Nauseous

The scene in the warehouse was grislier than anything Johnson had ever seen.

The bodies were hung from meat racks and crammed haphazardly into file cabinets; strung up by fishing line, for what the killer would later describe as a his marionette show; wearing clothes made of other bodies and seated at a card table.

The closet was filled with women’s lingerie, blond wigs and Groucho Marx disguises.

Laid out on an old pool table were his implements of torture: hammers; butcher knives; a broken whiskey bottle; a nail gun; a board with a nail in it; some itching powder; a stick with dog poop on the tip; and feathers, for tickling.

Now, back at the station, Johnson was staring into the eyes of pure evil. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

“You’re a real sick bastard,” he said. “Your handiwork left me a little nauseous.”

“I agree,” smirked the sick bastard. “But it’s nauseated.”

“What’d you say punk?”

“Nauseous things make us sick detective, they make us ‘nauseated’ if you will,” said the killer, bending two fingers in the air to make quotation marks. “You just said you were nauseous—which would mean you cause illness in others.”

Johnson looked at the sick bastard with contempt and walked out of the room.

Stepping into the hallway, he passed Detective Brumsworth. “How’s it going in there?” he said.

“You know,” Johnson said, “I’m starting to think that guy’s kind of a dick.”

Overnight Celebrity

Now that I'm a celebrity, I don't have to explain myself to anyone, which is pretty great. Being drunk at a Little League game--not any particular one, maybe, but one you see from your car and say, yeah, I could gamble on that--it doesn't make you crazy, but eccentric. When I attack someone holding a camera at the zoo, pretending to shoot the funny gorillas but I know they're really a paparazzo disguised as a grandfather, people say, "Well, it must be stressful, being constantly scrutinized." What's really cool though is that even the most despicable transgression will be forgotten magically if you spend a week in rehab, which I think is some sort of secret bar for famous people.

It wasn't always this way, but then I hooked up with Jennifer Aniston and everything changed.

She looks different in person, Jennifer. Her hair is blacker, and she is much more Asian than I remember from her photos. I also thought it was weird that she kept insisting that I call her Amy but, then, I just assumed she was researching a movie role. Very aggressive, too, this Jennifer Aniston, all hands and, man when she gets on you with that 230 lb frame, there's not much you can do about it--not that you would because, damn, that's Jennifer Aniston! "It's Amy," she bellows, and you just say, "Sure it is," and wink knowingly at her face-tattoo.

When I woke up, the change was almost instant. The guy at McDonald's insisted on calling me sir, and, for no apparent reason, I treated him with utter contempt. The only acceptable excuse for my language and facial expressions and spitting was that I was famous--that's when I knew I'd finally made it.

We always knew I'd be famous when I was a kid, so I wasn't really surprised. I remember on Sunday mornings I'd be doing my impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger, and the pastor would stop what he was doing and just watch me in disbelief, before asking me to take my seat in the pew. "Okay," I'd say, "But I'll be back." Then he'd just shake his head for a while, like, "whoa, that kid is talented."

Still, it was nice for all my hard work to finally pay off. All those weekday mornings when my girlfriend would say, "Seriously, get a job or it’s over," and I'd just sit there watching television and thinking, during the commercials, about how I could be the next Matt LeBlanc; All those hours I put into perfecting my "Mowing the lawn" routine, where I'd pick up the dog's hind legs and walk him around like a lawnmower;" All those times I went out of my way to scoff at the “normal” people, with “jobs” and “families.” I was a star in the making all along, so I guess I can't really be called an "overnight celebrity."

My future is bright now, and not in the way that a college graduate’s future is bright—my future is like really bright, filled with bright people with bright teeth doing shiny drugs off of shiny strippers.

Maybe I'll go fishing with Brody Jenner, or make a quilt with Bret Michaels. Maybe I'll go windsurfing with Jack Nicholson, or shoe-shopping with that guy whose penis was cut off by his wife, both of whom will now smile when they hear my name. Maybe I’ll grab a bottle of schnapps and teach Regis Philbin the finer points of gambling on T-Ball.

