed out the other day before I really had a chance to speak with you.” Oh yeah. Martin had totally forgotten about that little incident.

“Oh right. I was just on my period.”

“Ah, the woman’s curse. I do hope you’ve pushed past that,” Herb jokes.

“Drier than the Sahara down there right now,” Martin continues.

“Surely you didn’t call me to discuss your menstruation. What can I do for you, Martin?”

Hmm. Martin hates the idea of making his financial trouble so obvious, but he doesn’t know a wealth of club owners. “I was just wondering when the next time is that you could squeeze me in for a show, actually.”

“Well,” Herb begins, but he soon follows with a series of hedging noises to indicate his inability to get Martin back on his stage anytime soon.

“It’s okay, Herb. I was just wondering if it would be possible.” Shit, though. Herb was going to really help Martin’s cause.

“I’m sorry, Martin. It’s not that I don’t want to help, but it’s rather terrible business sense to let one person have the stage all the time. I’d love to have you back in a couple of weeks, if that helps.” It would help in the long run, but Martin feels a sense of urgency that he’d like to choke out of existence. Given the brief pause during Martin’s contemplation, Herb adds, “And there’s always another standing offer if you’d like to make some quick money.”

Martin chuckles half-heartedly. “It’s not gonna happen, Herb. I can’t imagine you have any success with suggesting gay prostitution to straight males.”

“Then perhaps you need to work on that imagination.” Landon Freeman pops into Martin’s head. “If it would make you feel better, you can come to the club tonight and have a few drinks on the house. Bring a friend with you and make it a party.” Now that is an idea.

“What do you have for entertainment tonight?”

“A local two-man band, actually. Maximus Shmaximus. No idea if they’re any good, but they’re not asking much. I don’t expect a very a busy night.”

“I guess I don’t have much else to do. Expect me, handsome.”

“I will,” Herb says, and they end their conversation.

At the club, it is clear that Herb didn’t research Maximus Shmaximus the slightest amount. The crowd is so large that a sizable group is milling about outside with some of them even begging for entrance. Herb hired a bouncer for The Hole, though this is the first night Martin’s seen him actually outside and earning his keep.

Tommy is standing a good deal away from the crowd talking to Tess. Martin doesn’t know how Tess can be expected to keep her distance with Tommy keeping a firm hold on her ear.

“Hey Tommy,” Martin says. “Tess.”

“Hello,” she replies coolly. “Not as quiet around here as I was told to expect.”

“Yeah, what is up with this crowd?” Tommy asks.

Martin shrugs. “I guess this band is popular or something. I’d never heard of them.”

“Will we even be able to get in?” Tommy cranes his neck to look at the door. Dave, the bouncer, is commanding a wide area of his own personal space. Thankfully, Martin has connections.

“You bet. Let’s go.”

Tess and Tommy follow quickly behind Martin as he pushes his way down the sidewalk and toward the door. At the front of the line, Dave towers over Martin, all shiny baldness, thick beard, and bulging muscle.

“Oh, hey there,” Dave says, reaching out to give Martin a rough handshake. “Herb told me to expect you.”

“Oh good, that makes things easier for me. These two are with me.” He points to the two sheep in the flock who are his and his alone. “Actually, I might have one or two more coming later. I’ll come out and let you know if I give them a call.”

Dave nods. “Have a good time, guys.” He lets them by, much to the crowd’s disappointment.

Inside, the air is filled with a pleasant mixture of electric guitar and the steady beat of drums. There are no flashing lights, no lasers, no fog machines, just a red-haired guitarist and his Hispanic drummer. Aside from the initial observations, Martin pays no mind to them on his way to the alcohol. Most everyone in the club is too interested in getting close to the stage to pay attention to the bar in the back. Martin’s pleased to see a couple of women are the only customers giving heed.

“Hey Hank, could I get a scotch and soda?” Martin’s known Hank for about as long as he’s known Herb.

“Sure thing, and for you?” Hank looks to Tommy.

“Uh...” Martin begins an internal countdown. When it gets to zero, he’ll have no choice but to glare at Tommy. “I’ll have a gin and tonic.” Phew.

Martin turns to find out Tess’s drink order, but she’s nowhere to be seen. She was just behind him as he entered, he knows this, but now the Countess has managed to vanish into the club scene. Sneaky, sneaky bitch. Then Martin remembers that the Countess knows Herb, so it’s possible that she went off in search of his company.

Tommy sits down at one of the stools to drink his gin, but Martin elects to lean with his back against the bar, facing the stage. The music’s actually quite enjoyable as background noise to his alcohol consumption. He nods approvingly to himself.

“Hey Martin, what do you think of those girls?” Tommy asks with his head down next to Martin’s. The two girls are actually quite attractive, and Martin has an idea of what Tommy wants him to do. He walks over to the closest one, a pale blonde in a green dress, and sits down next to her.

“Hi there,” he says. Martin looks back to Tom, and he’s clearly struggling internally over whether he should follow Martin over or not. The blonde turns to him and looks him up and down, disgusted.

“Who are you?” she asks. It takes a miraculous feat of control for Martin to keep his face from showing his disbelief. He likes to believe that there’s no one else in the world as rude as he is.

“Excuse me. I’m Martin, and my shy oaf friend over there is Tom.” When she looks over Martin’s shoulder, Tommy manages a timid wave. “I was wondering if we could freshen up your drinks for you.” Martin signals to Hank, and he begins preparing new drinks.

“That’s alright, actually. We can pay for drinks,” she says while turning away. This time Martin can’t maintain control.

“Christ, it’s not like accepting a drink from us is signing a contract. I figured that maybe it would be a good deal if we gave you drinks and one of you would just talk to my friend for a little while, but apparently I overpaid.” He neglects to mention that his drinks are on the house tonight.

“Come on, Kayla. F-f-francisco won’t care if they b-buy us drinks,” the blonde’s brunette friend urges. Kayla demurs momentarily, but she relents. The brunette hops down off her stool and walks over to take her place next to Tommy, who looks pleased. Martin turns back to Kayla.

“You can’t accept drinks because you have a boyfriend? Like I care,” Martin takes a sip of his drink.

“Well he’s not just any boyfriend, y’know. He’s that big guy up there banging on the drums,” she says, pointing to the stage. This is the moment when Martin realizes that they’re the band girlfriends or groupies or whatever.

“Ohh, and she’s dating Maximus the firedick?” Kayla looks at her friend and nods.

“I think Sylvia has a fireproof vag or something.” Martin nearly spits his scotch and soda in her face.

“So I’m guessing yours is immune to amoebic dysentery?”

Kayla looks bemused.

“You know? ‘Don’t drink the water.’ Amoebic dysentery is usually why.” She scrunches up her face at the thought.

“No, I don’t think he has a diarrhea dick.” Martin finds himself laughing more than he expected he would given the conversation’s rocky start.

“I’m so happy for you,” he tells her, then notices he’s at the bottom of his glass and asks Hank to get another.

“So what do you do, Martin?” Kayla asks.

“Stand-up comedy. The occasional male prostitution. Sometimes I get paid so people can follow me around all day and take notes about how awesome I am,” he chuckles. “I’m not even joking about the last one.”

Kayla smirks at him. “Or about the second one?” Martin glares at her.

“What do you do aside from open your pearly gates for Francisco Franco?”

“I’m an actress. Sometimes I whore myself out or get paid so my friend will talk to people.”

“Are you a whore just for women?”

“Man, that would be awesome.” She stares off into space.

“Ooh, you know what? I have a friend you should meet. It’s one of my most recent life goals, to introduce him to everyone. Hold on.”

Martin steps away from the bar for a minute and walks toward the entrance to the club. He made a promise to Dave that he intends to keep.

When he walks back in, he stops to see how Tommy’s doing. Most of the concertgoers are starting to file out of the club, but the bar area remains sparsely populated. As he approaches the pair, Kayla’s friend is in the middle of some story about a car accident. Tommy is listening with wide-eyed fascination, causing Martin to wonder what he’s missing.

“So the d-d-doctors said it was a m-miracle I didn’t lose m-more than m-my hand,” she finishes.

“More...than my...” Martin echoes her last sentence, then looks at her left hand. Nothing. Then he looks at her right hand. “Whoa,” he whispers, then more audibly says, “that’s a fake hand.” Tommy smacks him on the shoulder. Martin pouts and rubs where Tommy hit him.

“My apologies, Sylvia,” Tommy says. “Martin’s kind of an asshole.” Sylvia smiles and leans her head back, her body shaking slightly in a silent laugh. That’s when Martin spots a facial oddity.

“What’s up with your hair?” he blurts out. Now Sylvia laughs like a regular person, and Kayla turns to investigate.

“The j-jig’s up, Kayla.” Sylvia pulls back her wig, revealing wavy blonde hair that goes down past her shoulders. Kayla removes her wig as well, showing off shoulder-length dark brown hair. Martin’s jaw drops, and he puts his hands up in front of himself for protection while his neurons explode from the pressure of the illusion.

A pasty white hand claps down on his shoulder as he backs up. “You aren’t bothering the ladies, are you?” a familiar voice asks. Martin turns around to see Max and Francisco coming to claim their women. Max looks to be about six feet and four inches tall, whereas Francisco is Martin’s height but built like a firmly muscled Mexican man named Francisco. A gruesome scar runs down the length of his face just to the right of his nose.

“God no, I was just entertaining them with my wit and charm. The music wasn’t really doing it for them.” Martin figured Max might have a good sense of humor, but he’s met with daggers for eyes. “I was joking, you know. You don’t need to be so angry at the world just because you were born without a soul.” He realizes too late that he’s really not drunk enough to be using this sort of smack talk.

Max pushes him away. “Go be a dick somewhere else, munchkin. You’re not funny.” Not funny? In a fit of rage, Martin throws what he thinks is a decent punch at Max’s face, whimpering at the same time. His hand glances off Max’s cheek without much impact, and then Tommy is off his stool and lifting Max up in the air and away from Martin.

Then Francisco gets involved. In an attempt to show Martin what rage is really like, he rips his shirt off with startling Mexican fury and shoves Martin backwards with tremendous force. Martin immediately trips over his legs and ends up rolling backwards, landing on his shoulders with his feet trapped in the underside of a bar stool.

While still upside-down, Martin witnesses Tommy lift Max over his head and throw him into a group of onlookers, knocking them over and almost hitting Tess and Herb, who have just made their way out front. As Tommy turns around to see how Martin is doing, Francisco hits Tommy in the ribcage with a right uppercut, then throws a left hook into his face, knocking him down. Tess is scribbling in her notebook as fast as she can manage.

“GALILEO!” As Martin is scrambling to his feet to better assess the situation, a shrieking cry comes from the entrance. The crowd has given Ian his own clearing in which to be crazy, in large part because he’s holding a knife.

This night is going nothing like how Martin had imagined it.

Herb heads for the door to get Dave. Ian charges at Francisco.

It’s clear to everyone watching that Francisco is a seasoned brawler, but Ian doesn’t have the benefit of this knowledge. He’s therefore very surprised when Francisco dodges his first slash and then transfers his momentum into a well timed hip throw.

“Are you really okay with this?” Martin asks Kayla. She’s in shock, however, and can only respond by opening and closing her mouth. Sylvia is in a similar state of distress after seeing Max flying through the air.

