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

Apathy Pants

I was in another argument at the hardware store, chiding the predictably incompetent help over their latest mistake. "No, goddamnit," I yelled, pounding my fist on the desk. "These are the wrong kind of nails. Idiots!" I stomped around with my hands raised in an indignant "V", huffing and puffing and, according to the cretinous sixteen-year-old at the counter, "making a scene."

"Sir, please," she said. "If you could just settle down, I'm sure we could help you." I stopped my march just long enough to roll my eyes and spit on the ground. "Please, sir," she said again. "Sir!"

"Fine," I finally agreed, deciding that one of us had to handle this in a mature manner. She presented me with every type of nail but the one I needed. Box nails, bright nails, casing nails, coated nails, drywall nails, helix nails, shank nails and sinker nails, and after each I groaned a little louder than before. After the sinker nails, she hung her head and picked up a railroad spike. "I'm not an idiot," I said, and she looked like she was about to cry. "They're the nails with the things around them," I finally said, drawing a circle in the air with my finger.

"You mean screws?"

"No! No! No!" I screamed.

I'd find out later that I was, in fact, looking for screws. When I went back a few weeks later to apologize to the girl and get some screws, the manager said that they hadn't seen her since she ran crying from the store that day. I must've forgotten that part though because, as I bellowed at that dumb teen for the last time, a woman would walk into the store and change my life forever. She wasn't a beautiful woman, or even a presentable woman. I forget her name, but imagine it’s something fat, like her. But that's neither here nor there. All I really know is that she must have had a great sense of humor and an eye for high fashion--because, covering her gelatinous midsection was the funniest tee-shirt I, or anyone else, will ever see. Bending at the corners, the words drooped: "Do I look like I care?"

O, was this the rhetorical question to end all rhetorical questions?

Yes, yes, it was.

It was sarcastic, and funny, and biting. The shirt, in itself, a juggernaut of haute couture, guaranteed to induce feelings of inadequacy from all those who were less apathetic--and induce knowing, reverent nods from those who were. Or maybe not--maybe all those who truly "didn't care" wouldn't care enough to acknowledge the apathy expressed on the garments of others. I thought about that for a while until my head started to hurt, and then I noticed that my corpulent muse was walking out the front door. I tore out of the store to catch up to her, which was easier than I thought it would be because, you know, she was pretty fat. I was breathing heavy when I reached her, and so was she. "Where...did...you..get..that shirt?" I asked.

"Down...at...the...dollar store," she answered, pointing to the Dollar Mart next door. Waving my thanks, I ran into the dollar store.

They only had 18 left, in various sizes, so I bought them. I drove to the Dollar Mart in Flower Mound and bought 27 more. The dollar store in North Dallas had 17, and the one in Farmers Branch had 29. All told, I went home that day with 91 of the greatest shirt ever. To the humor-pedestrian, that might have been enough, but I recognize quality humor when I see it. I ordered 200 more from the manufacturer, and submitted the shirt for a Thurber Prize. I still haven't heard back from them, but that might just be because they're laughing so hard. Or maybe they're wondering if owners of the shirt care about other owners of the shirt enough to nod at them in public. I never did find a clear answer to that one.

At any rate, I sleep on a bed of apathy shirts now and so does my TV, computer and dog. My closet has a stepladder made of apathy shirts leading to two rows of apathy shirts. I cut up a few of the apathy shirts as carefully and respectfully as I could, and made a pair of apathy pants, and an apathy parka. I had the phrase screenprinted on all my more caring clothes, including the business suit Grandpa gave me for graduation. Mom got pretty mad at me. "You ruined your clothes!" she said.

Normally, I would've had to say something back. Instead, I just scoffed and pointed to my chest.

Genghis & Me

I met Genghis in the fall of 2007, as a cocky college junior who thought he knew everything about the world.

Unbeknownst to me, I hadn’t yet learned the true meaning of the word 'friendship.'

Back then, I thought 'friendship' was the one with wings and like a tuxedo--like a bird, but unable to fly. A penguin, yeah. We'd be at the zoo and I'd say, "Look at the friendships." Then my buddies and I would laugh and laugh at their sliding, or maybe because I confused the words 'penguin' and 'friendship' again.

At any rate, I didn't know the true meaning of the word friendship until the day I saw Genghis passed out on the little patch of lawn outside our apartment, his lined, taupe face resting among hundreds of cigarette butts. It was never my way to help vagrants, but I knew there was something different about this one. And also I really liked his fur coat. I helped him into my apartment and Clay was mad, either because of Genghis, or that I accidentally vomited on his X-Box the night before.

