Harry Guakomoli was having a bitch of a time figuring out his newfangled phone. Our hero had been given the gadget by Dr. Lawrence Triangle, a man he had found annoying the moment he met him. The Guak wanted nothing to do with the nuisance, but he was in a bit of a bind; his telephone did not survive the explosion at Neuneuschwanstein. Neither did our hero for that matter, but the phone did not have the benefit of a weirdo with access to arcane whatever to bring it back from the dead.
But this phone was like nothing he had ever experienced prior. Our hero always used s cheap pre-paid phone, a "burner" in contemporary street parlance. His new communication device was not a burner, but a super phone, smart phone, whatever those egghead dinks called it. The most he was able to do was figure out his contact list of phone numbers. The list only had one name: Dr. Lawrence Triangle. And it bothered The Guak to no end that the doctor even typed in the "Dr." part of his name. Of all the people with titles in the world, doctors certainly topped the list of those that made sure everyone knew they were worthy of such titles. That really burned our hero's britches.
The Guak was trying his damndest to figure the fucker out while riding in the back of a cab. Oslo was kind enough to give our hero a hundred dollars to pay for a taxi, though really it was the least The World's Smartest Cat could do after he killed his crime-fighting partner and took his home and the object of his lust. Our hero was struggling to figure out his own phone number. The Guak kindly asked for his driver's cell number so our hero could call him and get his number that way, but the cabbie couldn't understand what his passenger was saying. The Guak was unsure if the hack was legitimately confused or just pulling his leg, as those foreign-born drivers were likely to do. It was then that our hero realized he was thinking like Travis and decided to give the gentleman the benefit of the doubt.
Meanwhile Gunther was starting his day. The day's first sunbeams had began to break through the night's wall of darkness. And the groundskeeper knew he was going to be busy. He always was on Sundays. He sat down to eat an enormous bowl of Rice Krispies. After pouring on the milk he sat in silence and listened. Listened to the snapping and the crackling and the popping of the cereal. God he loved that magical sound. Then Gunther dumped three tablespoons of sugar in the bowl and stirred in the sweetener. Gunther dug in, quickly and noisily scarfing down that particular breakfast staple from those nice folks from Kellogg's.
The groundskeeper chewed with his mouth open, causing milk to drip down his corpulent face. He made short work of the solid portion of his breakfast before taking the bowl into his chubby hands. Gunther brought the receptacle to his maw and began slurping down the sugary milk which flowed from the corners of his mouth.
Gunther had just started his daily ritual of drinking the saccharine lactose when a loud knock came from the front door of the hovel he called home. He ignored the knock; an hour remained before his shift started, and he was not to be disturbed. A thunderous methodical series of knocks followed.
"I'M FUCKIN' EATIN'!" Gunther screeched after he lowered the bowl from his mouth. "COME BACK LATER!"
Satisfied that he made himself clear and would no longer be interrupted, the groundskeeper returned to his sucking down of the milk. Then the pounding started. Pounding which could only mean his uninvited visitor was trying to break the door down. That startled poor Gunther, and he jumped out of the chair, dumping the bowl's contents all over his face, stained white shirt, and white briefs. As I am sure you can predict, dear reader, this enraged Gunther.
"YOU ARE GONNA GIT SUCH A TALKIN' TO!"
Gunther stomped over to the door and quickly unlocked the three dead bolts that protected him from home invaders and the restless dead. Standing before him was a large man with shortly cropped brown hair, brown sweatshirt, jeans, and a stylish pair of Velcro sneakers. One hand was smashing the door while the other gripped something black and sleek. Gunther reminded himself not to show his envy toward the stranger's footwear.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE?!" the groundskeeper barked.
"Do you have a shovel?" The Guak nonchalantly asked.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE?!" Gunther asked again.
"To borrow a shovel obviously," our hero coolly answered.
"WHY FOR?!" Gunther demanded to know.
"To dig up my own grave."
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Part XXX: What's In A Name? (The Guak The Origin Part III)
Harry Guakomoli was barely a year old when he was abandoned on the front steps of St. Hedwig's House For Children. An orderly responded to the door buzzer shortly before dawn. He looked down at the partially unzipped duffel bag. Poking out from the bag was the face of a sleeping infant.
"Shiiiiit."
The orderly picked up the bag and stepped back inside. He walked down a sterile white hallway until he reached a middle aged white woman with thinning gray hair seated at a metal desk eating Mexican food. The man set the bag down on the desk.
