Frank sat at the bar, trying to kickstart his mind as he flipped on the news, looking out over the ocean.
Boozer snored away blissfully between his occasional farts. That always seemed to wake him as he stared baffled at his ass as if it were some mysterious cavern that puzzled him greatly.
The news was all the same, no matter the channel.
Terror In The Carolinas was the headline as a quasi-human trafficking snuff ring had been busted. Right now, it was all a total shitstorm.
But, Frank knew when it came to big money and even bigger names, the truth would soon be buried and forgotten with the next mass shooting.
Simon, who looked like Einstein's disheveled love child, took a seat at the bar.
“Fuck man, they are still rattling on about that stuff. It’s fucking insane. Hard to believe all that shit was going on that dull as fuck little island Jack lived on.”
“Morning there, Harpo. Yeah, well, I guess old Jack wasn't joking when he talked about just how screwed up that place was after all.” Frank replied as he reached under the bar, pulling out a beer from the mini-fridge, putting it in front of his clearly hungover agent, who almost turned green at the sight of the can.
“Fuck, dude, I can’t drink that! I feel like my head’s going to explode. Goddamn! How many beers did I drink last night?”
“Enough to lose count there, shitstain. Hey, sweet bracelet! What kind of kinky shit are you into there, Manischewitz?” Frank said, laughing as Simon looked to notice the handcuff on his left wrist. Even Simon had to shake his head and laugh to himself.
“Fuck it, dude, hand me an aspirin.”
“That's my boy; glad to see my bad habits are finally rubbing off.” Frank said, handing an aspirin to his agent, who quickly washed it down with a still-cold Heineken.
Simon and Frank had both been through the wringer together, all the crazy shit, and after their old friend's death and becoming the proverbial black sheep of the lit scene. They had to stick together because no publisher with any common sense would be caught dead in association with them anymore.
And as they sat there in quasi silence, Frank couldn't help but think about Jack; the guy ran harder than himself. He lived a life that was ten times harder than anyone could fathom, yet only after his death had he found any sort of praise. His new book was a best-seller, and the prick wasn't even around to enjoy it. Well, in Jack’s case, most likely bitch about it.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
Ken said, snapping Frank back into reality and almost making Simon jump over the damn bar.
“Jesus Christ there, Freddy Mercury! Learn to give a little warning before you slip up on us.”
“I suppose I could wear a bell around my neck. Hey, nice handcuffs there, Simon. I thought I heard the crack of a whip last night.”
“Yeah, apparently, this place became a house of ill repute. I mean, I just hope my church group doesn't find out. Whatever would they think of me?”
Ken burst out laughing as Frank reached for the bullhorn he kept for just such occasions.
“Attention liars, thieves, naughty nymphos, and Indian chiefs. Please join us in the kitchen for the complimentary pancake mass orgy. And remember, you have to provide your own maple syrup.”
The noise was deafening as Frank, like some overgrown perverted child, hit the siren effect on the megaphone, much to the chagrin of his clearly not amused and extremely hungover agent.
Doors opened all through the house, and the rest of last night's soiree slowly came to life as the rented friends with fantastic benefits joined the cast of lunatic writers, editors, and all-around well-spoken bohemian degenerates.
First was the little Asian dominatrix who, just as quickly as she had said hello and reclaimed her handcuffs, was out the door.
“Damn, don't you just hate to see them come and go so quickly?”
“Ahh, I didn't think you believed in happy endings, Franklin.” Ken quipped, shooting Frank a devilish grin.
“I don't, but I'll tell you guys something. I’m going to have to take out a small loan to cover last night's little gathering of the not-so-vicious circle.”
“Fuck you, asshole! You know it's coming out of the business; besides, Jack's book took off like crazy. This was supposed to be about remembering him, after all!” Simon snapped, as he was a notorious prick after only a few beers and, being he tried to boost Milwaukee’s economy the old-fashioned way last night, it didn't take much fire water to kick start the engine, so to speak.
It was then Boozer finally awoke, as he saw Simon and began to whimper.
“Oh fuck, Frank, keep that motherfucking mutt away from me, goddammit!”
“Hey buddy, look who’s here; it’s your old buddy.” Frank said as the fat old bulldog mix stood up instantly as, for some odd reason, Boozer was turned on by Frank's verbal punching bag slash agent.
