A Tale of Two City Folk

Watterson blankly stared at the television screen.  He hated summer because he had nothing to do.  While he was not particularly good at his job, he actually enjoyed being a bowling instructor.  Everyone he knew referred to him as “Coach” Watterson, not David, Dave, or anything of that nature.  The Hardy Factor was on, but Coach Watterson wasn’t really paying attention.  He may have been conservative politically, but Chuck Hardy was way too conservative for the Coach.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone for months.  He had simply stayed in his messy living room of his apartment, watching television, drinking Old Spitinureye whiskey and changing his challenged son Billy’s diapers whenever he heard the wailing.  Coach was completely bored.  That’s when he heard the doorbell ring.

The near-three hundred pound coach struggled out of his seat.  He was still wearing his sweaty coaching uniform, with the whistle and everything.  The Coach waddled to the bathroom, and put on some Axe, before opening the door.

“Hello?” asked Coach Watterson.  In the doorway stood a tall, thin man with prematurely gray hair, a long red toucan’s snout, and yellow teeth that looked like he had smeared butter instead of toothpaste on them.  He was wearing a cheap green suit from Goodwill and a very loose brown tie.  A beer stain remained on his chest.  “Oh, hi, Kirk.”

“Hi Coach,” snickered Kirk Hacker, the Coach’s bartender friend from across the hall.  Kirk was more than a neighbor—he and Coach had been good friends throughout high school, even though Kirk was a druggie and Watterson was the football team’s infamous water-boy.  “Wanna come to Parker’s with me?”

“Coach Watterson sez: Sure,” answered Coach, using his bizarre speech pattern that had denied him a scholarship to any college.  However, Kirk was a high school dropout.  Coach had not seen his other good friend, Parker Laurel for months now, though his son Chad was on his baseball team.

“But…Parker lives in that trailer park now!  How the hey are we supposed to get there?”

“You know how.  Take the subway.  Sheesh, dumbass.”  Kirk snickered, and stepped into the kitchen.  He checked the refrigerator for a Drunkenduxx, but every whiskey bottle there was an Old Spitinureye.  Kirk spat on the rocky tile.  “Well, are you ready?”

“I was…Coach Watter…I was waiting for you!” the Coach stuttered anxiously.

“That’s good.  Now, let’s get to the Subway station.

*                             *                             *

Meanwhile, Charles F. Hardy III, better known as “Chuck Hardy,” was standing in the basement of his five-story penthouse mansion.  He looked cunningly at his new “friend,” Parker Laurel.

“You know this woman, do you?” wondered Chuck, as he handed Parker a picture of an old flame of his, the wealthier-than-him Madison Wellington Howell.  “Well, your mission is to kidnap her so she and I can get married, maybe have some kids—just like me, you know?”

“AUKH,” responded Parker as he dim-wittedly nibbled on a piece of cheesecake.  “Why not just find her Myspace?”

“I don’t want her to think of me as a stalker.  If you kidnapped her, things just might be different.”

“AUKH—I don’t wanna do this.”

“Then, let’s find you a partner.  A Jew is necessary.  How about—Isaac Weinstein?”

“Nope.  I hate his guts.”

“Then—Craig Coleman!  That’s brilliant!  Coleman is terrified of me!  That is brilliant!  Parker, you’re a genius.”

“AUKH,” responded Parker reluctantly, as he finished his cheesecake.

*                             *                             *

As Kirk and the Coach boarded the subway to Fairview Central Station, a blonde woman entered behind them.  She was in Kirk’s opinion, gorgeous, with a lavender fur coat and big brown eyes with long lashes.  Coach Watterson didn’t desire to look at her, not that he was gay or anything, but he didn’t find her attractive.  She was carrying a teal purse made of alligator skin.

“Hey Kirk, I had this freakin’ strange dream last night.  There was this zebra in a trench coat, you see…”

“Not now, Watterson.  Man, is she a beauty.”  Kirk massaged his privates a bit, then snickered a little more.

“Kirk, we’re there!  God, what the hell are you doing anyway?”  Kirk came out of his drug-affected trance, to realize that the attractive woman was gone.  In her place was her teal purse.  Kirk examined the purse, to find a driver’s license reading:  Madison Wellington Howell, Age 31, 23768 Indigo Drive, Longview, Oklahoma.

“Oklahoma!” screeched Kirk.

“Is this some kind of game?  Come on, for God’s sake!” snapped Coach Watterson.  “You’re the one who wanted to visit Parker anyway!”

“Alright,” muttered Kirk, and he stumbled out of the subway.  “I got that blonde chick’s purse an’ wallet.”