There’s only one chance for Martin to not get his ass kicked, so he drops to his knees in front of Francisco. “Please stop. I get it. You’re a juggernaut. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, okay?” Francisco responds with a right hook that lays Martin out flat on the floor. Despite years of drinking, he’s fairly certain he’s never felt so woozy in his life.

The last thing he thinks he sees before he passes out is Ian jumping on Francisco’s back and stabbing him repeatedly in the shoulder, but he hopes that’s just the concussion talking.

Stragglers

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 05:40:00 +0000

$350 is a good start on the remainder of Martin's debt, no question. He's feeling pretty good about the money he's already made off his show. There's still a balance owed, though, and Michelle is seemingly getting curious. The night of Martin's visit to Landon's apartment, he receives a call from his sister asking him to come out to breakfast again, this time at one of her shitty organic spots. This is, of course, a waking nightmare to him, but he acquiesces just because she's his sister.

She asks him to show up at 8:30, and this time Martin is capable of managing that kind of early rise. After all, he knows that this time people aside from his sister are relying on his punctuality. So when Martin shows up to one of his least favorite breakfast spots, Tommy is waiting for him, as well as his sister and the Countess at a distance.

Martin greets Tommy first, then introduces him to Michelle with judicious brevity. As they sit down, Martin realizes he can't order real bacon, and the anger begins to rise.

"You realize it's possible to make organic bacon. You just can't make vegan bacon or vegetarian bacon. Organic is totally possible. It's all in the treatment of those delicious, delicious piggies."

Michelle sneers at Martin, and Tommy seems to also lament the lack of cured pork bellies on the menu, but Martin has no idea if this is part of his act as apprentice or if Tommy really appreciates the salty, savory flavor of good bacon.

"I do realize that, but it's not a matter of taste, Martin. I agree that bacon is delicious, but it's not especially healthy," Michelle replies.

"Not especially healthy for a super strict diet, but it's a certifiably scientific hangover cure. That much is true. As an alcoholic, I should know these things."

Michelle sighs. Tommy smiles.

"So who is this guy, then? Tommy? Is that his name?"

"Yes," Martin replies. Michelle's feigned forgetfulness is more insulting to Tommy than Martin. He can't avoid the possibility that his sister is a bitch. "He's my...student. As much as I find that weird, and I'm sure you find it weird, he is my student. He wants to be a comedian, and I'll do what I can to make it happen."

"I really can't picture you being this accommodating for someone." See! Bitch.

"Oh fuck you, Michelle. I had the exact same thought, and yet I'm going to help him out. And I'm helping the chick who's with us at the same time. Birds and stones."

There's a distinct break in the conversation, then Michelle responds to Martin's claim. "Are you talking about me?" Martin laughs in her face.

"Nope." He turns around and points to Tess, who is sitting a few tables away from them near the door. Tess waves awkwardly at Martin, then takes notes about his behavior. "She's with us too, but she's not allowed to get close. She's paying fifty dollars every day just to not bother me." Martin laughs again, but he's worried that this much revelry will cause the good things in his life to collapse into ruin.

"So you'll help some poor sap tell jokes, but you're making...whoever that is pay you just to watch your behavior? I guess I should expect this kind of chauvinistic behavior from you."

"I'm right here, you know," Tommy points out. Martin can see this little interjection as Tommy's attempt to assert his position as a human being, but he can't just let his sister get away with calling him a chauvinist.

"Sure, you should expect this behavior from me, but that's because I don't see you as a woman. I don’t see any reason to show you my good side.”

“So Tess will say that you’ve been nothing but a gentleman to her?” Michelle waves to Tess. Martin turns around to see a very confused artist, so he swats at Michelle’s hand until she puts it down.

“Why did you want to see me, again?” Better to get back to the matter at hand, Martin figures.

“Have you figured out how you’re going to cover the rest of my bill?” She looks at Martin with low expectations. Tommy follows her look across the table with a similar curiosity about Martin’s finances.

“Is it really that urgent? I gave you everything I made at Herb’s place, and I plan on giving you Tess’s money too. My other means of making money are somewhat secret at the moment.”

“Secret?” Michelle seems skeptical. “Or...”

“Or what?” Martin has no idea what she wants him to admit.

“Or you don’t actually have any plans.”

Martin just shakes his head. “Have faith, sister. The money will flow.”

“Oh, so you can cover breakfast?” She’s trying to call his bluff, but Martin isn’t bluffing at all.

“Hell no. I’m broke right now.”

With that last victory, Michelle leaves Martin alone regarding his financial difficulties, at least until breakfast has ended and they’ve gone their separate ways. Tess shuffles out of the restaurant as Michelle is leaving, making sure to give Martin a decent berth.

As Martin and Tommy get to his car, Tommy hesitates before climbing in. “Do you really have a plan?”

Martin’s eyes are dead as he looks at Tommy. “From now on, can you please just take every question you have and make it into a statement? Then you’ll just seem like a liar instead of a dumbass.”

“What?”

“Of course I don’t have a solid plan yet. Just say ‘You don’t have a plan.’ or ‘You have a plan.’ and wait for me to correct you.” Martin gets into the car and slams the door. Tommy gets in, but his face is screwed up in thought.

“What?” Martin asks.

“You are mean all the time.”

Grr. Tommy follows orders strictly just so he can point out what a dick Martin is. It makes him feel worse than he’d like to admit.

Countess, Part 2: Blank Wombs and the Second Apprentice

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Landon Freeman lives in the home of an artist. The space is vast, comfortable, and littered with the debris of a struggling creative soul. Blank canvases sit on easels surrounded by palettes with many different mixtures of paints, inks, and tools Martin can’t identify off the top of his head. He looks around for any indication that a brawny, capable man like Landon lives here. Maybe one corner of the studio seems to contain a jumble of his belongings. It hurts Martin just to think about it.

“What’s with all the blank canvases?” asks Tommy.

The Countess heaves a tormented sigh. “Would you like the short version or the long version.”

“The short version,” Martin blurts.

She smiles at his tenacity. It occurs to Martin that she might think he’s joking, but before he can cut her off she begins reciting the long version of her story.

“You are a comedian, Tom?” she asks.

“Sort of. I am as of today, just not a very good one.”

“Well then, you understand the need of an artist to feel inspired.”

Tom shifts his weight from one foot to another. “How can you really be an artist before you’re inspired? When everyone starts out, we’re all just plain creatures with no title. Then inspiration hits, and we become artists.”

“Certainly that’s one way of looking at it,” she concedes, “but I dare say that someone without an artistic soul wouldn’t know what to do with the most divine of inspiration even if it were shining golden in front of them with a note from God tacked on. These canvases here are for both inspiration and receptacles. If, one day, I feel the need to fill their voids, I can simply grab a brush or whatever implement most pleases me and go about my business. On the other hand, if some other seed inspires me, they can be my womb.”

Tom nods. Martin scowls. “That’s disgusting. You could have gone this whole visit without mentioning reproductive organs,” he says.

She has the gall to laugh at him, which only serves to further unsettle him. “Have I offended you? Have I made you uncomfortable? I figured no topics were taboo for someone like you.”

“Oh, I have no problem discussing dicks and vaginas all day if that’s what people ask of me, just not...”

“Me?” Martin has the sudden urge to run out of the apartment and leave Tommy behind. He’s already said too much, though. It’s time to face the consequences.

“Yeah. We really don’t know each other well enough to talk about things like that.” He has no idea if that’s a good excuse.

“Hmm. I suppose you’re allowed to be different from your stage persona.” She looks at the floor, then turns and beckons for Martin and Tommy to follow her to a sitting area with a couch and chairs.

Tommy leans over a little to whisper. “You’re being kind of an asshole, dude.” Martin waves him away like he’s swatting at a swarm of insects. Tommy pulls back. “Just saying, man.”

The two men take up a good portion of the couch across from where Tess is sitting, looking awfully pleased with herself. She crosses her legs, intertwines her fingers, and leans in toward her visitors. “So, onward to the matter at hand, yes?” She looks to Tommy. “Your question about the canvases cut quickly to a point I was hoping to make later: I am stuck. As an artist, I am stuck. There’s something I thought I had in me that isn’t flowing, and yet the desire to turn these canvases into something beautiful is there.”

Martin stares blankly at her. He can think of a handful of crazy reasons why this might involve him, but he’d rather ignore them than vocalize them. He has no desire to give her ideas.

“And as you know, Martin, Landon and I are fans of your shows. One thing that really blows my mind is that you have all new material every time. Do you have other comedians you work with?”

“No.”

“Then I am duly impressed,” she admits.

“I don’t really do shows very often,” Martin points out.

“Wait,” says Tommy, “you don’t repeat any jokes?”

Martin shrugs. “Maybe I have. I don’t actually keep track of it. But yeah, to the best of my knowledge, I don’t repeat jokes.”

“Jeez. That sounds rough. I think I’d rather work with a stable of solid jokes and just mix in the new stuff.”

“Yeah, well I’ll tell you why I hate that later.” Tommy lets his curiosity subside.

“I don’t mean to seem so obsequious, but you’ve left me quite interested, Martin.” Martin can picture it now, running some kind of artist day school for wandering souls and writers with blocks.

“Look, I already have one unexpected follower, Tess. I’m not looking to share my methods with anyone else right now.” The thought of having to put up with her ceaseless musings on art and inspiration makes him a tad suicidal.

“And I understand that. No offense, of course, but Tom’s unexpected to me as well. I had really figured things wouldn’t have changed much for you in the last week or so.” Martin is flipping her off in his head with such intensity that her torso combusts in alignment with his will, charring her face and causing her eyeballs to bubble and drip out of their sockets. When reality reasserts itself, he’s crushed to find out that it was all a fiction. “But I think it can still work. All that I ask is the opportunity to observe you from a distance. I won’t interfere with your life in the least bit, but I want to understand you. I want to understand what it is that lets you create like you do.”

“It’s weirdos like you and Herb Rollins and Gay Martin and Tammy the Genius.” The Countess seems puzzled. “Well, at this point you’ll probably meet them. Don’t worry about it.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Am I going to get any compensation for this invasion of privacy?”

“What would you like?” she asks. Martin has to wonder if financial compensation would come from her bank account or Landon’s.

“I guess it depends on how long you plan on doing this.”

“Until I understand you, Martin.”

“Don’t you have any other people you could monitor? You could follow Tommy around all the time and still get to observe me every once in a while.”

“Hey now, don’t I get a say in this?” The sound of Tommy speaking startles Martin. He had forgotten he was there.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Why don’t you just let Tess hang around you for a week or so for a trial period.”

“That sounds marvelous!” The Countess is thrilled by compromise, apparently.

“And I’ll want fifty dollars per day,” Martin adds. Tommy laughs.

“Done.” She stands up and presents her hand to Martin. Pleased by the prospect of a few hundred dollars, Martin springs to his feet and shakes her hand.

“But you won’t interfere with my life?”

“Not unless you want me to.” Martin snorts derisively, feels bad about it, then finds himself utterly confused by the sensation of guilt.

“Alright, Tom, let’s get out of here.” He starts to walk toward the door, and Tom follows like a trained hound.

“Wait, how will I know where to find you?” Tess calls after them.

Martin laughs maniacally. “That’s part of your job, lady. My job’s just to keep on movin’.”

