Dark Humor

Chuckles and Full Pint sat around their shared record player, playing the game they played most nights, drinking cheap beer and listening to cheap records. The rules of the game were easy. Pick one half of a LP or a full 45, and then it was the next guy’s turn. They were currently half way through Chuckle’s pick of side-one of Lou Reed’s Rock n’ Roll Animal.

Punk nicknames were acquired in one of two fashions, either you were so cool you got something great, or, like most, you stumbled into one through unfortunate life choices. Neither Chuckles or Full Pint were that cool.

Full Pint’s real name was Jason Vala, but after a five-day bender of cocaine and Little House on the Prairie he demanded to be called Half Pint; the name of some girl in the show. After a few years of beer and fast food, the once skinny punk had ballooned to 260 and his once demanded nickname of Half Pint was ballooned to Full Pint.

Chuckles’ case was less in-depth. Originally named Charles Dearth, an evening of laughing fits thanks to huffing nitrous oxide and computer cleaner had forever deemed him Chuckles, and possibly borderline retarded.

The pair lived in a seedy part of downtown Oakland, in an apartment on a corner above a Japanese ramen house. The apartment was constantly engulfed in the smell of boiling noodles and pork belly, something both craved and neither could afford.

The apartment gave them a good vantage point of their corner. They could see everybody coming and going. They could see if friends were bumming around, or getting off the bus at the corner stop, or if there was some creditor out there, someone dumb enough to have lent them money.

“Wonderful! A retarded Barbie? I suppose that was made in honor of all you lifetime collectors.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say, Herb! It was a very kind thing for the Barbie folks to do. Now, truly everyone can find a place in Barbie world.”

“Really, Brenda? What about crazy 57-year-old overweight women who insist on living a fantasy life vicariously by collecting and hoarding stupid dolls? Where do those women fit in, Brenda?”

Brenda was taken aback for a moment, then regained her calm and said, “I’ll have you know, Herbert Weinstock, we Barbie enthusiasts are much more than collectors. We are the caretakers of the Barbie universe. That responsibility is a great and noble task. As you have so eloquently demonstrated by your juvenile comments, it can be a challenging duty, fraught with criticism and ridicule from those who are simply too ignorant to understand.”

“Ignorant? Ignorant? Look, Brenda. I’ve had it! I’m going to work, and when I get home, these dolls better be gone, or I’m going to pile them up in the backyard and burn them.”

Brenda screamed, “You… you wouldn’t! You couldn’t do something so horrible. You wouldn’t dare!”

“I most certainly would and most definitely will! Mark my words, Brenda!”

With that final declaration, Herbert left for the office, slamming the front door behind him. The impact caused several boxed Barbie toys to fall from their shelves. When one of the boxes fell, it revealed a small opening that had been cut into the wall and which was hidden by one of the boxes. Brenda reached into the void and retrieved a very special Barbie character. She had created it by modifying a damaged Ken doll she had picked up at a flea market. It was one Herbert had never seen.

“Brenda, this obsession of yours has gotten way out of control.” Herbert Weinstock said to his wife. He was standing in his living room with his briefcase, ready to head out to work. He looked about the room with a combination of disgust and frustration.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Herb,” she replied.

“Jesus, Brenda. You’ve gotta be kidding me! It’s this obsession you have with collecting all this Barbie crap! For God’s sake! You’re fifty-seven years old. Why the hell are you still collecting these ridiculous dolls?”

Herbert pointed to the hundreds of boxed Barbie dolls that lined the shelves on almost every wall. He had known his wife collected everything Barbie-related when he married her thirty-five years earlier, but back then, her collection had been relegated to a small extra bedroom in a seldom-used area of the house. Now, Barbie paraphernalia was found in abundance in every room.

Brenda replied, “You just don’t understand Herb. You never understood. The world of Barbie isn’t simply about collecting dolls; it’s so much more than that. The thing about Barbie is it’s a… well, I suppose it’s a lifestyle.”

“Lifestyle?” Herb shouted, “More like a cult of mindless idol-worshiping minions. That’s it! It’s idolatry; that’s what it is. Brenda, you’ve become an idol-worshipping pagan!”

As he flipped the light switch, he heard Dierdre’s voice behind him, “Why don’t you have your robe on, baby?”

Of course that was what she noticed—that he wasn’t wearing the blue robe she’d given him as a gift. The woman was obsessed with that robe, constantly asking him to validate the gift by telling her how much he loved it.