“Coach Watterson sez: You thief!  You oughta be ashamed.  Now, let’s get moving.”

“No, seriously, she left it on the cab.  She’s from Oklahoma.  She didn’t strike me as a redneck, though.”

“You idiot!”  Coach was feeling headstrong.  “If you have her purse, you should return it to her!”

“Oklahoma, though.  Where are we, in California?”

“Yes.  Idiot, we are in California.  Fairview, California.”

“Idiot?  Well, I’m not the one repeating my name every third sentence.  You don’t see me going ‘Kirk Hacker sez: I gotta piss my pants,’ do you?”
“Coach Watterson sez: That’s not my point.”

“Fuck it.  Fine, let’s go to Oklahoma.  If that’s the best we can do.  You got that truck, right?”

“Yep.  My 1997 Chevy Carpenter.”

“Let’s get that girl,” snickered Kirk.

*                                       *                             *

“This is a bad idea.  I can sense that this was a bad idea.  Me, and you, and Chuck Hardy.  Hoy jeez,” whined Mr. Coleman.

“AUKH—shut up, you selfish tool.  If you want to mope and grope, you can mope and grope in your damn principal’s office.”

“Hoy jeez, hoy jeez, hoy jeez,” grumbled Coleman, rocking around in his car seat.  His greasy toothbrush mustache was unshaven, but his tie was tied, unlike Kirk’s.  “Harrible, just harrible.”

The unlikely pair sped off in Coleman’s crappy 1988 Toyota for Oklahoma.

*                                       *                             *

After hours of driving, and tons of weird conversation, Coach Watterson and Kirk Hacker had reached Reno, Nevada.  They sat in their car at a Shell gas station.

“…my mom mentioned that I might have a brother…” Kirk rambled vaguely.

“Coach Watterson sez: That’s interesting.  That reminds me of a joke I heard on the Prairie Home Companion the other day…you know, I’m getting pretty hungry.”

“You’re telling me!”

“That’s not how you use that phrase, Kirk.”

“Whatever.  Let’s just stop at the Sizzler or the Delicio’s.

“I’d rather go to Sizzler.”

*                                       *                                       *

They ended up going to Delicio’s, which was a chain of fast food restaurants.

Coach and Kirk sat in a booth next to a suspicious red-haired man.  The forty-year old waitress stepped up to them.  “What would you like?”

“I’d like a Grand Scramble,” answered Kirk.
“I’d like those Pigs in a Quilt,” answered Coach Watterson.

“Alrighty, it’ll come up soon,” mumbled the waitress and left.

The red-haired man smoked a cigarette and approached the dumbastic duo.  “You two gents wouldn’t have heard of a kidnapping which took place in Oklahoma?”

“That’s interesting, we were just going to Oklahoma,” said the Coach.

“What a weird coincidence,” Kirk snickered.

“Well, be on your knees, boys.  If you find the kidnapper, call me at 362-4360.  Oh yeah, just in case, the area code is…”  The strange man, who was not in police garb or anything, wrote down his phone number on Kirk’s yellow napkin with a black pen.  His name was apparently “Paul O’Hare.” The man left the restaurant.

“Alright, thanks,” Kirk said sarcastically.

“What the hey was that about?” wondered Coach Watterson to himself.

“I don’t know,” snickered Kirk, and he threw the yellow napkin in the garbage can.

*                             *                             *

Coach Watterson and Kirk paid for their Grand Scramble and Pigs in a Quilt, and went straight back to Watterson’s hick Chevy Carpenter.

“That guy was bonkers,” Kirk snickered.

“Coach Watterson sez: Agreed.”

The two laughed a bit, discussing random subjects.  As they got to Utah, a hitchhiker came into sight on a log.

“Why should you never go to McDonald’s?” questioned Kirk.  He and Coach Watterson had just picked up a stash of marijuana from an illegal pot grove in eastern Nevada, and were practically stoned.  He laughed at the upcoming punchline.

“Coach Watterson sez: I don’t know.  Why should you never go to McDonald’s?”

Kirk swallowed excitedly.  “Because Michael Jackson lives there!”

“That’s pretty funny, Danny!” Watterson laughed absent-mindedly.

“Hey look, a hitchhiker!  Maybe he wants some of our stash!”  The two clumsily waved at the man, who had a mullet, a sweat-laden tank top, and a long red toucan’s snout.

“Whoa, thanks!  My name’s Lyle Reynolds…I’m on the run from the Socs; thanks for getting me.  Where are you headed anyway?”

“Can’t remember,” burped Kirk.