In the elevator, Tom can’t help himself. “Did you seriously just ask for money so she could hang out with you?”

“Did she seriously just say yes? Good lord. Everyone is a fucking idiot." This new promise of cash makes Martin feel better for the moment. "Sorry you didn’t get to meet Landon, by the way.”

“That’s okay.”

The door opens on the first floor to Landon Freeman and Herb Rollins chatting in the lobby. Martin’s blood begins to boil. “You son of a bitch!”

“Martin Avery!” cheers Herb. Landon looks upset by the implication of Martin’s anger. Tommy is horrified.

“Whoa, Martin. What’s the problem?” Landon, in his glorious glory, seems genuinely concerned by Martin’s anger. It’s soothing, and Martin finds this frustrating.

“I thought you invited me over to just chill out and talk to, you know, you. And not her,” he says, pointing toward the ceiling.

“Ah, it would seem Martin has a problem with your Countess, Earl Freeman.” Herb has a jolly laugh at his own commentary. At this point, Martin’s mind jumps to the hypothetical scenario in which the two pairs of men get into a fight. Tommy would clearly have to tackle Landon. Martin is just too scrawny to take him on. On the other hand, Herb is, as he describes it himself, “delicate”. Maybe Martin and Tommy could even win.

“Martin, I just figured that you could maybe let her get some ideas to get her started with her painting and your ego would be satisfied at the same time.” Landon is handsome. He’s tall and strong, and the finer details of his look have been determined by the conditions of his travels around the world. He is, in a word, rugged. Beyond this, he is also a beloved public speaker. It annoys Martin to no end that despite all this he remains a really likable person.

“Not to mention he gets a decent payday,” Tommy inserts. Martin shrinks back.

“What?” Landon asks. This mention of money exchanging hands has taken this conversation in the wrong direction. Landon’s surprise makes Martin feel guilty again. This is too much for him to handle in one day.

“Well, we’re gonna head out now. Nice seeing you guys.” Martin pushes past Tommy and walks briskly for the door, heading out into the parking lot before anyone can get a chance to stop him.

He waits in the car while Tommy says his pleasantries to Landon and Herb. Martin doesn't know if he's funny yet, but Tommy is at the very least polite.

Tommy slips into the passenger seat. “What the hell was that about?”

“I’m just having an off day. I feel weird right now, and I don’t really want the Countess hanging around me all day. She creeps me out.”

“And I still don’t get that. She was nothing but nice to you.” Martin recalls flames, eyeballs.

“For the most part. I think she was just being reserved with you around, or maybe she was sober. Last time I had to chat with her, she was saying the most boring shit about aesthetics you can possibly imagine, then she started describing her sex life with Landon in horrible, horrible detail. I know things about that man that I didn’t even realize I could know.” Tommy has to ponder this for a moment.

“That sounds kind of awkward.”

“Yeah? Sounds like the next week of our lives, dipshit.” Martin starts the car as grumpily as he can manage.

Countess, Part 1: Grasshopper

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 06:00:00 +0000

Money is bullshit, at least that’s what Martin thinks. Every man should be entitled to a wealth equal to the work he does for society. Being steeped in debt isn’t helping him appreciate the capitalist pigs around him either. Despite making money at Herb’s club, Martin still owes thousands of dollars to his sister, and while he knows that she won’t complain, he prefers to limit the amount of reasons she has to contact him. Keeping debt-free is one way for Martin to remain Michelle-free.

A name pops into his head: Landon Freeman. Herb had introduced him to Landon and his strange counterpart Tess Carter, “The Countess”. Such a stupid nickname, and yet Landon seemed quite fond of her. Landon is also quite fond of adventuring, archaeology, record breaking, and any other number of Hollywood-level masculine feats. Somehow all of this managed to raise him to the level of mid-range celebrity, and with this status came a moderate level of wealth. Martin is hoping to tap some sweet, sweet Landon Freeman ass.

Not literally, of course, though the rumor is that the smooth talker Herb Rollins has done just that. Herb is suspected of having seduced many straight male celebrities, though to what extent no one can be sure. None of the proposed celebs ever go on to lead anything but a fabulously straight life, and so the rumors remain rumors.

Martin is ready to dig in and see what he can find out, about the wealth, the rumors, and this weird woman Landon insists on retaining at his side. When Martin calls to make good on Landon’s invitation to his studio apartment, Landon is unusually pleased. Martin keeps this noted as he gets ready

Knock knock. Martin leans his head out of his bedroom door and listens. Knock knock. He steps cautiously toward the front door, wondering who might be on the other side.

“Are you gonna get that?” Ray yells. Damn you, Ray.

“I can hear you in there, Martin,” a voice calls out from outside. It’s a male voice, and vaguely familiar.

Martin opens the door. “Hi, Martin. I don’t know if you remember me, but-“

“Tommy?”

“Yeah, ha.” Tommy the repo man is standing outside Martin's door for who knows what reason. He looks a little younger than Martin, but he is taller, wider, and his hair is thinner.

"Why are you here?"

"Well, uh, Rico told me about your show the other night..."

Martin had forgotten that he even mentioned the show to the repo crowd. "Wait, so you went? And you didn't even say 'hi' to me after the show?"

"Yeah! And no." Tommy seems nervous about something, yet still pleased to see Martin. "At first I thought Rico was joking, but I checked it out anyway. It wasn't bad at all. The opener was kind of weak, but I liked some of your jokes."

"Not all of them?"

Tommy seems to purr with hedging noises, so Martin relieves him of his faux pas.

"I'm just joking, man. You're not the first person to tell me I need to work on my jokes." The big guy seems more relaxed now, but Martin has somewhere to be. Martin begins to walk toward his car. "Look, I kind of need to be somewhere. Why did you come to see me?"

"I sort of wanted to ask you about something."

"Shoot."

"It may require some discussion."

"Well, do you want to come with me to see Landon Freeman?" Martin asks, trying to hide how much fun it is drop a name like that.

"The Landon Freeman? World record guy?"

"The one and only."

"Damn, sure."

Martin nods toward the car. "Hop in."

As soon as they head out, Tommy opens up about why he's suddenly back in Martin's life. "I've always had an appreciation of comedy, you know. It's not easy to be consistently funny."

"I think it's genetic or something."

"Really?" Tommy asks. "Were your parents funny, then?"

"Oh god, no. My dad had no sense of humor and my mom wasn't as funny as she thought she was. I'm just assuming that it's recessive."

"Well I like to think I have a good sense of humor, but I've never really had the balls to do stand-up. Scares the shit out of me to just think about it." Martin is suddenly realizing that Tommy had prefaced this trip with the promise of a question, not a discussion of the finer points of comedy.

"So...what did you want to ask me exactly?"

"Right. You're welcome to say no, but I was thinking maybe you could be my mentor."

Before Martin has a chance to stop himself, he's laughing hysterically. He considers being responsible and pulling over until the fit passes, but he doesn't want to be late. When he finally calms down a bit, he realizes he has a legitimate proposition to mull over. "And what about the wonderful world of moving furniture, eh?"

"Kiefo fired me."

"What? Why?"

"I was too drunk to work one morning."

Sigh. "Look, Tommy, there are enough alcoholic comedians. I think we can make do with the thousands we have already without you throwing in your two cents. Just go beg Kiefo for your job or something."

"How did you get your start? Everyone just recognized how naturally funny you are and started paying you?" Screw you, Tommy, but I guess you have a point.

"What the hell would I even have to do as your mentor?"

"I don't know. Show me the ropes? Show me how to write jokes? Let me open a show sometime if I get good?"

"Jesus, Tom. Look, you're not going to make money doing this. I can't support you, and you're going to be doing open mic nights until I actually think you're funny on your own." Martin is surprised to realize how quickly he's accepting this idea, but he doesn't have anything else to do.

"That's okay. If I don't go after this now, I'll just regret it later." Ew.

"Okay, you know what? First big change as my pupil: you need to get it into your head that sometimes it's okay to say 'fuck it'. I mean, you couldn't work because you got hammered. Don't you regret that?"

"Fuck you. That was a rough time for me." Martin doesn't really care what "that" is, so they pass the rest of the trip in unpleasant silence.

When they arrive at Landon's address, the two men are in the middle of one of the city's trendy warehouse districts. Martin knows that this must be at the urging of Landon's Countess, but he can't avoid thinking about Tammy and her idiotic warehouse purchases.

"Damn," says Tommy, "this place is nice." Martin can't imagine what kind of shitty domicile Tommy uses for shelter.

"That's the way people trick you around here. Everything's nice on the outside, but once you dig a little you realize it's full of shit."

"Should I be taking down quotes for your memoir?"

"Shut the hell up, Tom." When Martin reaches the door into the building, he presses the buzzer for Landon’s apartment.

“Hello?” asks the Countess from the other end. Martin wrinkles his nose at her voice.

“Hello.”

“Who is this?” Blech.

“It’s Martin Avery. I’m here to see Landon.”

“Oh! Come right up.” As the buzzer sounds, Tommy grabs the door handle and holds it open for Martin. Landon lives on the top floor of the building, no doubt paying top dollar for a magnificent view and an airy, open apartment.

Tommy and Martin exit the elevator into a strange hallway. The floor is apparently split into two open studio spaces, and they are separated by a thin hallway that spans the width of the building, probably as a fireproofing or acoustic dampening measure. There’s little more space than is required for the doors to open to each apartment.

Martin knocks apprehensively on Landon’s door, then stands back. Tommy gives him a weird look. “You don’t understand, Tom. Lesson two: weird shit happens to me.”

“Okay.”

The door glides inward, and therein stands the Countess, stick thin and wearing a wisp of a shirt, mostly sheer fabric and hanging loosely. She’s also wearing a long, straight skirt slashed up to her hip. Everything about her dress makes Martin uncomfortable. Tommy just smiles and waits like a dumbass.

“Martin! My darling, so good to see you.” She stretches her arms out in front of her, slightly spread in anticipation of a hug. Nothing in her relationship with Martin prior to this would indicate this level of intimacy, but here she is, expecting an embrace.

“Hey, Tess. So uh, where’s Landon? Is he around?” The Countess is unfazed. Her arms remain elevated.

“No, not at the moment. But it’s alright. I told him I could handle you on my own." She leans back and laughs. "You’re here to see me anyhow.”

“Am I?” Uh oh.

“Yes, of course.” Sensing the stand-off between hug and unnatural hatred, Tommy springs forth to save the day. He grabs the Countess around the waist and lifts her up above his head. As he sets her down, she begins to laugh. “Well, who is this animal?”

“I’m Tommy. I’m Martin’s apprentice.” Shh! Damn it. Martin had forgotten that acting as a teacher for this big dope would do little for his prickly reputation.

“No! No, he’s my lover.”

Tess smirks at Martin. “Whoever he is, he certainly knows how to greet someone. Come on in.” The Countess turns and walks out toward the center of the apartment.

Martin raises his fists to the sky and grunts like he’s having an especially difficult bowel movement. His moment of venting passed, Tommy looks to Martin with yet another weird look.

“I fucking told you, man,” says Martin. “Strange, awful shit happens to me.”

“She seems nice, though. She’s been nothing but pleasant.”

“Lesson three: I hate you.”