“Aww, look how happy he is to see you; he is so cute.” Ken said as Simon sat upon the bar as the old dog sprung into action, trying to hump Simon's leg.
As no sooner had this odd display begun, two beautiful escorts dressed as nuns entered the room. Everyone laughed as Simon tried to break free of the determined mutt's grasp.
“You fucking asshole! Call this horny bastard off, you cocksucker.”
“Why, he’s almost done. I mean, I did get you a high-end dominatrix last night. I mean, the least you could do is get the dog off, but I mean, there's no pressure or anything.” Frank said as the room broke up in hysterics as the mutt grunted, almost falling over, finishing up on Simon's leg.
As a jacked-up dude, who looked like Brad Pitt’s stand-in, walked straight on past as if nothing was out of the ordinary, wearing only a bath towel and opening up the fridge, oblivious to this cartoonish scene.
“I’ll give, little boy; who are you supposed to be?”
The guy took a carton of orange juice, kicking it back like he owned the joint, pausing to look at Frank.
“I don't know, daddy; who do you want me to be?”
There was an awkward pause that was quickly interrupted as the front door opened.
Ricky Martinez, a horror and science fiction author, who oddly resembled Lex Luther or some weird supervillain, stood there with his girlfriend in tow, who clearly was not expecting to take a flight halfway across the country to visit this overrated Carolina cat house.
As Simon just sunk his head into his hands, saying, “fuck my life; just fuck it right up my crusty ass with not even a dash of lube.”
As Frank stood up, sloshing his drink, approaching his buddy’s clearly not amused girlfriend.
“Hey, you must be Amanda; I’m Frank. I swear it's great to meet you. Hey, you all just missed my agent getting the dog off, but hey, can I mix you a drink?’
Amanda didn't bother saying a word as she just turned to Ricky, shooting him a look.
“Ricky, I believe we should leave.”
“Hey, you two, don't run off; at least meet our friends. These two lovely ladies are from Our Mother Of The Unending Orgasm, and this barely clad individual in the bath towel is Armondo, my gardener, who is just taking a little break from trimming the bushes.”
“I don't mess with bushes, but I can really plant some seeds; or swallow them if the price is right. How are you?” The Brad Pitt look-alike said, interrupting, walking over as his towel dropped, exposing some odd deformity Frank believed most people referred to as a dick.
“Hey asshole, show some respect to my woman!” Ricky snapped, royally pissed off as he turned his gaze to Ken.
“Hey man, I expect this kind of shit from these nut cases, but from you, I am shocked. Fuck you guys; this is total bullshit!” Ricky was beyond pissed as his usually laid-back persona was gone, as he lit into his insane and seldom sober as of late friends.
He was in between slurs when a little tight-bodied, just-out-of-college woman entered the room.
“Hey, Toni.”
Ken said as everyone else was dead silent, gawking at this girl in her bikini.
“Frank, mind if I use your hot tub?”
Frank hadn't even replied when another voice called out.
“Hey bitch, wait for me!”
The built-like-a-brick-shithouse strawberry blonde said as she wrapped her arms around Toni. As they embraced, most of the guys just stared as they just as quickly were heading out the door to the hot tub.
Frank, his trusty mutt, and his loyal agent quickly followed suit.
Frank could only imagine what his neighbors must think of this carnival freak show living next door to them.
Back in the house stood Ricky and his very pissed-off, jet-lagged girlfriend, alone with an assorted cast of characters.
“Ricky, we are catching the first plane out of this debauchery right this instant!”
Ricky was transfixed on the scene out in the hot tub, to the point he had lost his train of thought. The key element to any good relationship: never tell the damn truth or disagree.
That and it is probably best to always wear sunglasses so they can never guess what else you're looking at upon life's ever-changing menu.
“You know, honey, maybe we should give it a chance. I mean, we just got here and all. I mean, maybe you could go lay down while I—”
Ricky was interrupted with a swift knee from Amanda. As he doubled over on the floor, everyone in the room winced as she headed out the door. Ricky tried his best not to throw up.
Apparently, much like whiskey bottles, there needed to be warning labels: When it came to attending any get-together with Carolina’s not-so-perverted finest, Frank Murphy, the party never stops, but when it was at last time to ante up, there was truly going to hell to pay.
John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine.