"Another God damn abandoned baby," he said in disgust.
"Jesus Christ," the woman said with a mouthful of taco salad. "Open up the bag for identification."
St. Hedwig's was operated by nuns. But none of the elderly sisters were interested in doing God's work after midnight so others were hired to hold down the fort until eight in the morning. None of the overnight staff was particularly religious, and night supervisor Loretta Branson was no exception.She never thought twice about taking The Lord's name in vain and never chastised her underlings for using similar language.
Byron Lawrence, the orderly, did as he was told and pulled The Baby Guak out from the duffel bag. The boy quietly slept in his soiled powder blue onesie. Byron rummaged through the bag only to find a few ratty towels to act as blankets for the infant.
"Nuttin,' Loretta," Byron said.
"What's that on his chest?"
The orderly turned The Baby Guak around so that the two males were face-to-face. The Baby Guak was still sleeping. A saliva bubble began to form out of the one year-old's mouth. Why are white babies so ugly? Byron thought to himself. He looked down to the boy's chest.
"It's a note. It says 'Baby Harry.'"
"Anything else that tells us what the little shit's name is?" asked Loretta. She pushed her dinner aside and took out a manila folder from one of the desk drawers.
"Nope."
Loretta sighed. People had a tendency to dump their unwanted children on the front steps of St. Hedwig's in the dead of night with alarming regularity. In an attempt to curb that trend the sisters always had someone patrolling the grounds, not to mention a strict policy demanding every abandoned child must be identified, first and last name, along with the name of at least one parent. This did not stem the baby tide like the nuns had hoped, but at least the children had names.
The reason this policy was not particularly effective was due to the fact that Loretta often found herself bored and would request, more like demand, the company of the orderly, a post filled by either Byron or Craig. The overnight supervisor and whatever attendant was on duty would usually spend their time together playing cards or checkers or the occasional bout of sex.
Loretta got around this by making up names for the orphanage's new charges if identification could not be found. She hated making up names primarily because she had exhausted her limited imagination some time ago.
"Hmmm," Loretta thought aloud. "We need a last name."
She looked around for inspiration. Lamp, light, desk, pen, paper, folder, man, child. Those were off the list; Loretta had used those before along with countless others.
"What's that stuff on your salad?" asked Byron.
"Huh?" Loretta responded.
"That slimy green shit. What is it?"
"It's guacamole," answered Loretta.
"There you go. There's your last name."
"Brilliant, Byron! I knew there was a reason I liked you. It's definitely not because of your stamina."
Byron scowled as his superior paid him a backhanded compliment. Loretta opened the folder and grabbed a child abandonment form. She picked up a cheap blue pen adorned with the MetroBank logo. It was one of a dozen she had stolen from the branch down the street a few weeks prior. Loretta filled in the blank designated for the abandoned child's first name with "Harry." She was known as a notoriously poor speller so she looked over to the note pinned to The Baby Guak's chest to get it right.
"How do you spell 'guacamole?' G-U-A...is 'C' or 'K?' I always forget."
"Umm..."Byron racked his brain for the answer. His spelling prowess was not much better than that of Loretta. "G-U-A-K-O-M-O-L-I."
Loretta filled in the last name blank exactly as her subordinate and lover spelled it. She examined the results and scrunched her nose.
"This doesn't look right," Loretta criticized.
"That's good, right?" retorted Byron. "If the spelling was good those old penguins might call you on your bullshit."
"Again," Loretta said with a smirk. "It's not because of your stamina."
Loretta filled out the rest of the form. Her brain was already fried due to the little thought she put into the endeavor, and she wanted the whole affair to be done. She scribbled in "unknown" for The Baby Guak's father, and decided to go with "Margareeta" as the mother (this misspelling was not a clever move on her part to conceal her fraud). She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, smug in her handiwork.
"Take the puke upstairs with the rest of them," Loretta ordered Byron. "And when you come back would you rather play Crazy Eights or screw?"
"Shiiiiit."
The orderly picked up the bag and stepped back inside. He walked down a sterile white hallway until he reached a middle aged white woman with thinning gray hair seated at a metal desk eating Mexican food. The man set the bag down on the desk.
"Another God damn abandoned baby," he said in disgust.
"Jesus Christ," the woman said with a mouthful of taco salad. "Open up the bag for identification."