Baxter & Hilda

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 12:45:00 +0000

A week goes by easily before Martin really snaps back to reality. He goes through cycles like this, periods of frequent socialization followed by stalwart reclusiveness. Martin usually ends up telling people he spent the time writing jokes or funny articles, but truthfully a lot of the time is dedicated to tasting beer and tastefully engaging in the ancient tradition of porn-watching. Sometimes he thinks about how well-off he might be if he were actually doing work, but he always finds this train of thought too depressing and abandons it. By this time one of his friends has hopefully contacted him and invited him to do something.

Today’s reality comes in the form of a call from Hilda. “Hi!”

“Hey.”

“What are you doing today?” she asks. Martin looks around the apartment. Ray is gone. Martin’s wearing stained pajamas. He was hoping he’d see something in the immediate vicinity to use as an excuse, but he’s feeling uninspired.

“Nothing yet. What do you want me to do?”

“You say that like I want you to come move furniture.” Martin smiles.

“No no, I just mean... Look, why would you ask me what I’m doing unless you have an idea for me?”

“I guess I wouldn’t. It’s not like you ever do anything interesting.” Blah. Fuck you, Dilda. Oh damn. Martin wishes he had actually said that, but it’s too late now. Already used up.

“Blah.” Damn it! He said the stupid thing.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. You wanna come hang out at my place?” The rage slowly builds in Martin as he realizes he’s becoming aroused at the thought of hanging out with Hilda. Not cool, Lil Horatio.

“I guess so. What are we going to do?” Please don’t be ambiguous.

“I don’t know. We could watch a movie or something. I just figured we hadn’t seen each other in a while. I’ve been too busy with work, and I guess you’ve been busy doing whatever it is you do.”

“Sorry, I was catching up on my articles.” See?

“Well just come over whenever you feel like it, though preferably before I go to bed.”

“What? It’s not even noon.”

“I know. See you soon!” Hmm. Martin is concerned about the consequences of re-socializing himself, but this sort of paranoia comes around every time he breaks cover and gets back out into the world.

He takes the time to clean himself and get something to eat before he makes his way to Hilda’s residence. A car sitting out front startles him. It’s familiar in a way that Martin can’t place. He knocks lightly on Hilda’s door.

The door swings open. “Oh wow, you got here fast.” Hilda’s hair is green with thin strips of purple. It looks...good. Too good.

“Yeah, everybody knows I come quickly,” Martin says sullenly. “I brought beer, by the way.”

Hilda seems confused. “For us? Do you always drink in the middle of the day?”

“I’ll drink anytime that it’s part of the day. Or night, I guess. Can I come in?” Hilda steps out of the way so that Martin can come inside. He is immediately assaulted by a bear of a man who’d been standing just out of sight. “Jesus Christ, Bax, put me down. I’m going to drop the beer!”

“Oh, whoa whoa.” Baxter sets Martin back down on floor. “Wouldn’t want to waste alcohol, eh? How have you been, Martin?”

“I was fine until you crushed my ribcage. Actually, I was pretty good until you crushed my ribcage. Thanks, Bax.” Baxter is about the same height as Martin, but he has quite a bit on Martin in terms of pounds and muscle and facial hair.

“Aw, you’re so sweet, Marty.” Blech. No. Shut up, Baxter.

“Give any good sermons lately? I’m sure my spirit could use a tune-up.” Baxter laughs. Hilda gets visibly angry, though it might just be playful. Horatio likes to think it’s playful.

“Stop it, guys. It’s not funny.”

“Yeah? Prove it, Miss Scientist USA.” Hilda yanks the six-pack from Martin and storms off to the kitchen. Martin turns to Baxter. “I’m an asshole.”

“I love assholes!” yells Baxter, arms in the air.

“What are you guys talking about?” shouts Hilda from the kitchen. At this point she’s already regretting inviting Martin over to hang out with her and Baxter.

“Your brother loves anal play!” replies Martin, and Baxter follows up with “I really do!”

Hilda comes back from the kitchen with a look of disgusted sadness. “There are some things you just don’t want to know about your older brother.”

Martin turns to Baxter. “So tell me more about your love of assholes.”

Hilda sighs.

Tammy the Genius

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 20:16:00 +0000

Martin wakes to pain all around his upper body. All around his entire body is Ian’s kitchen. The floor is not very comfortable. Someone is kicking him.

“...What?” He looks up, but not very far. Leanne is standing over him, and she looks very much half-asleep herself.

“Get out of the way. I need coffee.” Martin groans as he sits up, then pulls himself up using the counter.

“What makes you think Ian keeps any food in this place? These cupboards are probably all filled with underwear.” He recalls seeing Ian’s genitals in roughly the same place he’s currently standing and shivers.

“Underwear? He has to eat something,” says Leanne, though she is becoming more and more frustrated with each cabinet she opens that is filled with either clothing or nothing. “Oh, come on.”

“I told you.”

“Shut up.” More cabinets, drawers, but still nothing even remotely edible. Leanne is flummoxed by the presence of a coffee maker.

“Look, I’m sorry about last night. I am an asshole, yes, but I’m usually a bit more restrained than that.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not like I haven’t been short all my life. I’ve heard it all before.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Leanne looks up at Martin with lips pursed so tight they could cut off the circulation to an ant’s penis. “No.”

“Sorry, really. Why don’t you let me buy you a coffee? There must be a place nearby.” Begrudgingly, Leanne decides to accept the offer.

“Sure, but I was going to meet my friend Tammy for breakfast. Can you be civil if she meets up with us?”

Martin slouches. “I just want you to know that I don’t always enjoy my reputation. The constant questioning of my ability to be a decent human being gets a little grating after a while.”

“So...yes? No?”

Sigh. “Yes.”

Leanne tells Martin that there’s a coffee shop a couple of blocks away, so she calls Tammy and they head over. Martin tries to ignore the quality of the neighborhood. “So hey, any idea what all these welts are from? I don’t remember anything from after we started playing.” The pain Martin felt on his upper body was a number of small welts and a handful of strange smaller marks on his arms. “And what are these, burns?”

“Uh...I don’t think so. How would you have gotten burned?” Leanne deflects.

“I don’t know. That’s kind of the point. I figured if-“

“The welts are from when we started throwing dice at each other. They were supposed to be spells, but then we got angry. You were throwing dice at GM and saying, ‘Stop hitting myself!’”

“Oh man. What happened to him? I didn’t see him or Ian anywhere.”

“GM went to work. I have no idea where Ian goes.”

Martin is confused. “Don’t you and Gay Martin work together?”

“Ehh, fuck it. I’ll just tell them I was there all morning.”

“Yeah, not like they would have seen you walking around anyway.” Leanne punches and kicks Martin.

When they get to the coffee shop, Martin buys himself and Leanne coffee, then Tammy shows up. Tammy is probably a foot taller than Leanne, blonde, and seems to be in good shape. She gives Leanne a quick hug.

“Oh, Tammy, this is Martin.” They shake hands.

“Yeah, I’m her pimp.”

“Martin!” shouts Leanne.

“I didn’t realize you were getting back into the business!” says Tammy, seeming genuinely surprised.

“Wow.” Martin is already so pleased with how things are going. “You used to be a prostitute?” he asks Leanne.

“No. Tammy’s just playing along with your stupid joke.”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

“I thought it was funny,” says Tammy.

“Please don’t encourage him, T.”

“Whatever,” says Martin, sliding down in his chair.

Tammy is slightly confused by the tension. “So Leanne, how’s Mel doing?”

“Okay. The billboards are all up now. I think she’s just worried about what guys will think when they see her in a diaper.”

Martin perks up. “Wait wait, who’s Mel?”

Leanne sighs. “My sister, Carmela.”

“And she’s the one on those diaper billboards?!”

“Yes.”

“Man. Well I don’t think she has anything to worry about. The first time I saw one of those I was like ‘Huh, never thought I’d be attracted to a girl in a diaper.’”

“I guess she’ll be glad to hear that.”

Tammy looks focused on Martin. “So Martin, what do you do?”

“Stand-up. I’m a comic.”

“Oh, well that explains the jokes. Do you do a lot of shows?” Why did the jokes need explanation? Is everyone who tells jokes a comedian for a living?

“Not a lot, I suppose. I’m still kind of an amateur, but you gotta work your way up.”

“Hmm. Well good luck with that.”

“What do you do?”

“Me?” Tammy seems pleased to have the attention on her at last. “I’m involved with a lot of things. Right now my big project is real estate. I’ve got a lot of warehouse lots for sale, if you’re interested.”

Martin looks at Leanne in an attempt to figure out who Tammy’s talking to. “Me?” he says, clearly mocking Tammy from a few seconds ago.

Tammy nods. “Yeah, absolutely. Have you ever thought about what you could do with a warehouse?” Martin is suddenly unimpressed with Tammy.

“I haven’t, no. There’s not a lot to think about. They’re just big open buildings.”

“That’s not true! I’ve come up with a lot of ways someone like you could use a warehouse. Tell him, Leanne.”

Leanne looks quite uncomfortable. “Yeah, uh, Tammy’s pretty smart. She and her husband have been thinking up ways to convert warehouses into grocery stores and schools.”

“That’s why I go by Tammy the Genius.” Martin nearly spits out his coffee. “Are you okay?” asks Tammy, looking quite concerned.

He wipes his face. “I...did you just say ‘Tammy the Genius?’”

“Uh huh.”

“Martin...” says Leanne, wary of what he might say.

“How many of these warehouse properties are adjacent to one another?”

“Oh, all of them. They’re just one long lot that’s been broken up,” says Tammy.

“Then how do you plan to have more than one grocery store and school in that area? Do they even all have street access?” Martin asks.

“What? There are eight warehouses, Martin. We could have five of each if we wanted.” There’s a pause. Leanne is scared that saying something might provoke Martin, not that he needs further provocation. “And plus we can always make streets if they don’t touch streets.” Another pause.

“So Tammy, are you any good at math?” asks Martin.

“Yeah, really good, but what does-“

“Can you tell me what the square root of 196 is?”

“I...don’t think that you can take the square root of an even number, Martin. Is that a trick question?”

“It’s fourteen.”

“That sounds right,” says Leanne, hoping to end discussion.

“Hmm. I disagree.” Tammy the Genius is quite sure the even numbers do not have square roots.

“Uhh...” Martin’s brain is telling him a lot of things at this point, so he feels the strong urge to just run away from the situation. “Oh shit. Leanne, I just remembered that I need to drop something off for my roommate before he goes to work.”

“Oh, okay.” She’s relieved, even if he’s lying.

“Wait, let me give you my business card before you go in case you know anyone interested in developing those properties.” Tammy quickly whips out one of her cards and hands it to Martin. It reads “Tammy the Genius, Real Estate and Etc.” Martin laughs most of the way back to his car.

When he gets there, Martin checks his phone. He notices a text from an hour earlier. It’s from Ian. “Are you in any position to be making demands?” Martin texts back: “You. Are. Crazy.” Ian replies immediately: “Oh, and don’t let Leanne light any of my stuff on fire. Water damage is okay, but I have a thing about flames.” Martin yawns despite the caffeine in his brain. “Sorry. Your house burned down. I’m driving to Mexico. Goodbye forever.”

The next text surprises Martin. “You do realize I can see you.” Martin looks around for a few seconds before he sees Ian in one of the front windows of his house, holding back the curtains. His eyes are wide and terrifying. Martin slowly puts his keys in the ignition and starts the car. He sends one last text back to Ian. “Please don’t have children.”