Genghis woke up and growled something and I asked what he was majoring in. He growled again, so I just said, "Oh, yeah, cool." After some more growling, I figured he wanted some food, so I ordered a pizza and challenged Genghis to a game of Mario Kart. I would have challenged him to Madden, but, for some reason, our X-Box was covered in vomit. Genghis stared at the controller and, at first baffled, he came to the conclusion that it was a weapon. So he swung it around his head by the cord, and I took cover under the coffee table, all the while giggling about my new pal. “Oh, Genghis,” I squealed. "You smell awful."

And he did.

There was a knock at the door and Genghis leaped behind the sofa and grabbed Clay's guitar. When I realized I had no money, I asked Genghis if he could cover it. He swung the guitar at me and growled and stomped off to the door.

When Genghis hadn't come back for some time, I began to get worried, and really hungry. Right as I picked up the phone to report him missing, though, he came out of Clay's room carrying the pizza. "Stay the hell out of there, Genghis," I said. "That's not your room."

We sat down to eat, but I guess Genghis wasn't very hungry. He did seem to love the show "Coach," which was nice because I love that show, too. Oh, me and Genghis sat there all day laughing and grunting at one another. He'd get up every once in a while and go into Clay's room, and I'd scold him again, and so forth throughout the day. We must have nodded off at some point, because I woke up to a dark apartment and Clay hovering over me, angry still.

"What the fuck, dude?" he growled, like Genghis, but more intelligible.

"Is this about the X-Box?" I groaned.

"No, actually not," Clay said. "It's about the dismembered pizza guy in my bed."

Clay led me into his room and turned on the light. Sure enough, the delivery boy had been bludgeoned to death, and partially eaten. "This actually explains a lot," I said, and I reached into the corpse's front pocket.

"I'm fucking out of here," Clay said. "You can find yourself a new roommate."

"Genghis," I said sternly, after Clay had left. "Did you kill and eat the delivery guy?"

Genghis put his head down and refused to look me in the face, which betrayed his guilt immediately. "Genghis," I said again, and he jumped off the couch and hid under the coffee table. "You see what you've done--now I'm going to have to find a new roommate." Genghis pointed at himself hopefully, and I said, "I'm afraid not, Genghis. I draw the line somewhere between murder and cannibalism."

As I watched him walk through the parking lot, his club dragging behind him in a forlorn march, an airplane flew low overhead. He looked up in terror and rage at the plane as if to say, "What the fuck was that thing?" I hoped he'd be alright, and held my head to hide the tears.

We'd learn later that the pizza delivery guy, named Alonso Moore, was an aspiring writer, which explained the pocket dictionary I found in his front pocket. Alone in my apartment, I thumbed through its worn pages and found the "F" section:

Friendship
Pronunciation: \ˈfren(d)-ˌship\
Function: noun
Date: before 12th century
1 : the state of being friends
2 : the quality or state of being friendly

That's nothing like the tuxedo bird, I thought. How silly.

Reginald Pennyfarthing's Guide To Facebook, Volume One

In my day, if one felt inclined to increase his social standing, he had to marry into a good family or kill the pretermitted heir to a large estate, and endear himself to the benefactor in question. Each of these remain as viable options for the average American, but few seem to possess the intestinal fortitude these days required for murder or sham marriages. Tis a shame indeed, but, lucky for them, one can now win the adoration and envy of the masses via Facebook, a social tool invented in 1909 by Errol Duncan to give his wife another outlet for her petty rambling.

1) Be careful what you like. This silly "like" button has turned a great deal of dandies into common louts in the eyes of the public. Take my old friend Lord Darkstone--you may remember him from his formulaic dust-ups with that churl Sherlock Holmes. Well my dear chum Darkstone got "like-"happy one day and, before you know it, he was giving the thumbs-up to swill beer, Angelina Jolie and the Ford F-150--all terribly low entities to be certain. Once, he was as urbane and dapper as Henry Charlwood; now, he's as slovenly and pitiful as "Stinky" Dick Barlow. He is required to pay prostitutes an extra six pence per visit--a sort of ugly tax, we suspect--he enjoys the films of Michael Bay and I thought it best to not invite him to my last birthday party.

Heed the lesson, lest Darkstone's descent be completely in vain.

2) Unless you're a lowly attention-strumpet, abstain from open-ended status updates. These updates-- which might read, "Nothing ever goes right for me," or "This is the worst day EVER"--are nothing more than invitations to a naif's pity party--and dandies are not pitied. Indeed, if anything, dandies would do the pitying--of course, they don't.

Sympathizing with others is one of the many curses of the working classes.