Boozer snored away blissfully between his occasional farts. That always seemed to wake him as he stared baffled at his ass as if it were some mysterious cavern that puzzled him greatly.
The news was all the same, no matter the channel.
Terror In The Carolinas was the headline as a quasi-human trafficking snuff ring had been busted. Right now, it was all a total shitstorm.
But, Frank knew when it came to big money and even bigger names, the truth would soon be buried and forgotten with the next mass shooting.
Simon, who looked like Einstein's disheveled love child, took a seat at the bar.
“Fuck man, they are still rattling on about that stuff. It’s fucking insane. Hard to believe all that shit was going on that dull as fuck little island Jack lived on.”
“Morning there, Harpo. Yeah, well, I guess old Jack wasn't joking when he talked about just how screwed up that place was after all.” Frank replied as he reached under the bar, pulling out a beer from the mini-fridge, putting it in front of his clearly hungover agent, who almost turned green at the sight of the can.
“Fuck, dude, I can’t drink that! I feel like my head’s going to explode. Goddamn! How many beers did I drink last night?”
“Enough to lose count there, shitstain. Hey, sweet bracelet! What kind of kinky shit are you into there, Manischewitz?” Frank said, laughing as Simon looked to notice the handcuff on his left wrist. Even Simon had to shake his head and laugh to himself.
“Fuck it, dude, hand me an aspirin.”
“That's my boy; glad to see my bad habits are finally rubbing off.” Frank said, handing an aspirin to his agent, who quickly washed it down with a still-cold Heineken.
Simon and Frank had both been through the wringer together, all the crazy shit, and after their old friend's death and becoming the proverbial black sheep of the lit scene. They had to stick together because no publisher with any common sense would be caught dead in association with them anymore.
And as they sat there in quasi silence, Frank couldn't help but think about Jack; the guy ran harder than himself. He lived a life that was ten times harder than anyone could fathom, yet only after his death had he found any sort of praise. His new book was a best-seller, and the prick wasn't even around to enjoy it. Well, in Jack’s case, most likely bitch about it.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
Ken said, snapping Frank back into reality and almost making Simon jump over the damn bar.
“Jesus Christ there, Freddy Mercury! Learn to give a little warning before you slip up on us.”
“I suppose I could wear a bell around my neck. Hey, nice handcuffs there, Simon. I thought I heard the crack of a whip last night.”
“Yeah, apparently, this place became a house of ill repute. I mean, I just hope my church group doesn't find out. Whatever would they think of me?”
Ken burst out laughing as Frank reached for the bullhorn he kept for just such occasions.
“Attention liars, thieves, naughty nymphos, and Indian chiefs. Please join us in the kitchen for the complimentary pancake mass orgy. And remember, you have to provide your own maple syrup.”
The noise was deafening as Frank, like some overgrown perverted child, hit the siren effect on the megaphone, much to the chagrin of his clearly not amused and extremely hungover agent.
Doors opened all through the house, and the rest of last night's soiree slowly came to life as the rented friends with fantastic benefits joined the cast of lunatic writers, editors, and all-around well-spoken bohemian degenerates.
First was the little Asian dominatrix who, just as quickly as she had said hello and reclaimed her handcuffs, was out the door.
“Damn, don't you just hate to see them come and go so quickly?”
“Ahh, I didn't think you believed in happy endings, Franklin.” Ken quipped, shooting Frank a devilish grin.
“I don't, but I'll tell you guys something. I’m going to have to take out a small loan to cover last night's little gathering of the not-so-vicious circle.”
“Fuck you, asshole! You know it's coming out of the business; besides, Jack's book took off like crazy. This was supposed to be about remembering him, after all!” Simon snapped, as he was a notorious prick after only a few beers and, being he tried to boost Milwaukee’s economy the old-fashioned way last night, it didn't take much fire water to kick start the engine, so to speak.
It was then Boozer finally awoke, as he saw Simon and began to whimper.
“Oh fuck, Frank, keep that motherfucking mutt away from me, goddammit!”
“Hey buddy, look who’s here; it’s your old buddy.” Frank said as the fat old bulldog mix stood up instantly as, for some odd reason, Boozer was turned on by Frank's verbal punching bag slash agent.
“Aww, look how happy he is to see you; he is so cute.” Ken said as Simon sat upon the bar as the old dog sprung into action, trying to hump Simon's leg.