Two Guys, a Goth, and a Pyromantrix

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 03:26:00 +0000

Before the three grown men get ready to dive into a world of fire lizards and damp subterranean rooms, Martin and Ian get their smoking out of the way. Gay Martin hangs out in the kitchen until the boys are finished with their preparatory bong rips.

“Alright, we’re finished, you big, mopey queen,” cries Martin from the living room, and GM soon returns to the area looking especially sullen.

“Is this how it’s going to be all day?” asks GM with an appropriate amount of guilt-inducing self-righteousness.

Ian shakes his head wildly; his eyes are closed the entire time. “Don’t worry, silly. He just thinks he’s funny.” A nasal screech builds before Ian breaks into open-throated laughter directed at Martin.

“Fuckin’! Ian! You!” cries Martin before flopping his head back onto the couch. He frowns emphatically in an attempt to inspire pity. This only causes Ian to laugh harder. Gay Martin, entirely sober and annoyed at this point, is finding it hard not to leave.

“Can we just get started? You guys are being ridiculous.”

Martin’s head snaps upright, and he begins smiling a scrunched smile. “I totally see what you mean about this guy’s mudstick.”

“Dude,” Ian mutters at Martin. “That was private.” GM doesn’t even understand what a ‘mudstick’ is supposed to be.

“Ian, hey.” GM has to work for a second to get Ian’s attention. “Do you have the books here?”

It takes a second of wide-eyed, unfocused existence for Ian to attempt to figure out what books GM is talking about, abandon that thought process and then come up with a totally inappropriate adapted movie quote. “Books? Where we’re going, we don’t need books!” Ian won’t remember this very well later, but at this moment he experiences the most pride he’s ever felt.

“Do you have dice? Pens? Pencils? Paper? If we don’t have those, this is just going to end up being an approximation. Do you want me to call Leanne?”

“Uhhh, yes. Call the little one and have it bring forth the tomes and trinkets,” mandates Ian, now up and marching about the room triumphantly, though he’s not sure over what exactly he’s triumphed.

“Little one?” asks Martin.

“A miniature woman. A pocket-sized female human,” says Ian. “Dude, I hope you can not make fun of a midget.”

Martins mind reels. “WHAT? She’s a…an actual little person? I thought she was just short.”

“Well, she is short,” GM says condescendingly. “I mean, she’s a dwarf.”

“You…son of a bitch. I know.” Martin struggles to get to his feet, manages, and then walks off to the kitchen. Ian still seems quite triumphant.

A short time later, Leanne arrives with the appropriate equipment. Ian glances at her awkwardly and flips through the books. Gay Martin chats with Leanne about Ian and Martin being obnoxious. Martin wanders back from the kitchen.

“JESUS CHRIST, IT’S AN ELF!” he yells upon seeing Leanne. She’s a diminutive blonde woman, and not bad-looking considering she’s a foot and change shorter than Martin usually likes his women. Gay Martin looks up with disgust. Ian shakes his head and smiles. Leanne looks as though she’s mentally adding Martin to a list of people to murder.

“Excuse me?” she says with expected sass.

Martin approaches her cautiously, occasionally turning away from her and then back to see if she’s real. Once he gets close, he leans down to her. “How’d you make your way down from the North Pole, little lady?” Martin asks, his voice reaching as high as it can while his throat is scratched up from all the smoking. “Jeez, at that height you could probably give a standing blowjob!” His eyes meet hers; bloodshot meets steely conviction.

Her fist is a meteoric blur that rises quickly from her side to his crotch, sending Martin crashing and folding into a pathetic heap at the foot of the couch. This is the first time that Gay Martin laughs since his arrival.

While Martin recovers pathetically on the floor, the rest of them discuss the game. Ian usually serves as the Dungeon Master, but he claims to need a few more turns with the bong to be appropriately inspired. Leanne shares it with him while GM retires to the kitchen again.

“Okay, they’re finished, you big gay bastard!” yells Martin from his position halfway back onto the couch. GM comes back and sits down. The group is now gathered around Ian’s low coffee table with sheets of paper and books spread around.

Despite Gay Martin being the only coherent one, Ian is leading the show. He has his guests prepare their characters.

“Well you know I’m gonna be a pyromancer,” says Leanne. “Fweeeoooo!” She pretends to be blasting Martin with fire, but the sound effects are too terrible for anyone to really take notice.

“Why?” asks Martin.

“’Cause fire’s just…my thing. I think my dream job is…there are things. I set them on fire, and then someone has money for me! ‘Good job with the fire, Leanne!’ And then I buy things and set them on fire.” It’s at this point that Martin feels blessed, to a certain extent. He is currently doing one of the nerdiest things imaginable with a goth, a midget, and one of the craziest people he’s ever met. Martin only wishes another reliable party were present to corroborate this story later.

“But what do you actually do?”

“She’s also an accountant at my firm,” replies GM. Ah, the standard workplace comedic relief.

“During the day,” Martin narrates in his best movie trailer voice, “she’s an accountant in the city, hiding her identity by never crossing eye level. But at night! At night she transforms into the incinerator, the cleanser of evil, burning away the city’s sins. She is…Supermidget.”

“I hate you.” Leanne looks at her character sheet quietly.

“Whatever, pyromidget.”

“Maybe Martin can pretend to be a decent person. Is that a class?” Martin does not appreciate humor coming from some deformed excuse for a comedienne.

Ian flips frantically through the pages, checking out the different types of characters. He’s very worried that he’s forgotten something. “I…don’t think there’s just a ‘good person’ class. He could be a paladin or something. I’ll keep looking.”

“And what does the gay me usually play as?” asks Martin.

“Vampire war princess, motherfucker."

Martin and Ian and...Martin

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 01:37:00 +0000

Ian’s house looks no different than the last couple of times Martin’s seen it, yet he can’t help but feel that something’s off. First, Martin has arrived early. This makes him uncomfortable. Second, he’s holding a bag of brand new white socks in a neighborhood that looks like it could use an injection of fresh underwear just to turn a few frowns into less world-weary indifference. He finds himself hugging the bag tightly to his chest. The text said noon. If he went in early, would he find the creature normally dressed as Ian just putting its skin on?

Martin shakes his head like an Etch A Sketch and knocks. It’s 11:51. No one answers. He tries the doorknob. It’s locked! Martin is stunned. He hardly knows what to think or do at this point, so he slumps down next to Ian’s doorway and reads every word he can find on the bag of socks two or three times over. At 11:58, Ian comes racing around the end of the block in a fast walk, apparently carrying a large bag of something himself. As he gets closer, Martin can see that it is, in fact, a massive bag of weed, the kind that makes you start wondering more where someone got a plastic bag that size and less about how they got that much weed. Martin’s also amazed that Ian is just carrying it around outside like it’s no big deal, certainly not illegal or anything.

“Hey man, I guess I’m a little early,” says Martin, standing up and brushing off his pants while Ian jams his key feverishly into the lock and goes inside. He shuts the door behind him and locks it. It’s 11:59. Martin clutches his socks in some unexpected Ian-centric reflex.

He reaches into his pocket and grabs his cell phone to check the time. Hmm.

As noon hits, Ian flings open his door to find…

“Martin?” Ian is pretty sure it’s Martin, but he’s dressed rather awkwardly.

“I was once known by that name. I am now simply known as The Ambassador, envoy from Sockland,” delivers Martin with the necessary dramatic embellishments. He is also wearing socks on his hands, loosely so that they may be flailed around for visual interest. A wreath of socks hangs pathetically around his neck.

The look of condescending disgust that forms on Ian’s face is one of the most impressively effective ones Martin’s ever seen, and he considers himself something of an expert when it comes to disgust. “What the hell are you doing?” asks Ian plainly.

Uh. Is it mean to tell someone you were just mocking them outright, just trying to make a clear reference to their insanity? “I thought maybe we were just…playing a game or something. I mean you totally ignored me on the way in here.” He peels off the socks from his hands and takes off the wreath, trying with futility to smash them back into the bag whence they came. Martin finds it weird to be embarrassed in front of Ian of all people.

“Come in before someone sees you,” Ian says, herding Martin inside.

“Sees me?” asks Martin. He doesn’t know whether to be angry or thoroughly ashamed.

“Yeah,” Ian says with a mocking tone, “I hear there are spies from the Staple Remover people in the area!”

“Fuck you; I brought socks.” He tries to hand Ian the socks, but Ian looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Okay…but where’s the money?”

“Are you shitting me? You said ‘bring socks or money,’ so I went with the socks since the latter option was both ambiguous and reasonably absent in my life right now.”

“I…don’t think I would have said that. And how is ‘money’ more ambiguous than ‘socks?’ Maybe I wanted black dress socks or rainbow toe socks. Maybe I only wanted you to bring three dollars, hm? I’m not sure you thought this through at all.”

Martin feels like he’s standing on shattering, sliding ground with no way to stabilize himself. He thinks back on the first time he saw Ian. The man wore no pants. The second time? Ian was wearing a tux at a fake tea party. Now Ian is being altogether too rational for Martin’s sanity. “Ian?”

“What?” Martin doesn’t respond. “Yes, Martin? What?”

“I just wanted to make sure it’s you. I repossessed your furniture once, then you went to my stand-up show, right?”

“Yeah? Are you okay, Martin?”

“I guess I’m okay. I have no idea, though. You don’t even remember asking me to bring socks or money?”

“Oh, I do. I was just seeing if you’d do it, though.”

Marting glares at Ian before hurling the bag of socks down the hall. He sighs. “Okay. I did it.”

“That seems a bit passive-aggressive, don’t you think?”

“It was entirely passive-aggressive. I wasn’t really sugarcoating it. You seem too normal today, and it’s freaking me out.”

“Too normal? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Fine. Look: what did you have in mind for an activity today?”

“Ah, well I thought we’d wait until my friend Martin came over so we could play Dungeons & Dragons.” This strange statement is a small relief for Martin.

“Oh ha ha, Ian. I’m here already.” Martin isn’t really looking forward to playing a tabletop RPG with Ian.

“What? I can know more than one person named Martin, dummy. Martin Varney usually comes over after he gets out of work.”

“I don’t know how I feel about hanging out with someone else named Martin. Can’t we call him like…Unfunny Martin? Boring Martin? Martin Number Two?”

“Gay Martin? He’s gay.”

“Uh…are you?” Martin has to ask these questions.

“Ah, no, but I’m sure Gay Martin wishes I were. That seems to be about the only reason he hangs out with me. He doesn’t do drugs, he’s into weird music and goth get-ups, and he is otherwise a big stick in the mud. Hell, he works as an accountant.”

“I’m not so sure that’s as boring as you want to make it sound. But hey, as long as he’s not a comedian, at least I have the Funny Martin thing locked down,” Martin chuckles.

“You think so? I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I think you’re probably funnier off-stage than you are during your act.” Martin’s feelings are hurt.

“Really?”

“See, you have good timing and pacing during regular conversations, but your act was just a retelling of things you’ve experienced with very little refinement or dressing up. You did your act as though you’re more of a humorist, maybe someone who expects people to look at his work for a while and appreciate the humor of the whole instead of just a punch line here or there.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to follow a formula,” says Martin, trying to defend himself.

