“I’m aware of Bolt, but I haven’t seen it,” emitted and admitted a sheepish Lydia Rodhardt-Quale. She glanced at her full hand of cards, before looking to her left, eyeing the angular Staten Jack Rose.
“Well listen little lady, Bolt’s a classic. A masterpiece even. In fact, if you’ll allow me to pontificate—” Staten Jack Rose began, before being interrupted (to his left) by the great Monty Don.
“Sounds like the kind of watered-down Hollywood crap that my kids would like. And they’re dumb!” Monty Don says as he lights a fat cigar with a still-burning cigarette. To his left, Calypso—of Pirates of the Caribbean notoriety—chuckled lightly.
To her left, a certain bastard known only as Klein Dedderman ejected a hardy laugh. “I know I hate you, Monty Don, but that was funny! What do you think of that, Gut?”
But Gut didn’t respond. He was too busy inspecting his terrible hand—not to be confused with his terrible paw (a result of the great Animal War). He had one eight, a six, and a whole lotta nothin’. So there was a whole lotta bluffin’ on his end. He had everyone fooled—they believed he contained a King’s Court, which is, for true poker players, far greater than the coveted Royal Flush. In reality, he only had a People’s Court, which, for true poker players, sucks.
Gut remained completely silent and eyed one Monty Don, the only one yet to fold. Monty began to sweat, not because he was that intimidated, but just because it was so dang hot in Klein’s backroom.
“Come on, ya mangy mutt, I know ya got nothin’!” Monty ejaculated, leaving behind an uncomfortable spray of feelings that ricocheted off the walls.
“Give it up, Dodgy Knees Donald,” Calypso said, weirdly enough.
Just then, Gut pushed all his chips forward. Everyone in the room turned and looked Gut dead in the gut. From his mouth, only one word discharged: “Heel.”
The cigar fell from Monty Don’s mouth. He began shaking, not because he was that scared, but because it got really cold all of a sudden (that cigar was providing a lot of warmth, believe it or not). He nearly froze to death on the spot because he was so cold, but he just froze metaphorically. His skin grafted to the chair, making him a permanent fixture in Klein’s backroom. Nevertheless, he looked around at everyone in the room, unsure of what he should do, before ultimately deciding to fold.
“I’ll be stuck in this chair forever,” Monty howled, “but damn if that wasn’t the best poker game I’ve ever played.”
Gut snatched his earnings, stood up from his chair (cuz he can still do that), and walked out the door pridefully. He didn’t like hearing the music of Soundass, so he pranced out a bit quickly—light on his feet as always.
Waltzing down the promenade that extended from the studio space that Klein liked to do shady dealings in, Gut passed a nearby phonebooth at the corner of Easy Street and Simple Lane. On any normal day [(say Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, so forth—that would include Thursday and Friday for the record) hell, let’s throw in the weekend], he wouldn’t pay this phonebooth any mind, let alone any cents. But this phonebooth was hooting and hollering unlike any phone he’s ever seen before or since (or cents!). The story of Gut was a complicated one, needless to say.
Gut approached the phone, unsure of whether he should give this call the time of day, which was squarely six PM. He debated whether or not he could even pick up the phone with his paws, and decided that he has to pick it up now just to see if he can do it. It was hard, but he did it.
“Hello?” he said with a gravelly, baritone voice not dissimilar (actually, pretty similar) to one son of a gun and hell of a character actor Sam Elliot (the story of Sam Elliot was a complicated one, needless to say.)
“I’d recognize that gravelly, baritone voice—not dissimilar to one son of a gun and hell of a character actor Sam Elliot anywhere,” spoke silky, soprano voice of one Bone Friedman, an old friend that Gut knew from the great Animal War (if you know you know). “How ya doin’, one Warren ‘Gut’ Duderola?”
“Is that the voice of one Bone Friedman I hear?” Gut asked politely.
“Yes, you bet your hairy ass it is,” he replied. “I don’t have time to talk, you need to meet me at 732 Beef Stew Drive. That’s an order, compadre.”
“But Bone,” Gut began.
“No. Time,” Bone finished.
Dial tone. Gut didn’t know what to make of this. Was that really the silky, soprano voice of one Bone Friedman he heard? He seemed troubled by whatever’s going on around him. Gut knew he had to hurry, this could be life or death (God, I hope it’s life!).
732 Beef Stew Drive. Sure was a dump… literally. It was a dump. The city dump. There was garbage and stuff because it was a dump. If you must ask, yes it did smell like Beef Stew, that’s why they called the road that, it was also the only thing on the road. Neighborhoods were built miles away from it to avoid the aroma that emitted from Beef Stew Drive. But a dog’s nose knows. And this dog’s nose knows that he’s in for some trouble.
That’s when Bone Friedman sauntered in like the charming greyhound he is.
“I thought I was meeting you here,” Gut immediately said after not seeing Bone for over a decade. “And why did you seem so anxious over the phone?”
“Wow, okay. So you’re already confronting me,” Bone said defensively. “If you gotta know, I was taking a shit. I was in someone’s yard and I had to pinch a frickin’ loaf, man.”
“That’s weird, I don’t think I’ve ever taken an hour-long shit,” Gut retorted.
“Okay, fine! I got a fuckin’ pretzel! I was in line and you were asking me questions and I was almost at the front of the line,” Bone continued.
“Where’d you get the pretzel,” Gut interrupted.
“At Auntie Anne’s,” Bone replied.
“You were at that MALL,” Gut yelled, “No shit it took you an hour, that’s a whole trip!”
“I didn’t think I’d have to defend myself that much, okay?” Bone yelled, sweating. “Yeah, so what, I wanted a pretzel, what are you, my mother?!”
“Well I just thought that I was meeting you,” Gut replied.
“Very astute, Gut,” Bone sarcastically replied, “If you’d notice, here we are at 732 Beef Stew Drive… meeting!”
“Yeah, but… Since you asked to meet here, I thought you were gonna get here first,” Gut angrily retorted. “I’ve been sitting for like 30 minutes.”
“Okay, well, sorry! I didn’t think shitting and eating a pretzel was gonna take a fucking hour,” Bone yelled. “Don’t you have like a fucking app you can pull up on your stupid android that you could play on for a half hour. Shit, I mean, an episode of Cheers is a half hour.”
“It’s actually 22 minutes and I did watch an episode,” Gut said. “I actually started to rewatch the episode with the commentary on, but that’s when you decided to finally show up so I don’t even know anything about Danson’s process, let alone the Mallone method!”
A wry smile crept across Bone’s face. “Come here, you,” he said, playfully (like a dog).
Gut couldn’t resist Bone’s charm and bashfully accepted a hug from him. They hugged for a few seconds, to which Gut said “What, that’s all I get?”
“Jeeeeeez! You’re a real taskmaster today,” Bone complained. “And I’m NOT talkin’ about Reggie Watts.”
“YOU don’t know who Reggie Watts is,” Gut replied, “I KNOW who Reggie Watts is.”
“Who Reggie Watts WAS, you mean,” Bone emitted with a stern sense of authority. “We got ten dead here. Reggie’s one of ‘em, but I’m sorry to say they’re all famed improv comics. I’m talkin’ Middleditch, I’m talkin’ Schwartz, I’m talkin’ Bamford, I’m talkin’ Colin Mochrie! Oh wait,” Bone checks his notes, “Actually, it’s Wayne Brady, wait,” Bone checks them again, “Never mind, they’re both dead, but apparently Colin Mochrie’s been dead for years. Weird, more like Who’s Flat-Line Is It Anyway! Remember that song Flatline?”
“Bone, what are you TALKING ABOUT?”
“I’m talkin’ the biggest comedic mass murder of the decade,” Bone said solemnly, “It’s so sad, but so funny. They say comedy is tragedy plus time, but this is more like,” Bone puts on his sunglasses, “Travesty plus CRIME.”
“Why am I here?” Gut pleads.
“So dig this,” Bone begins in his silky, soprano voice, “I’ve been working homicide here in Albuquerque for about a year and my #2 guy just went AWOL. They say he got the corona virus, but me I think he’s off getting a pretzel somewhere if you know what I mean?”
“WHAT?” Gut yells as belligerently as possible, “So did you NOT get a pretzel earlier? Was that just a euphemism for something?!”
“Gut, buddy, you’re thinking too much,” Bone said as he put a Milkbone cigar in Gut’s mouth and lights it before he can reply. “So here’s the deal, I need a #2 guy, okay? I’m no good on my own! My nose don’t even work anymore. You remember, it was blown during the great Animal War. And that’s when I got to thinkin’, remember that guy who saved my ass, quite literally, during the war? That’s you, Gut! I’m talking about you!”
“Oh, me?” Gut questioned.
“But anyway, the tall and short is I accused my #2 guy of being a spy so I’ve actually been fired so I’m kinda just working the case on my time.”
Gut takes a long drag on the Milkbone cigar and says, “You interrupted my Cheers commentary track for this monkeyshine?”
“No, Gut,” Bone says, “I interrupted your Cheers commentary track for this great business opportunity.” Bone then slaps the cigar out of Gut’s mouth and says “And quit smokin’, there are kids everywhere.”
Gut looks around and sees like maybe a hundred kids unsupervised just strewn about the dump, some playing with the corpses of our fallen comedic heroes.
“oh no,” Gut says quietly.
“Oh no is right. Oh yeah oh no!” Bone yelled as he lights up the cigar he just slapped out of Gut’s hand. Gut looks at Bone confusingly. “What, was I gonna let it go to waste?”
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