As no sooner had this odd display begun, two beautiful escorts dressed as nuns entered the room. Everyone laughed as Simon tried to break free of the determined mutt's grasp.
“You fucking asshole! Call this horny bastard off, you cocksucker.”
“Why, he’s almost done. I mean, I did get you a high-end dominatrix last night. I mean, the least you could do is get the dog off, but I mean, there's no pressure or anything.” Frank said as the room broke up in hysterics as the mutt grunted, almost falling over, finishing up on Simon's leg.
As a jacked-up dude, who looked like Brad Pitt’s stand-in, walked straight on past as if nothing was out of the ordinary, wearing only a bath towel and opening up the fridge, oblivious to this cartoonish scene.
“I’ll give, little boy; who are you supposed to be?”
The guy took a carton of orange juice, kicking it back like he owned the joint, pausing to look at Frank.
“I don't know, daddy; who do you want me to be?”
There was an awkward pause that was quickly interrupted as the front door opened.
Ricky Martinez, a horror and science fiction author, who oddly resembled Lex Luther or some weird supervillain, stood there with his girlfriend in tow, who clearly was not expecting to take a flight halfway across the country to visit this overrated Carolina cat house.
As Simon just sunk his head into his hands, saying, “fuck my life; just fuck it right up my crusty ass with not even a dash of lube.”
As Frank stood up, sloshing his drink, approaching his buddy’s clearly not amused girlfriend.
“Hey, you must be Amanda; I’m Frank. I swear it's great to meet you. Hey, you all just missed my agent getting the dog off, but hey, can I mix you a drink?’
Amanda didn't bother saying a word as she just turned to Ricky, shooting him a look.
“Ricky, I believe we should leave.”
“Hey, you two, don't run off; at least meet our friends. These two lovely ladies are from Our Mother Of The Unending Orgasm, and this barely clad individual in the bath towel is Armondo, my gardener, who is just taking a little break from trimming the bushes.”
“I don't mess with bushes, but I can really plant some seeds; or swallow them if the price is right. How are you?” The Brad Pitt look-alike said, interrupting, walking over as his towel dropped, exposing some odd deformity Frank believed most people referred to as a dick.
“Hey asshole, show some respect to my woman!” Ricky snapped, royally pissed off as he turned his gaze to Ken.
“Hey man, I expect this kind of shit from these nut cases, but from you, I am shocked. Fuck you guys; this is total bullshit!” Ricky was beyond pissed as his usually laid-back persona was gone, as he lit into his insane and seldom sober as of late friends.
He was in between slurs when a little tight-bodied, just-out-of-college woman entered the room.
“Hey, Toni.”
Ken said as everyone else was dead silent, gawking at this girl in her bikini.
“Frank, mind if I use your hot tub?”
Frank hadn't even replied when another voice called out.
“Hey bitch, wait for me!”
The built-like-a-brick-shithouse strawberry blonde said as she wrapped her arms around Toni. As they embraced, most of the guys just stared as they just as quickly were heading out the door to the hot tub.
Frank, his trusty mutt, and his loyal agent quickly followed suit.
Frank could only imagine what his neighbors must think of this carnival freak show living next door to them.
Back in the house stood Ricky and his very pissed-off, jet-lagged girlfriend, alone with an assorted cast of characters.
“Ricky, we are catching the first plane out of this debauchery right this instant!”
Ricky was transfixed on the scene out in the hot tub, to the point he had lost his train of thought. The key element to any good relationship: never tell the damn truth or disagree.
That and it is probably best to always wear sunglasses so they can never guess what else you're looking at upon life's ever-changing menu.
“You know, honey, maybe we should give it a chance. I mean, we just got here and all. I mean, maybe you could go lay down while I—”
Ricky was interrupted with a swift knee from Amanda. As he doubled over on the floor, everyone in the room winced as she headed out the door. Ricky tried his best not to throw up.
Apparently, much like whiskey bottles, there needed to be warning labels: When it came to attending any get-together with Carolina’s not-so-perverted finest, Frank Murphy, the party never stops, but when it was at last time to ante up, there was truly going to hell to pay.
His work has been published in.
Fixator Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Red Fez, It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily And Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
His current book is titled Are We Dead Yet? from Black Circle Publishing and is available on Amazon .
His work is always unfiltered.
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Hilarious, as always. The Frank stories are some of John's best work.
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