“I know, and you’re still pretty funny. You just need to turn your stories into a few jokes, maybe. Cut out the unnecessary bits. I don’t think you mean to just be the cream of the crop for amateur hour, so try just keeping them laughing with what’s comfortable for you.”

Martin doesn’t like this new Ian. On the outside he’s still the same skinny motherfucker with sandy hair, but he’s turned into some analytical powerhouse that makes Martin feel stupid. “I don’t like you now.”

Ian bursts into laughter that threatens to shatter Martin’s eardrums at its peak. While his convulsions continue to cycle as his mind processes the whole conversation, Ian takes a seat on his couch and starts grinding and packing marijuana for one of his bongs. He doesn’t pause his laughter until he’s just about to take his first rip. “Can you imagine? Jeez, that’s what I would sound like if I lived just a few more miles southeast.” The laughter continues renewed.

The front door flies open and slams shut almost as quickly. There stands a giant with shoulder-length dark hair, white face makeup, and an outfit that screams business casual, if it is at all possible to scream something so boring. He looks at Martin as if trying to silently create some sort of masculine mental bridge, but Martin worries more that Gay Martin won’t make it to the bathroom.

“Ian, who is this interloper?” says Gay Martin sternly. It’s only now that Martin wonders if the look of constipation was intended as intimidating.

“Oh, I’m Martin.”

“Martin?” GM asks incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

“No? Can’t Ian know more than one person named Martin?” Ian, who is now at least moderately high, begins to laugh quietly.

“That was my line!”

“Uh, yeah,” says Martin, then looks back to GM. “You must be Gay Martin.”

Gay Martin purses his lips, and his eyes shrink in contempt, dark ovals in a sea of white. “I guess I must be.”

A Thief Telling Some Jokes, Part 3: Exeunt

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 07:07:00 +0000

Things go well after the show. A few people tell Martin he was hilarious. This is expected. A lot of people don’t talk to him at all. This is nice. Herb makes his way through the crowd to shake hands with his headliner.

“A good show as always, Martin. How about I give you one-and-a-half the usual rate?” Not bad! Everything Martin can deduct from the balance owed to Michelle is welcomed.

“You’re too generous, Herb! Too generous.” Once again Martin is forced to scare up some friendliness for financial reasons. Although there’s really no reason for Martin to not be nice to Herb, he needs to keep up the idea that he’s an asshole deep down. He wouldn’t want to tarnish an otherwise stellar reputation.

Martin hangs around in the club with Ian and Hilda until almost everyone has made their way out. At one point Martin spots Ian and Herb talking. Herb is clearly confused and possibly on the verge of laughing. Ian does not disappoint.

“Looks like Herb’s getting a taste of the insanity,” says Martin, pointing out the conversational pair to Hilda.

“I think you mean ‘the fanciness.’” She laughs softly knowing that Martin won’t understand. He really doesn’t. “Hey,” she exclaims, smacking Martin on the chest, “what’s the gift you have for me?” Uh. Hmm.

“Well, I got your voicemail today.”

“And you didn’t come to get me?” she seems genuinely offended. Uh oh. Bring it around, Martin.

“No no, I didn’t even get the voicemail until it would have been much too late. But I figured that, rather than karmic retribution, it was probably some repo guys who took your car.”

“Yeah…probably should have figured out those payments, huh?”

“See, that’s my gift for you.” Martin enthusiastically thrusts the gift envelope toward her.

“You figured out how to pay for my car?” Hilda begins to open the envelope, but Martin stops her mid-flap.

“Yes! Yeah, just open that after I drop you off. I’m not good with gifts.” Hopefully she’ll be more inclined to accept if she can’t reject it in person.

“Okay, I guess I can wait, but now I just want to get home.” She smiles at Martin, and for a moment he feels absolved of his guilt. If this is what it feels like to be nice, he’s not entirely sure he hates it. Weird.

“Yeesh, so greedy.” There we go. Hilda scowls at Martin, then quickly lets it go. Ian and Herb have finished, and the crazy man is also ready to go.

“Let’s get this gypsy caravan out on the trail.” Yes, Ian, let’s do that.

Even later in the evening, Martin’s cell phone begins buzzing. Hilda’s face pops up on the screen, so he just lets it ring. It’s late enough that he can say he was sleeping. As soon as the voicemail icon comes up, Martin calls it and taps in his password.

“Martin! Thank you…so much.” Oh lord, is she crying? “I guess I owe you now or something, but I’ll pay you back. Thank you. I guess I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” Sometimes Martin worries that he’s defective, at least emotionally. The thankfulness from Hilda is making him wildly uncomfortable, and he needs some debauchery.

He looks up Ian’s number, freshly entered that night, and sends him a text. “Hey man, you wanna do something tomorrow?”

The response comes moments later: “My house at noon. Bring socks or money.”

A Thief Telling Some Jokes, Part 2: The Show

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 00:44:00 +0000

When the trio gets to the club, it looks like there’s a pretty good crowd. They make their way inside, then Martin leads them directly to the bar. The bartender notices the group and looks up. “Can I get you guy-oh, Martin! Hey. Looking for Herb?”

“Yeah, is he out back?”

“No, uh, I believe he’s over by the stage. He said there was someone he needed to talk to.”

“Oh okay. I’ll find him, then. Thanks.”

Martin finds a table for Hilda and Ian, then spots Herb at a table by the stage talking to…Landon Freeman. Huh.

“So do you do drugs?” Hilda asks Ian.

Ian squints with the caution of paranoia. “Yes. Why?”

Hilda laughs. “I was just wondering if you were insane or altered from your normal mindset.”

“I’m not high now, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Hilda stops laughing. “Oh…oh? You wear a tux as loungewear all the time, then?”

“Well I certainly don’t just do it when I’m high. That would be pretty pretentious.”

“But who does that at all? Most people only wear a tux for prom or weddings.”

“Hmmph. Clearly you don’t understand how fancy I am.” That’s it. Hilda doesn’t know what to say.

She is thankful when Martin returns with Herb in tow before she has to suffer through much more awkwardness. Ian stands up to be introduced.

“Hey guys, this is Herb Rollins. Herb, this is Hilda,” she waves timidly, “and Ian.” Ian cheerfully shakes Herb’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, Herb. This is quite the place you have.”

“Thank you, yeah, it’s kind of a crumby neighborhood for a club, but luckily I know some people who are good at marketing. Can I get you guys some drinks or anything? They’re on the house since you’re guests of our headliner.” Pssh. Martin knows Herb’s just teasing his ego.

“Ha. Headliner. You can get better headliners than me, Herb. You and I both know that.”

“Better known, perhaps, but not as entertaining.” Herb nudges Martin playfully, and Martin can’t deny that Herb is a fun host. Martin just isn’t gay.

“It’s not gonna happen, Herb.”

“Ha. We’ll see, Martin. We’ll see.” Hilda and Ian are both aware of some present subtext in the conversation, but neither of them knows what it is exactly. Herb quickly distracts them from pondering by asking once more if they’d like drinks. Martin heads backstage to get himself ready.

One thing Martin’s known for is his improvisation and originality. He even does his best to never repeat jokes, though that leads him to not do a lot of shows. Tonight’s just one of those nights, a night when he could really use the fucking money.

Somehow Herb’s pulled in a guy to do the lead-in act on short notice. He’s this kid who does a lot of quick shows at clubs with open mics, and he tells the same jokes over and over again. Martin understands the value of a popular joke, but he can’t stand people who are known for one act and just milk it. Now it’s his turn.

Martin strolls on-stage with all the confidence his skinny body can muster. He’s met by a rousing applause and a few whistles. Not a bad entrance. He waits for everyone to quiet down.

“Hello.” One person shouts back a “Hey!” Martin laughs. “What the hell is this? Someone says ‘hello’ to you, and you just ignore them like they’re a piece of shit? Jeez. I know I can be an asshole sometimes, but you guys make it seem like I have no conversational value whatsoever.” The audience likes his intro. “No really, how are you guys?” They cheer. “Okay, well ‘yeeeeaaah’ isn’t really much of an answer, but nice try. I…I don’t even care anymore. I just thought maybe all of you had a friend die yesterday and that’s why you’re giving me shit. Luckily for you, I’m pretty quick to forgive.

“Don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I have a sister. Really, I do. She’s kind of a strange woman, though. And to be clear, I don’t mean she’s a strange human being who happens to be a female. She acts strange considering she’s a woman. I thought it was well understood that guys want chicks with huge tits who dress like sluts and know how to suck dick. It’s totally perverse and chauvinistic and blah blah blah, but that’s what we want! Bonus points if you can figure out how to rub your tits in my face while you’re giving me a blowjob. Don’t expect me to help, though. If you ask me to hold your leg in some position so you can attempt that, I’m just gonna immediately turn into deadweight. Except for my boner, of course. I don’t have any control over that son of a bitch traitor. Oh, speaking of boners: back to my sister.” Laughter. Phew. “My sister, Michelle, seems to think that guys can empathize with women, like we understand how emotions work and what it’s like to be periodically insane or something, and I’d like to just point out, for the record, that my sister is a moron. Don’t get me wrong, please. I love her, at least to some extent, I guess, but she’s gotta have some sort of mental defect to think that every guy is going to be sympathetic to her problems as a woman. She asks me for advice with this kind of shit, and then she caps it off with ‘you must understand what that’s like from a woman’s perspective, yeah?’ Are you fucking kidding me? Those aren’t magic words, sis. You can’t just say ‘you must understand’ and expect me to hold your hand and say kind words to make you feel special. If you could control guys just by appealing to their sympathy, no woman would ever let a guy have sex unless he’s Clooney or Pitt.

“By the way, I know at least one person will probably be tempted to come up to me after the show with a ‘hey, I thought you were great, but you have a lot of misinformation and bad opinions mixed in with your funny jokes’, and I’d like to prepare you for what I’m going to say back to you. The reason you might need some preparation is that it’s not really words that I’ll start with. First, I’ll give you a look like ‘bitch, please’, and then I’ll flip you off. THEN I’ll probably tell you that I say a lot of things specifically because they’re funny and not necessarily because I think they’re the gospel truth and I gotta get up here to preach before my spirit testicles explode with righteousness. Just…just thought I’d get that out of the way.

“So guys, I’d like to try something new tonight, okay? We’re gonna have a tiny bit of audience participation. Specifically, I want you guys to give me a subject for a joke, and I’ll make it funny. I swear, and not just canned shit that could be applied to any subject. Oh, and I don’t have plants in the audience like a damn magician or anything, alright? Just shout some stuff out.” Martin’s sad when only a few people give him suggestions. “Okay okay, clearly you guys aren’t in the right mood for this, but you gave me something to work with.” Martin paces back and forth while he processes. “So I’m gonna take my three favorites out of your suggestions. I heard ‘math’, ‘beer’, which I’m turning into ‘alcohol’, and ‘comedy’. How meta. I have to say, actually, that I’m pretty thankful that I’m well-versed in all three subjects. So here we go:

“Alcohol is funny on its own, which I really appreciate as far as comedy subjects go. I’m going one step further, though; I’m going to combine alcohol and mental instability, because – let’s face it – they’re both funny on their own, but the synergy is just phenomenal. My roommate, okay, my fucking roommate,” Martin can’t help but laugh as he thinks back on all of Ray’s oddities, “he’s a strange guy. Let me start by saying that he’s obsessive-compulsive, majorly OCD. Ray’s obsessed with the number five, and as a result I end up compelled to punch him in the head. And I don’t mean to say that I want to punch people with mental problems or that I have anything against the number five. My problem is what he does with his obsession. Ray doesn’t turn the lights off and on five times or wash his hands five times to prevent whatever disaster he thinks is about to happen. Ray drinks. He drinks five drinks. Five alcoholic drinks? Ha, well that’s the great bit. Nope. Ray picks up six-packs of non-alcoholic beer, BEER, which should be alcoholic, and he drinks five of the beers from the six-pack, then he collects the stragglers from each six-pack until he can form a new six-pack and drink five of those. It drives me nuts. Again, that alone is just quirky, and maybe not enough to justify my outrage, but then he has some strange need to act as though he’s actually been drinking. Yesterday I came home to find him on the floor, pretending to be passed out, and pretending that his speech was slurred! What kind of sick drive do you have to have to carry on with that sort of delusion? Christ. No worries, though, beer companies. I made up for it by drinking my share of the good stuff later in the evening.