St. Hedwig's was operated by nuns. But none of the elderly sisters were interested in doing God's work after midnight so others were hired to hold down the fort until eight in the morning. None of the overnight staff was particularly religious, and night supervisor Loretta Branson was no exception.She never thought twice about taking The Lord's name in vain and never chastised her underlings for using similar language.
Byron Lawrence, the orderly, did as he was told and pulled The Baby Guak out from the duffel bag. The boy quietly slept in his soiled powder blue onesie. Byron rummaged through the bag only to find a few ratty towels to act as blankets for the infant.
"Nuttin,' Loretta," Byron said.
"What's that on his chest?"
The orderly turned The Baby Guak around so that the two males were face-to-face. The Baby Guak was still sleeping. A saliva bubble began to form out of the one year-old's mouth. Why are white babies so ugly? Byron thought to himself. He looked down to the boy's chest.
"It's a note. It says 'Baby Harry.'"
"Anything else that tells us what the little shit's name is?" asked Loretta. She pushed her dinner aside and took out a manila folder from one of the desk drawers.
"Nope."
Loretta sighed. People had a tendency to dump their unwanted children on the front steps of St. Hedwig's in the dead of night with alarming regularity. In an attempt to curb that trend the sisters always had someone patrolling the grounds, not to mention a strict policy demanding every abandoned child must be identified, first and last name, along with the name of at least one parent. This did not stem the baby tide like the nuns had hoped, but at least the children had names.
The reason this policy was not particularly effective was due to the fact that Loretta often found herself bored and would request, more like demand, the company of the orderly, a post filled by either Byron or Craig. The overnight supervisor and whatever attendant was on duty would usually spend their time together playing cards or checkers or the occasional bout of sex.
Loretta got around this by making up names for the orphanage's new charges if identification could not be found. She hated making up names primarily because she had exhausted her limited imagination some time ago.
"Hmmm," Loretta thought aloud. "We need a last name."
She looked around for inspiration. Lamp, light, desk, pen, paper, folder, man, child. Those were off the list; Loretta had used those before along with countless others.
"What's that stuff on your salad?" asked Byron.
"Huh?" Loretta responded.
"That slimy green shit. What is it?"
"It's guacamole," answered Loretta.
"There you go. There's your last name."
"Brilliant, Byron! I knew there was a reason I liked you. It's definitely not because of your stamina."
Byron scowled as his superior paid him a backhanded compliment. Loretta opened the folder and grabbed a child abandonment form. She picked up a cheap blue pen adorned with the MetroBank logo. It was one of a dozen she had stolen from the branch down the street a few weeks prior. Loretta filled in the blank designated for the abandoned child's first name with "Harry." She was known as a notoriously poor speller so she looked over to the note pinned to The Baby Guak's chest to get it right.
"How do you spell 'guacamole?' G-U-A...is 'C' or 'K?' I always forget."
"Umm..."Byron racked his brain for the answer. His spelling prowess was not much better than that of Loretta. "G-U-A-K-O-M-O-L-I."
Loretta filled in the last name blank exactly as her subordinate and lover spelled it. She examined the results and scrunched her nose.
"This doesn't look right," Loretta criticized.
"That's good, right?" retorted Byron. "If the spelling was good those old penguins might call you on your bullshit."
"Again," Loretta said with a smirk. "It's not because of your stamina."
Loretta filled out the rest of the form. Her brain was already fried due to the little thought she put into the endeavor, and she wanted the whole affair to be done. She scribbled in "unknown" for The Baby Guak's father, and decided to go with "Margareeta" as the mother (this misspelling was not a clever move on her part to conceal her fraud). She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, smug in her handiwork.
"Take the puke upstairs with the rest of them," Loretta ordered Byron. "And when you come back would you rather play Crazy Eights or screw?"
Friday, December 9, 2011
Part XXIX: The Guak Vs. Oslo!
Harry Guakomoli was greeted with the nude form of Yo-Yo Ramirez. It was a surprising sight and not an unpleasant one. He was caught off guard and paused as she pointed at him and yelled something in Spanish.
"Die doppelganger motherfucker!" Oslo The World's Smartest Cat screamed as he pounced towards The Guak's face. While Oslo was truly the world's smartest cat he was by no means a genius; if he was he may realized that a surprise attack was more effective if it wasn't announced.
Oslo's assessment of what he believed The Guak to be gave our hero the time to snap out of his trance and catch his former best friend by the neck.
"Your strategies always sucked, traitor," The Guak growled as he tightened his grip.