When I’m honest with myself though, I know there's nothing like a torrid love affair to jumpstart one's rise to fame, so I'll probably just go back to Applebee's.

Jennifer hangs out there most nights, you know.

Welcome To Briargrove Estates

Hello neighbor, and welcome to Briargrove Estates!

In order to smooth your transition into our community, we’ve laid out some of the finer points of life here in “The Grove”. (I’m kidding, no one calls it that.)

First, the basics: Holidays are a special time here at Briargrove, and we like to celebrate as a community!

On Easter, I (Morty Shelden) organize a neighborhood Easter egg hunt. I know what you’re thinking: what does a Jew know about Easter? Well, Mr. Anti-Semite (kidding!), I’ll have you know that I played the Easter Bunny at the Glen Mills Mall from 1992-1994, and again in 1998. Well, when the ladies in the neighborhood association heard that, you can imagine their excitement. I try my best to reward them each April, as my enthusiasm belies my disbelief in your savior.

On Halloween, we instruct each family to remain within the confines of Briargrove Estates, and we seal all entrances and exits, so as to keep outsiders where they belong—out. But in our cloister, the treating is simply the best! (You may know it as trick-or-treating, but we removed the “trick-or” part in 1999, after the residents’ organization banned tricks, on Halloween and all other days.) Mr. Purt—who should be coming over shortly to introduce himself—usually erects a haunted house each year, and the kids all think it’s the spookiest! The Creepy Cabin (what he calls the haunted house) has been gone for a few years—some sort of police investigation—but I’m glad to tell you that, as of October 2010, it’s back, as is Grabby the Ghoul (really Mr. Purt in a ghoul mask)!

Finally, on Christmas, we like to synchronize our displays, so as to be tasteful, yet festive. Mr. Robertson is in charge of the lighting initiative, and, despite an unfortunate fall, back in ‘07, he continues to roll through his duties (literally!) every winter. And there’s no need to drive to the mall to see Santa Claus anymore—Briargrove Estates has its very own! His name is actually Martin Petersen, but he has a big white beard, is morbidly obese, and wears red and white all year round! Old Mr. Petersen is very committed, nothing like those silly “mall-santas.” Why, on Christmas Eve, look out your windows and you might just see “Santa” lurking around your house with a burlap sack in hand! But, true to character, he’ll only come if he thinks you’re asleep—so you’ll have to turn off the lights and be quiet if you want a glimpse at old St. Nick.

Now that you’re familiar with us, I must inform you of a few of our community’s more colorful caveats.

First, trash pick-up is on Tuesday, rather than Monday—when the rest of the city’s garbage is removed.

Second, you’ve probably noticed the community pool. While all residents are encouraged to enjoy the pool at their leisure, we must insist that you observe the posted pool hours of 10 AM to 10 PM.

Lastly, it should be noted that Briargrove Estates was built upon a graveyard for the patients of Briargrove Asylum. As the asylum was in operation from 1859 to 1911, the methods of treatment used there were often crude and (by today’s standards, anyway) inhumane. Restraint, cold plunge baths, intimidation and blood-letting were all standard practice at Briargrove—and, as a result, these spirits are understandably perturbed. You may notice that, unlike the walls at your previous home, the walls in your new home will occasionally bleed. This is no great cause for concern, but you may want to invest in a Swiffer. If a book flies across the room, just duck and say something soothing like, “its okay, I’m not here to hurt you,” something like that.

Oh, and you may be scratched.

At any rate, I’m sure that these will be negligible hiccups in your otherwise sunny new life with us. (Which reminds me, one of the ghosts seems to have an incurable case of the hiccups.) Once again, we look forward to your addition to the community, and welcome to Briargrove Estates!

Morty Shelden