“Now, let’s see…comedy? Why would you possibly suggest comedy as a subject? I bet you were assigned topical analysis papers in high school and you chose topical analysis as your subject. I would also bet that it was a shitty paper and your teacher hated you for it, but they probably gave you a good grade because they pitied you. I don’t see how that would come up in your head and pass through whatever filter you have that separates good ideas from bad ones. I’m pretty sure if your average audience member was trying desperately to come up with something to suggest as a subject and ‘comedy’ came up in their head, they’d sooner stab themselves in the hand than say something so embarrassingly annoying. It’s just a ridiculous idea. And see, what I’ve done here is close the loop. Instead of making jokes based on your subject, I made jokes based on the idea of your subject. How’s that for meta?

“Maaaaath! Who suggested math?” An average-looking guy to Martin’s right raises his hand. “Alright, I’m gonna guess you’re one of two types of people, so sorry if you hate being pigeonholed. The way I see it, you’re either a nerdy kid all grown up who’s looking for vindication or you’re some hipster douchebag who thinks math can be neither interesting nor funny. People have made math jokes before. Not good ones, mind you, but math jokes have been made. There are references to being tangent to a girl’s curves, there’s talk of filling asymptotes, and I suppose they’re funny within the scope of mathematics, but on the whole? Meh. Math nerds can be funny, though. I dated a nerdy girl one time, and I think my favorite part about dating her was just that she put out. Nerdy girls who are willing to have sex pretty much get carte blanche from me. But then something awful happened, clearly. We’re not dating anymore. So what happened…well, one time I mentioned that I thought it was kind of weird that she was so quiet during sex. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t make any sounds, really, but she said she enjoyed it. Then, she tried compensating by just saying whatever came to mind while we were doing it, so she’d start talking to me like I was a famous mathematician from history, or maybe she’d just start reciting different formulas and theorems. That’s fine, I guess, but it was a little boring, and I think it was weirder than her not making any noise. So I tried pushing her in the right direction, I said to her, ‘No no, try saying something dirty.’ She responded with ‘Oh, oh yes, point nine repeating is almost, but not quite, equal to one.’ I stopped. My dick went limp. It was horrifying. I looked at her and said, ‘I told you to say something dirty, not fucking retarded. Now get out!’” The math guy and a few others go nuts. It might have gone over the heads of most of the audience, but Martin thinks it was worth it.

“Thanks guys, I hope you had a good time!”

A Thief Telling Some Jokes, Part 1: The Gathering

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 00:40:00 +0000

Martin has, for the time being, gotten out of his mess. By borrowing from Michelle, he has wisely transferred his debt from the bank – a large organization with thugs at its disposal – to a levelheaded family member, officially hauling him out from waist-deep financial shit. Kiefo sent Rico over a little past midday to make sure Martin paid up. In return, Martin revealed that he did indeed have the money and also that he planned on doing a show that night. Rico said he’d pass the word along

Now Martin is wondering what to do before his show. He’s lucky to have a friend who will let him pop up on stage every once in a while for a quick buck. His friend, Herb, seems to have the club and bar concept nailed, because despite being nestled in the shitty ghetto near Ian’s house, Herb draws in all kinds of business.

While trying to figure out what he should be doing with his time, Martin calls up Randy, yet another crazy S.O.B. in the string of crazies that Martin has to deal with on a regular basis. The only difference is that Randy is a sort of miracle worker with handyman-type jobs and car repair. Back to the crazy, though: Randy has the strange idea that building up a reputation of stealth will get him noticed by someone important enough to give him a life-changing job. So how does he integrate stealth into this handyman lifestyle? By doing all fund transfers electronically, Randy repairs things without alerting their owners to his presence. His clients never even meet him. This means his jobs require a significant amount of intelligence gathering – not to mention breaking and entering – but the bastard does it. Martin figures that if he calls Randy before his show, the window will probably be replaced before he gets back.

Sigh. Martin knows he should be calling Hilda, but he doesn’t know what to say. She may believe in karma, but surely she’ll question why he feels so compelled to give her money to pay what’s owed for her car. Martin isn’t known for his generosity as much as his bitchiness. Ah, what the hell? He calls her.

“Martin! Hi.” The constant cheeriness is grating to Martin. No one should be this happy after their car gets repossessed.

“Hey there. Um…you doing anything tonight?”

“Well, I was going to dye my hair, but that doesn’t usually take me very long.”

Martin heaves a long sigh. “How do you still have hair? It boggles the mind. Boggles it.”

“Look, I told you: PeteLab has all kinds of fixes for color treatments that I’m trying out. It’s a good supplementary income.”

And you still can’t meet your car payments? Thankfully, Martin has the presence of mind to internalize. “Yeah yeah. I still think a different color every day is ridiculous.”

“I’m just trying to be thorough AND quick.”

“The ladies must love you.”

“Martin!” Yeah, Martin needed to turn off the jokes.

“Sorry, I know you’re not a lesbian. We’ve had this conversation. Blah blah blah. Sorry. Oh, and I didn’t mean to miss your call today. I guess I didn’t notice my phone ringing.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I ended up just getting a ride from Bax.” Ah, Baxter, a priest after Martin’s heart. Bax once gave a series of sermons on the laziness of God. He wasn’t allowed back to that church.

“Baxter’s around? If he is, you should both come to my show tonight at The Glorious Hole. It’d be a cute little Jenkins family trip.”

“No no, he was just in town for a little while running some errands, I guess.”

“Shoot, well you should still come tonight. I actually have a present for you.” Two thousand dollars is a good gift, right? Do women like checks?

“A gift? You’re not doing another set on me, are you?” Oops. Martin forgot that he had done a whole set of jokes making fun of Hilda one night while both drunk and angry with her. He has ceased drinking and delivering.

“Oh lord, no. That was like…two years ago. I promise you I won’t be drunk. Hell, I have to drive over there. No DUIs for me.”

“Fine. Can you pick me up?” Oh, right.

“Yeah yeah, absolutely. I’ll come around your place at eight or so.”

“Alright, that sounds good. Talk to you then.”

“Uh huh. Bye.”

Phew. Now Martin had the opportunity to entertain her for a while, maybe loosen her up a bit before giving her a bunch of money. What an odd train of thought.

Martin, though not punctual for his sister, has the capacity to be on time when it suits him. He shows up at Hilda’s place promptly at eight o’clock. Once again, she is confusing him. She comes out wearing a cute dress and her hair is a normal color, maybe slightly red. The only thing Martin can hope for to break the spell is that she’ll say something stupid as soon as she gets in the car. Please oh please.

“Well hello!” Idiot. No, never mind. Not stupid.

“Sup.”

“What do you think of this color?”

Totally suits you, AND it goes well with your dress. Mmph. “Better than your usual tendencies toward neon and blinding, at the very least distracting.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad. I figured I could tone it down for your show, though. Don’t want you catching a glimpse of my hair color and going off about the strangeness of hair dyes and blue monkeys or whatever it is you talked about last time.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Not sorry, but Martin’s doing his best to not directly cause any hostility. That’s against his principles.

“So what’s my gift?” Pfft.

“I’ll tell you after the show. Just relax.”

“How am I supposed to relax? You don’t normally give people random gifts. This must be interesting. Are you going to set a Bible on fire and tell me it’s actually a gift?”

“Jesus. I didn’t realize I was such a horrible, horrible bastard. Forget it.”

“No no, I’ll stop asking.” She’s grinning, though. Hilda is grinning malevolently at Martin. He can feel it.

“So I’m actually gonna go check to see if someone else wants to go before we head to the club. He only lives a few of blocks away from The Hole.”

“Is he my present?” Occasionally Martin gets the feeling that she is intentionally driving him to be dour, but that wouldn’t be particularly good for his career as a comedian.

“No,” Martin says sternly. “You might find him interesting, though. I know I sure did.”

It doesn’t take long for them to get to Ian’s house. Martin gets Hilda to wait in the car.

Martin knocks apprehensively. Last time he was at the house there wasn’t much argument with just opening the door, but he’s not sure if that was a one-time permission or what. As he goes to open the door on his own, Ian yanks open the door. Martin looks away in case Ian isn’t wearing pants again, but he’s actually fully clothed.

“Martin! Come in! We were just sitting down for tea!” Martin didn’t expect anything less than insanity. Ian is wearing a full tuxedo and a top hat. Wonderful.

Curiosity piqued, Martin peeks inside Ian’s house. New furniture is set up already, but there’s no one else inside. The guy from the bank made a good call when he wrote “crazy/drugs”; still no idea whether this is drugs or just an excellent form of psychosis. “You remember me from yesterday?”

“Of course, Martin! Of course. It’s not every day fellows come along to abscond with my belongings, but alas, I was behind on my payments. I suppose I’ll just have to be more careful in the future, yes?” Ian whips around and grabs a teapot. “Oh shoot, let me just grab another cup from the kitchen. I’ll only be a moment.”

Ian starts off down the hall with a fast, deliberate gait, but Martin calls after him. “Ian! Wait, man. Stop. I can’t stay.”

“And why not?” says Ian, turning around.

“I’m actually doing a show tonight. I just came here to invite you, assuming you’re available, of course.”

“Hmm.” Ian has to think for a moment. “I’ll have to tell my guests that I’m leaving, but I suppose I could go out for a bit. What sort of show is this? Vaudeville? Burlesque? A one-man retelling of your memoirs, perhaps?”

“Uhh…stand-up comedy.” The two are silent for a bit.

“I see. Yes, I think I shall attend, Martin.”

“Great! I can give you a ride over, actually. I’ll just wait outside so you can tell your guests that you need to leave.”

“Indeed.”

Martin nods and heads out to his car. Hilda seems confused. “Why aren’t we leaving?”

“Oh, he’s coming. He just needed to take care of something quickly, I guess.”

“Why was he wearing a tuxedo?”

Martin smiles. “He had guests for tea.”

Hilda has no response for this. Ian exits his house shortly, now wearing…a t-shirt and jeans. Seeing Hilda, Ian hops into the back seat.

Martin cranes his head around the driver’s seat. “Dude, what happened to the tux?”

“What?” Ian seems perplexed. He continues buckling his seatbelt.

“You were just in a tux and a friggin’ Abe Lincoln hat. Why did you change?”

“You must be referring to my loungewear. I would never leave my house in loungewear.” Hilda, having not been previously exposed to Ian, is utterly confused. Martin just fires off a solid thumbs up and starts the car.

Just Us Avery Women

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 05:36:00 +0000

After leaving Ray to do his own thing, Martin is feeling like having a drink himself, but he showers first. What little work he did over the course of the day has left him feeling dirty, although it’s more likely that it just compounded whatever grime he had left on him after lounging around drinking for a few days prior.

When he’s finally clean and ready to relax, he grabs one of his alcoholic beers from the fridge and retires to his room. He sits down at his computer with the intention of brainstorming ways to make money and possibly help out Hilda with her new car troubles, but he ends up chuckling to himself and recounting the day’s various oddities in joke form so he’ll have material for his next show. Those little bastards in the audience are always demanding more from him. Sigh.

Occasionally the thought of monetary problems pops up again, so he takes a few more swigs of his beer to distract himself. There’s no time to worry about debt when you’re in a humorous mood.

Then a message pops up from his sister (her horrifying screen name being classyass101):

classyass101: are you sober?
funnymartin: what? no
classyass101: come on, marty
classyass101: how can i catch you when you’re sober?
classyass101: do you have some sort of schedule?
funnymartin: I”M THE FUNNY ONE
classyass101: right.
classyass101: are you doing anything tomorrow?
funnymartin: probably getting my shit stolen by this gargantuan black fucker and his mexican life partner
classyass101: um…i'm not really sure if you’re being serious or not
classyass101: that scares me
funnymartin: nope,no jokes here, sissy
funnymartin: we might as well do something if thats what you want
classyass101: i was just thinking breakfast or lunch or something
classyass101: i'll even buy
funnymartin: OH MYG OD
classyass101: excuse me?
funnymartin: hey so…can i have like 10000 dollars (i think i got the zeros right)
classyass101: jesus, for what?
funnymartin: i have a pretty nasty coke habit
funnymartin: and midget hookers are more expensive than you might think
funnymartin: i always figured you’d pay LESS to have sex with a smaller person, but they’re more of a collector’s item or soemthing
classyass101: why don’t we talk about this over breakfast, then?
funnymartin: hookers?
classyass101: martin!
funnymartin: micheellllllle!
classyass101: christ, i'm just going to call you in the morning, so pick up
funnymartin: MICHEELLLLLLLLEEEEEEEE!!!!

Clearly, Martin is excited when he remembers that his sister is a well-to-do businesswoman who spends her days in the financial district making waves and, more importantly, a healthy sum of money. Martin’s always avoided borrowing money from her simply so he doesn’t have to talk to her very much, but he has no doubt that she’d be good for $10,000.

In the morning, he is startled and manages to move when his phone begins vibrating loudly on his nightstand. 7:30 seems unimaginably early to him, but he’s also aware that it might just be the hangover talking. Ugh. It’s hard to think about eating eggs when your stomach seems rattled by the previous night’s romp through Beertown. The thought of bacon makes him feel slightly better, but knowing his sister, she’ll probably want to hit up some vegan café for a meal that only vaguely resembles breakfast. Fuuuuuck. Martin blames Ray for all of this.

Michelle wants to meet Martin for breakfast at 8:30, so he strolls in at a gentleman’s 9:13. As expected, Michelle is waiting patiently and has not yet ordered anything. So predictable.

“I can’t help but notice that you didn’t pick one of your shitty breakfast spots,” says Martin as he takes a seat and signals for coffee.

“Well, I figured you wouldn’t be in the greatest shape this morning. I’d rather not get puked on if I can help it. Some of us actually have to work for the rest of the day.” Despite the bitchy ‘tude rising up at the end there, Michelle was seemingly too accommodating for Martin’s liking. Then he realized what was going on.

“Oh no. God no. Did you go out on a date last night?” Martin could not believe exactly how predictable she was. This is how it always went with Michelle.

“Look, I just don’t get why I didn’t even get a goodnight kiss. If a guy doesn’t kiss you goodnight, what are you supposed to think?”

“I’m supposed to think he respects my boundaries as a stalwart heterosexual, I guess.”

“No, but c’mon. I was interested in what he had to say, I tried not to go on too long about myself, but he just seemed put off by the end of the night. This always happens. How would you get a guy interested?” She always reeked of desperation when she appealed to Martin for help, but she continued to ask in the most unsettling way.

“Why must you always do this? You can't drag me out of bed and into town in the morning and expect me to answer questions from a girl’s perspective. I’m a guy; that’s all I know. If you want to ask a question, you’d ask what would make me interested in a girl. I know it’s a subtle difference, but the way you ask me shit freaks me out.”

“Are you done?”

“Yes.”

“What would a girl have to do to get your attention?”

“Not dress like a librarian and hint at a possible desire to have sex. This is what’s so appealing about prostitutes. They go above and beyond the call of duty on both of those criteria.”

“You’re disgusting, you know.”

“Yes, I’m very well aware, but it’s hard for me to care when there is impending bacon.” Martin really was excited for the bacon. “Seriously, what did you wear? Something you’d wear to work? ‘Cause that just won’t cut it.”

“I dressed…appropriately.”

“Boooo-rriiiiiiing. No guy wants appropriate. You should really consider dressing like you’d take money for sex.”

“This isn’t very helpful.”

“You say that now, but think about it: has dressing ‘appropriately’ ever gotten you laid, NOT counting anyone else who’s in the finance industry? You guys are all so repressed."

“Not to mention we never have to ask our siblings for large sums of money.”

“Oh right, I’m glad you reminded me. I need that before the end of the day.”

“What the hell did you DO? Ten thousand dollars? I hope the midgets were pretty.”

Martin chuckles. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about hookers.”

“You kind of forced my hand on that one.”

“Well…eight thousand dollars to get me and my roommate out of a jam, then two thousand to help out a friend. See, I thought Ray was going to pay off the loan alright, but apparently he never got around to it. I can make the money off a few shows.”

“Then what about the other two thousand?”

Sigh. “I’d actually rather not talk about it. I feel like enough of a dick as it is.”

“Hey, if it’s to help out someone you’ve wronged, I’d say it’s part of my civic duty as your sister to heal their wounds with my money."

“That’s a pretty retarded sense of self-righteousness, not to mention a gross underestimation of my ability to be a decent human being.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Fine. I can put the money in your account tomorrow.” Martin nearly spits out his coffee.

“Ah, well I was hoping we could go to the bank after this.”

“What? I need to get to work, Martin.”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t joking about the black Hulk and the Mexican, so have a little mercy.”

“I see. It’s all coming together now.”

“Yeah, the-“

“You’re gay, aren’t you?”

“WHAT?”

“Black Hulk? These guys are your midgets, huh?”

“Fuck off, Michelle. See if I ever help you with your guy problems again.”

“You haven’t even helped me now!”

“But you’re still paying for breakfast, right?”

“I’m taking it out of the ten thousand.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

Non-Alcoholics Anonymous, Non-Alcoholics Anonymous, Non-Alco…

noreply@blogger.com (Mason C. Emery) — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 04:26:00 +0000

After laying Ian down onto the floor, the crew is able to finish their work in peace. Martin is almost impressed when “crazy/drugs” doesn’t even wake up before he leaves. He can only imagine what kind of drugs are swimming around in Ian’s head. They’re probably pretty good drugs.

“You want us to drop you off at home, man?” Rico asks, lacking his mid-day verve. The labor of the day has caught up with most of the group. Martin’s probably the only one who isn’t exhausted. He’s sure this is because he barely did any work, but he can only hope the other guys didn’t notice or don’t care.

“Yeah, that’d be good. I have a few things I need to take care of.” Martin has been trying to keep in mind that today was a waste unless he can actually get the money Raymond needs by tomorrow.

“Like getting me some cash!” Kiefo laughs as he climbs into the front seat.

Martin sighs. “I’m not getting the money for you, dumbass. I’m pretty sure I only owe the bank.”

“You watch it, little man. Once you get me that money, I’ve officially saved your ass.” Kiefo slams his door.

Whatever. Martin hops in the back and plops down onto Ian’s couch. That’s when he remembers to get his phone so he doesn’t forget it. He’s been leaving it in the back of the truck while everyone’s inside working. No one really calls him anyhow, so what’s the harm?

1 New Voicemail. Hmm.

“Hey, you’ve reached Martin. Pretend I said something funny.” Martin enters his password here. “You have one unheard message. ‘Hey Martin, this is Hilda. I was just calling to see if you were around your place and might want to give me a ride home from work. Um…’” Fuck. The surge of guilt is almost unbearable. “’It’s okay if you don’t get this, though. I can just ride the bus. Not sure what happened to my car. Karma maybe? I’m sure this is all just part of the bigger plan for us all. Well…okay, call me back if it’s not too late when you get this. Bye.’” Martin snaps his phone shut.

It’s actually right around six at this point; Ian’s place took a bit longer than expected for various reasons. Martin figures there’s no point in calling back now. Really, though, he just doesn’t want to talk to her about the car. What a coward. He doesn’t know whether to focus on his guilt or self-hatred at this point. Now he’s just hoping his roommate is back when he gets home so he has someone to vent at.

The repo guys drop Martin off with little fanfare, just a reminder that they’ll be back tomorrow afternoon for payment – or the rest of his shit.

When Martin tries to open the front door, it won’t budge. What the hell? Then he realizes that Ray must have locked it for one of his “binges”. Thankfully, the repo crew made a secondary entrance for Martin that morning. He can hear Tommy and Kiefo laughing at him; Tommy and Kiefo see him flip the bird as they drive off.

What a fucking mess, and all for the sake of showmanship. His roommate, Raymond Joseph, the obsessive-compulsive “alcoholic”, lies face-down in the middle of their living room. If they had all of their furniture, he’d be passed out on the couch like he usually is. At least this time he didn’t make himself vomit for realism.

“Come on, Ray. Get up. We need to talk about that loan you took out. I actually had to work today so the bank didn’t take everything.” Martin stands over Raymond’s still body. The empty corpses of non-alcoholic beers litter the floor. At least Ray is unquestionably insane. One can’t say the same for Ian. Hmm.

Ray lifts his head slowly, doing his best imitation of how a drunk person would act grateful. “Ugh, thanks,” he mumbles as he rolls over, an empty still clutched in his hand. “Ugggghhh. I’m so sorry, Marty. I’m so sorry. I did it again.” Somehow Ray manages to not open his eyes through all of this. Martin just shakes his head at the stupidity.

“God…damn…it.” Martin grabs Ray by the shirt and lifts him up to a sitting position. “You are not drunk! You can’t be an alcoholic without alcohol!” Usually Martin does not get this angry, but people who seem unwilling to properly use their brains piss him off. This is doubly so when he has to live with the person and co-sign on their loans.

Martin lets go of Ray and sits down next to him. He looks around, noting the five empty bottles. It’s always five bottles. Ray buys six-packs of non-alcoholic beer, but he only drinks five each time. Then, once he’s purchased six six-packs, he consolidates the loners into a new six-pack…and only drinks five. Martin’s always tempted to dump out the sixth one and see what Ray does, but he’s really not that cruel. Hell, he helped Ray get that loan. Now he’s going to suffer for it unless he can figure out a way to make a decent haul in one day that pays cash.

Shit.