"Fuck off, imposter!" Oslo screeched as he clawed away at The Guak's arm. The sweatshirt sleeve was being torn to pieces and the cat's nails dug into the flesh underneath.
"You stole my home. You stole my girl. Now I'm going to steal your life."
Like he did with Dr. Lawrence Triangle, The Guak squeezed Oslo's neck. Our hero had few friends in life, Oslo perhaps being the only true one. Yet those that fell into that particular designation were granted fiercely unwavering loyalty. But The Guak also expected that loyalty to be reciprocal. He viewed the actions of The World's Smartest Cat to be treacherous, and he couldn't let that go unpunished.
Oslo knew this guy who looked, sounded, and smelled like his best friend was intent on killing him. The World's Smartest Cat had no idea if his species truly did have nine lives. What he did know was that he really did not want to discover the answer firsthand. Oslo scratched and clawed at his would-be murderer's arm, but nothing the feline fury did caused the brute to release his grip.
As the life of The World's Smartest Cat slipped away Oslo had a realization. If this guy truly was an imposter why would he try to kill him? The logical plan would be to infiltrate, not annihilate. And he certainly wouldn't be dressed like that! This wasn't a clone or a robot or an evil twin. This was the bone fide The Guak!
"You're...you're not an evil robot twin clone," Oslo strained to say.
"No shit, weirdo," said The Guak puzzled.
"Boss...please," begged Oslo. The end was drawing near for our four-legged friend.
"¡Papi Grande!" exclaimed the buck naked Yo-Yo. "Me and Senor Gato never did no hanky-panky! It's true!"
Our hero was expressionless as he stared down at Oslo. His former sidekick had stopped attempting to claw his way out of The Guak's vise-like grip. The World's Smartest Cat no longer had the energy to struggle. All he could do was hope there was a sweet Hereafter. And if there was such a place the oceans would be malt liquor and the islands were made of Nutter Butters.
"Fuck," The Guak said.
Our hero released his stranglehold on his former best friend. Oslo instinctively landed on his feet before rolling over onto his back and desperately sucked down air. The Guak, looking dangerously close to remorseful, turned his attention to Yo-Yo.
"Are any of my clothes still here?" our hero asked the lovely Latina softly.
"Si, El Guako," the shapely senorita replied. "They're in the spare bedroom. Senor Gato refused to part with them."
The Guak lumbered off to the spare bedroom and shut the door behind him. Oslo and Yo-Yo looked at each other.
"So El Guako no kill us?" asked the confused Latina.
"That appears to be the case, mi cucaracha."
"Senor Gato," Yo-Yo said as she crinkled her nose in disgust. "You have boner."
The two stopped speaking to each other. The World's Smartest Cat rolled up into a ball of malt liquor- and vomit-soaked brown fur while Yo-Yo left to make herself more presentable. The Guak emerged from his dressing room in a dark brown hooded sweatshirt and slightly more stylish blue jeans.
"Where the fuck are my shit kickers?" our obviously less-than-pleased hero demanded to know.
Oslo looked down and noticed The Guak in his stocking feet. White, stained, and torn stocking feet.
"Well, boss," answered the feline fury. "There was this burial, see..."
"You buried my fucking boots?"
"There wasn't a body so we used some mementos instead."
"God, that's fucking stupid," The Guak said. "Is that where my autographed photo of Charo is?"
"Yeah, boss," The World's Smartest Cat answered, suddenly feeling less that smart.
The Guak added digging up his own grave to his mental list of things to do. He would be damned if he didn't get back that photograph to remind him of the greatest sex he ever had. Our hero returned to the bedroom and slipped his feet into the gray Velcro sneakers. He returned to the living room and headed towards the apartment's exit, stepping on the door he kicked off its hinges as he did so.
"Boss?"
"Yeah," The Guak asked.
"The hood rat was right," Oslo replied. "We didn't get it on. Sometimes I would crawl into her nap while she was naked, and she would stroke me. Not my willie though. That's all that happened. Promise."
"I believe you."
"Don't go, boss. Stay and tell me how you're still alive."
"Maybe later," The Guak said softly. There's some shit I need to do on my own. But there is something you can for me."
"Name it," Oslo said. "I'll do anything for you."
"I need money for cab fare."
"Die doppelganger motherfucker!" Oslo The World's Smartest Cat screamed as he pounced towards The Guak's face. While Oslo was truly the world's smartest cat he was by no means a genius; if he was he may realized that a surprise attack was more effective if it wasn't announced.