He turned halfway around to look back at his blonde girlfriend. Dierdre looked at the smudged shit on the carpet and then back up at Orlando, giggling.

“Ha-ha-fuckin’-ha,” he said. “Could you please get me a rag?”

She moved past him, making her way to the bathroom where he’d originally been going before stepping on the dog shit. Orlando heard the faucet run for a moment and then Dierdre was back with two maroon face towels in hand. She handed one to Orlando to wipe off his foot while she went to work cleaning the brown stain from the gray carpet.

Once his foot was clean, Orlando went to the restroom and took a leak. He flushed the toilet and washed his hands. As he turned back toward the hallway, Dierdre stood and turned toward him. Now face to face, they both smiled.

“I’m sorry, babe,” she said. “I promise Dax won’t do it again.”

Orlando looked at her beautiful face, taking it in, “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” she said. “I’m promising.”

He grinned. “Then we’re in agreement that if he does it again, he goes to live someplace else.”

“Like where?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe doggie heaven.”

Brad said, “Dude, she’s not the ‘real deal.’ Nobody is the ‘real deal.’ It’s all about tricks and illusion. None of it even comes close to being real. And no matter what you might want to believe, your ‘Mistress of Black Magic’ is as phony balonie as any other sidewalk magician out there. But, I am curious to see if she’s as hot as you’ve claimed.”

“She is, Brad; maybe hotter. She’s got a set of humongous mockatushkies that won’t quit. Look, up on the front of the theater; there’s a poster with a bunch of her pictures.”

Brad approached the poster, expecting to see some cheap, less-than-attractive Elvira wannabe dressed like a vampiress with dyed black hair, dark eye makeup, and matching long black fingernails. But he was pleasantly surprised by what he saw. The poster displayed seven photos of a lovely blonde magician with blood red lipstick, who appeared to be close to six feet tall, performing various magic tricks. In each picture, she was dressed in the same stage costume. She wore shiny red thigh-high boots with four-inch elevated heels. Black fishnet stockings were held up by gold garters attached to a black and gold bustier with gold frills used to accent her abundant cleavage. She wore a red half-top with short sleeves, allowing plenty of the aforementioned cleavage to be seen. Gold and black armbands covered her elbows.

He hated Mrs. Critsch, who would come in constantly complaining about pain and picking up enough pain meds to take down a thoroughbred; and some wine to chase it. Every week it was a new pain and a new prescription. Never once a nice word; never once a hello.

He hated little Toby Walsh, who would spend way too long looking at the fashion magazines while slowly squeezing the front of his pants. When the eleven-year-old was done sexually exploring himself, he would linger around the candy until he thought no one was looking so he could pop a few pieces in his pocket and run out.

There was Father Jessup, the priest that would lounge by the counter, disturbingly sucking on his Icee’s straw while watching that slut, Katie Carlson play pinball.

There was handyman Ted Kline, who was always out to seduce a wife while their husbands were at work, with his tan skin and premeditated lingering glare.

Ted’s current conquest was Mrs. Hathaway, the only real estate agent in the area, there to take advantage of people’s misfortunes as their houses were closed in upon by the bank.

Speaking of banks he hated Paul Theurber, who was always too on top of the rent, as though it was going into his own pocket. He’d always show up a day early with a warning.

He hated them all. The population of Richfield was about one hundred and fifty, and Lonny knew each and every one of them; and knew, in detail, how much and why he hated each and every one of them.

Pain. He knew nothing but pain. Until he opened his eyes. At that point he also knew confusion.

He was on his back, spread-eagled, with each limb tied firmly to stakes in the ground. It was a hot summer day and he could see the leaves of the corn stalks swaying around and above him.

His entire body ached as if someone had punctured him thousands of times with wooden golf-tees. God, he missed playing golf. Maybe after starting the new job out west, he’d be able to afford to play again. He could feel that he was bleeding all over but he couldn’t lift his head up enough to see. He was too weak from loss of blood.

He remembered pulling over on the long and nearly deserted two-lane road as he drove across Iowa to take a piss. He vaguely remembered seeing a strange statue, next to the corn rows, shaped like a rooster with two-heads and four wings. It had strange symbols carved on its chest. Symbols that had made him angry, even though he had no idea what they meant. He remembered pissing on the statue to show his disgust.

He had no recollection of what happened after he finished emptying his bladder but, as he heard the sound of angry clucking, he knew he had made a mistake. A very serious mistake.