3) With regard to your profile picture, thou shalt not pull your shirt up and take a photo in the mirror with your phone. Should you find yourself without any friends to take your photograph, simply commission an artist to paint your likeness atop a gallant horse. Mine was painted by JMW Turner, after which he spent every last pound I paid him on a three-day bender through the streets of Cambridge with yours truly. As you may be unable to commission Turner--either because you are socially undecorated, or because he's been dead for 159 years--you may consider a photo from the good people at Glamour Shots. I hear they do fine work.

4) Never accept a friend request from an unworldly tyro. This is a good rule in day-to-day life as well, though it is remarkably easier to avoid the lower classes on Facebook. Should a friend of mine befriend someone who, say, wears clothes from Target, that reflects rather poorly on yours truly. A great many of my so-called friends have fallen victim to this rule, and a polite de-friending is as hopeful a conclusion possible for one who mucks up my computer screen with a gaggle of unrefined friends. In 1839, I shot my chum Stanley Jackson in a duel. What precipitated this showdown? Well, thanks to old Stanley, it was suggested that I become friends with a fellow by the name of "T-Bone." So miffed was I at this suggestion, I shot my friend in the face. Do I feel bad? Sometimes, when I'm leaving his wife's bedchamber, and have to walk by his chubby, despondent children. But you had better believe I'd do it again--because this rule is as necessary as a moustache comb or pipe tobacco.

Which is to say, it's absolutely bloody necessary.

5) Only the most buffoonish, mealy-mouthed louts intentionally misspell words. One of my many illegitimate children once wrote on my wall "Can't wait 2 c u Dad!" Lovely sentiment after my eight-year absence from his life, granted--but wholly unacceptable from the seed of Reginald Pennyfarthing. So, in turn, I beat the contractions out of him with a bag of dictionaries. The English language is not a prostitute, to be disrespected, spit on and punched in the face (Or, in the case of my old friend Jack, cut apart with surgical implements). It is a lady of the highest order, who seems at times untouchable, but will put out if you treat her right.

Big Me: Chapter 2

You’re walking along a cool, windy beach with a cold beer in hand, when you see a dot in the distance with pink things and yellow and it is bouncing, kind of. The thing gets closer and you wish you could see what it was, but when Carol told you to go to the eye doctor, you said “Okay,” and then spent the rest of the day playing Super Mario Bros. on Super Nintendo.

Lucky for you, you found a pair of glasses on the floor of the strip club later that night, and you wear them whenever Carol’s around just to get her to shut up. You mean to call the eye doctor for real, but it’s sweeps week and you never can pry yourself from those teen vampires or sexy oncologists for long enough to do it, so the glasses are here to stay. Now your head hurts so you decide to walk down the beach to clear your throbbing head, and the pink and yellow bouncing question is presented and you throw on your new glasses just to see if it helps. It doesn’t.

But the yellow and pink bouncy blob gets closer and closer, and then you see it’s a woman with yellow hair and a pink bikini, from whence the bouncing issues so delightfully. You take your glasses off because you don’t want to look square, and your head hurts too. You aren’t sure, but you’re pretty sure she wants to have sex with you, and that’s when you wake up tied by your ankle to a bike rack outside the police station. “Nuts to this,” you say, and then you start running away, dragging a bike rack behind you. This is a rite of passage for adolescents in some part of the world, only it isn’t a bike rack they're tied to, but a bull, and they’re not tied to it, but locked in a cage with it, a knife and, for some reason, a condom made of raw cotton fibers.

You know Carol will be confused when she brings you your dinner--a wheelbarrow of Jack in the Box tacos and a few boxes of wine--but you refuse to be held on trumped up charges of indecency. This is bullshit. This is profiling. You're a giant now, kid, and it's high time you start acting like it. So instead of politely ordering your tacos from the drive-thru, you tear the roof off the place and start grabbing. Jesus, you're hungry. But you are also tied to a bike rack. The rope they used is from the ship yard so, yeah, you need to go to the shipyard.

When you get there you're out of breath. One of the seamen speaks like a pirate, and you laugh, mostly because you thought of the word "seamen." Then you find out he's only joking about the pirate thing and you're a little disappointed to hear his regular voice. He cuts your ropes off though, so you thank him and roar and throw the bike rack into the sea.

Then the police come.

You're cornered, they say, so you jump into the sea and get your leg tangled in the bars of the bike rack. "Fucking shit," you gurgle. But you're making your escape, where it'll be much better, down where it's wetter, under the sea. "Sucks to you coppers," you chuckle. Then you're running out of air and this might be tougher than you thought.