Oslo's assessment of what he believed The Guak to be gave our hero the time to snap out of his trance and catch his former best friend by the neck.
"Your strategies always sucked, traitor," The Guak growled as he tightened his grip.
"Fuck off, imposter!" Oslo screeched as he clawed away at The Guak's arm. The sweatshirt sleeve was being torn to pieces and the cat's nails dug into the flesh underneath.
"You stole my home. You stole my girl. Now I'm going to steal your life."
Like he did with Dr. Lawrence Triangle, The Guak squeezed Oslo's neck. Our hero had few friends in life, Oslo perhaps being the only true one. Yet those that fell into that particular designation were granted fiercely unwavering loyalty. But The Guak also expected that loyalty to be reciprocal. He viewed the actions of The World's Smartest Cat to be treacherous, and he couldn't let that go unpunished.
Oslo knew this guy who looked, sounded, and smelled like his best friend was intent on killing him. The World's Smartest Cat had no idea if his species truly did have nine lives. What he did know was that he really did not want to discover the answer firsthand. Oslo scratched and clawed at his would-be murderer's arm, but nothing the feline fury did caused the brute to release his grip.
As the life of The World's Smartest Cat slipped away Oslo had a realization. If this guy truly was an imposter why would he try to kill him? The logical plan would be to infiltrate, not annihilate. And he certainly wouldn't be dressed like that! This wasn't a clone or a robot or an evil twin. This was the bone fide The Guak!
"You're...you're not an evil robot twin clone," Oslo strained to say.
"No shit, weirdo," said The Guak puzzled.
"Boss...please," begged Oslo. The end was drawing near for our four-legged friend.
"¡Papi Grande!" exclaimed the buck naked Yo-Yo. "Me and Senor Gato never did no hanky-panky! It's true!"
Our hero was expressionless as he stared down at Oslo. His former sidekick had stopped attempting to claw his way out of The Guak's vise-like grip. The World's Smartest Cat no longer had the energy to struggle. All he could do was hope there was a sweet Hereafter. And if there was such a place the oceans would be malt liquor and the islands were made of Nutter Butters.
"Fuck," The Guak said.
Our hero released his stranglehold on his former best friend. Oslo instinctively landed on his feet before rolling over onto his back and desperately sucked down air. The Guak, looking dangerously close to remorseful, turned his attention to Yo-Yo.
"Are any of my clothes still here?" our hero asked the lovely Latina softly.
"Si, El Guako," the shapely senorita replied. "They're in the spare bedroom. Senor Gato refused to part with them."
The Guak lumbered off to the spare bedroom and shut the door behind him. Oslo and Yo-Yo looked at each other.
"So El Guako no kill us?" asked the confused Latina.
"That appears to be the case, mi cucaracha."
"Senor Gato," Yo-Yo said as she crinkled her nose in disgust. "You have boner."
The two stopped speaking to each other. The World's Smartest Cat rolled up into a ball of malt liquor- and vomit-soaked brown fur while Yo-Yo left to make herself more presentable. The Guak emerged from his dressing room in a dark brown hooded sweatshirt and slightly more stylish blue jeans.
"Where the fuck are my shit kickers?" our obviously less-than-pleased hero demanded to know.
Oslo looked down and noticed The Guak in his stocking feet. White, stained, and torn stocking feet.
"Well, boss," answered the feline fury. "There was this burial, see..."
"You buried my fucking boots?"
"There wasn't a body so we used some mementos instead."
"God, that's fucking stupid," The Guak said. "Is that where my autographed photo of Charo is?"
"Yeah, boss," The World's Smartest Cat answered, suddenly feeling less that smart.
The Guak added digging up his own grave to his mental list of things to do. He would be damned if he didn't get back that photograph to remind him of the greatest sex he ever had. Our hero returned to the bedroom and slipped his feet into the gray Velcro sneakers. He returned to the living room and headed towards the apartment's exit, stepping on the door he kicked off its hinges as he did so.
"Boss?"
"Yeah," The Guak asked.
"The hood rat was right," Oslo replied. "We didn't get it on. Sometimes I would crawl into her nap while she was naked, and she would stroke me. Not my willie though. That's all that happened. Promise."
"I believe you."
"Don't go, boss. Stay and tell me how you're still alive."
"Maybe later," The Guak said softly. There's some shit I need to do on my own. But there is something you can for me."
"Name it," Oslo said. "I'll do anything for you."
"I need money for cab fare."
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