“Coach Warson sez: I think it’s like, Longovia or something.  We’re from this place called…eh…Fairview, in California.”

“Fairview, California.  Interesting, my dad lived in Fairview once.  He was a roadie for the sturge band Larenks, so he traveled around the country.”

“Yeah, verry clever.  So where do you wanna get dropped off, anyhow?”

“You know, maybe you’re too stoned to drive.  Let me drive!”

*                                       *                             *

Coach Watterson and Kirk slept soundly and dreamed of zebras in trench coats; of McDonald’s restaurants inhabited by pasty-skinned pop stars; of edible stimulants.  When they awoke, they were in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere.

“Coach…Welcome to Denver, Colorado,” stated Watterson sleepily.

“Where the hell are we?”

“I just said, Denver, Colorado.  What happened last night?”

“I can barely remember.  I just remember some hitchhiker talking about his running socks or something.”

“Weird.  I can’t remember anything, and I’m usually the sensible one.”

“Forget you!”

All of a sudden, a dingy 1988 Toyota Harker sped into view. A black-tied smoking man with a large untamed mustache and buck teeth appeared.  While Kirk could not recognize his former ninth grade English teacher, Coach Watterson knew his boss very well.  It was Mr. Craig Coleman, the principal of Fairview Elementary.

Another man waddled out after him.  He had curly blond hair and a black unibrow.  He snorted with an “AUKH” sound a couple times.  A woman screamed from inside the old sedan’s rusty trunk.

“AUKH—you’re finished!” sniggered the man, who was barely recognizable as Parker Laurel.

“Parker, what the hey are you doing here?” asked Watterson.

Parker nibbled on a piece of cheesecake nervously.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” muttered a frail, whiny voice.  This was Coleman again.  Coleman got out a shotgun and his Parkinson’s-affected hand pulled the trigger at Kirk.  However, because of his bad reflexes, Parker was shot instead.

“AUKH!” shouted Parker as he fell to the floor, bleeding heavily.

“Does anyone know CPR?” asked Watterson.

“Heh heh, what’s CPR?” Kirk snickered.  “Wait, Parker’s dead?”

“He’s not dead yet!” snapped Coleman.  He steadily blew on Parker Laurel’s mouth unsuccessfully.  “Hoy jeez, I might have to change my name again.  Jay Sachs—Craig Coleman—Ralph something?  Hoy jeez!”

“Coach Watterson sez: Check the trunk, Kirk!”

“Why?” wondered Kirk.

“You idiot!  That lady Madison Howell is in there!  How stupid are you?”

“Not stupid enough to use my name in every third sentence,” muttered Kirk, and opened the trunk.  “Fuh!  It won’t budge!”

All of a sudden, a FBI car appeared.  A red-haired man stepped out.  “OK, when I say your name, raise your right hand and shout ‘Aye!’  Kirk X. Hacker?”

“Aye!” Kirk snickered.

“Parker G. Laurel?”

There was no response but Coleman’s huffing on the lifeless figure of the aforementioned.  The man, Paul O’Hare, wrote something down.

“Jayson Sachs?”

Coleman stopped huffing.  “Aye jeez.”

“Alright.  That covers everyone but—David Ignatius Watterson?”

“Heh heh, Ignatius!” Kirk snickered.

“Coach Watterson sez: Aye!”

“Which one of you guys kidnapped Longview’s seventeenth wealthiest woman, Madison Wellington Howell?”

Kirk and Coach Watterson both instantly pointed to Craig Coleman.

“Alright.  Jayson Sachs?  It says here that you live with your father—one       Harry Sachs.  Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll tell Daddy that he will not see his son for twenty months.  And, who killed the rather husky blond man?”

“He’s not dead!” wept Coleman.

“He’s not breathing either.  Twenty years, Sachs.”  Paul O’Hare opened the car door, releasing a once-sleeping Madison.  She was just as pretty (to Kirk) as ever.

*                                       *                             *

“So, Madison, can we go for it?” snickered Kirk as the FBI car sped off.

“Sir, I have a husband.  You’re ten years too late.  Plus, he’s twelve times the man you are.”

“Shit!” Kirk screamed, and ran off.

Kirk and Coach Watterson returned to Fairview, California.  Parker’s son Chad was sent all the way to New Jersey to meet his biological mother, Sydney Fine.  Coleman was replaced by Coach Watterson as principal, but Watterson could not help his catchphrase to stay “Coach Watterson sez.”  (Nothing good happened to Kirk, which really upset him.)

As Watterson turned on the television, he saw that The Hardy Factor was off the air.  And he was happy.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: