All the Wrong Dudes Revisited

Because she had spent so many years living on a diet of Harvey Milk Unified School District mystery meats, Enid Skoodge had still not traded her Rubenesque figure for a petite one.  She had been subject to many jokes about her weight by all of the inmates at the Tijuana Jail except for Ralph and Joe.  And for that reason alone, she chose those two ambiguously gay ex-aquarium workers to complete a task which she had once undertook, but which had led to her decades-long banishment from Canada.  You see, as well as being an animation specialist, an elementary school nurse, and a Tijuana jailer, Enid Skoodge was an Antichrist hunter.

Experience made her competent, but in her youth, she was misguided in her efforts.  It was an assassination attempt on a false Canadian Antichrist, Alanis Morissette, which made her flee Canada and illegally arrive in the good old U.S. of S.R., after which she did the same for America.

“Didn’t you see Dogma?” snickered Ralph Gornit, once the meeting in Enid’s office had adjourned and Enid had shared that shocking secret with the not-so-delectable duo.  “Morissey’s God, not the Anti-God.”

“Antichrist.  Big difference,” muttered Enid.  “And there was no Dogma then.  Only Clerks.

“What about Mallrats?”

“Moving on, jailrats.  Over years of investigation, I have arrived at the conclusion that there is not one Antichrist, but several Antichrists.  Seven, to be exact.  Seven Antichrists, each of which corresponds to a particular cardinal sin.  First off, the obvious one, Keef Smite.  Which sin do you think he corresponds to?”

“The sin of lust?” asked Ralph.

“Negative!” barked Enid.  “Keef is a eunuch!  Anybody else want a shot at it?”

A shadowy blond figure lurked into the room.  “The sin of wrath,” the man spoke.  Ralph, Joe, and Enid turned their heads.  It was Yorick the Swede

“Enid Moser?” asked Yorick, who was perhaps better dressed than usual.

“It’s Skoodge now, Yorick.” said Enid.

“You married Terence?  And all those years I thought you were destined for Philip,” cackled Yorick.

“You two know each other?” asked Ralph, who had never met Yorick in his life.

“Certainly,” said Yorick.  “We went to the same high school in Manitoba.  Well, actually, I’m giving myself a little too much credit.  I was an exchange student from Stockholm.  Had all my major classes completed, so I signed up for audit drama.  And that’s where I met the lovely Enid, as well as the aforementioned class clowns, Terence and Philip.  Enid, who did Philip end up marrying, Alanis Morissette?”

Like many Canadians, Enid never got too emotional.  And most Americans would get emotional when they uttered the following lines, but Enid kept a straight face and a deadpan tone throughout the conversation.  “He didn’t get married for a while.  But while I was married to Terence, the two class clowns reunited—in my bed.  It resulted in my first divorce, and possibly my last.  Terence and Philip now raise cattle in Newfoundland together.

“So, Yorick, did you just come to say hi, eh?  Or what do you want?”

“I want you to know I freed Keef.  Orders from a friend named Paul.  Keef’s not the Antichrist after all.”

“You just said he corresponded to the sin of wrath!” yelled Enid.

“Yeah, well, he does,” said Yorick, promptly spitting out his Copenhagen.

“Then he is an Antichrist!”  Enid put her palm to her face, unsure when she’d be able to share the identities of the remaining Antichrists with Ralph and Joe.

“Lots of people correspond to the sin of wrath.  I can think of like, seven people off the top o’ my head.”  He whispered the names of said people to himself.

“And I can name seven Antichrists off the top of my head,” said Enid.  “The beast you just released is one, corresponding to wrath.  Then there’s lust, which is fittingly a groupie and prostitute named Jezebel.”

“And a good customer of mine if we’ve got the same Jezebel,” said the Swede.  “Go on.”

Still getting over the distraction to the office/classroom, Enid pulled a four foot tall mummified corpse out of a drawer in her desk.  The corpse gave of an odor akin to that of steamed rabbits.  “And then here’s the sin of sloth.  The only Antichrist I’ve killed, due to it being freakin’ annoying.  A special needs child known as Jerome Snix.  I’ll spare you the name he called himself, because being a good Methodist, it’s not something God would want me to say.”

“Jeez, Enid, were you planning on killing Keef too?” asked Ralph.

“Yeah, good thing I came here just in time!” said Yorick.

“Hold on now, Yorick!” screamed Enid Skoodge.  “Tell me exactly what went on between you, Keef, and this Paul guy.”

“I’ll try,” said Yorick, and began to narrate.  “Y’see, my friend Paul Andrews is a biological brother of Keef.  But they don’t have much in common besides them both being eunuchs.  So not too long ago, Keef and Paul met each other again at my café, Yorick’s Café in San Francisco, maybe you’ve been there.”

“I know Yorick’s!” exclaimed Ralph.  “I always get the java krakatoa.”

“Everybody does,” said Yorick.  “Anyway, Keef and Paul realized that they both had seen the same purple-coated bonobos.”

A high-pitched squeal came from inside the jail.

“That sounds like Paul now!  Sorry I can’t finish the story!  Gotta run!”

*                                              *                                              *
“Thanks for releasing me,” said Keef, lighting a joint.  “You’re fifty times the man I thought you were, at least today.”

“Don’t mention it, brother,” laughed Paul Andrews.  “So who else do you know who’s seen the bonobos?”

“A little kid in Hell.  He wrote some unsatisfactory creative razzmatazz on the subject of the Ecuadorian bonobos, including Gazeem.”

“I love Gazeem!  He’s my favorite of them all.  You know I had the bonobos when we were growing up, right?”

“Huh?  I didn’t know that.”

“I kept them a secret from the whole family.  And I think you were too busy going to hardcore punk shows to pay attention.  Anyway, the bonobos came from an unnamed home planet and settled down on our parents’ ranch.  I kept them safe and somewhat fed in my huge toolshed, you know, the one I never let you or mom or dad enter.  They always ate those grapes.  Anyway, around the time I decided to move to San Francisco to find you, I realized I had to leave the bonobos behind.  And the night before I planned to say goodbye to Gazeem and his pals, I found a little boy from Harrison Ranch down the street being mauled by the bonobos.  This has to be the same kid you told me about.  I feel bad, I just left the kid in that toolshed and his mom and dad probably died of grief or something.  Poor kid, the bonobos will kill anybody who isn’t a eunuch.  That’s why I had to make sure you and me were eunuchs.  Then I went a little overboard and turned hundreds of San Franciscans into eunuchs, despite there not being any bonobos around.  I just liked the idea of a eunuch colony, y’know?

“So where were you when you saw the bonobos?”

“I was on the Highway 101.  I was really drugged, so I don’t know where the bonobos went, in case you were looking for them.”

“I was,” said Paul.  “Looks like you’re of no further use.  I’ll tell Yorick to take you back to your cell.”


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