Baxter & Hilda

A week goes by easily before Martin really snaps back to reality. He goes through cycles like this, periods of frequent socialization followed by stalwart reclusiveness. Martin usually ends up telling people he spent the time writing jokes or funny articles, but truthfully a lot of the time is dedicated to tasting beer and tastefully engaging in the ancient tradition of porn-watching. Sometimes he thinks about how well-off he might be if he were actually doing work, but he always finds this train of thought too depressing and abandons it. By this time one of his friends has hopefully contacted him and invited him to do something.

Today’s reality comes in the form of a call from Hilda. “Hi!”

“Hey.”

“What are you doing today?” she asks. Martin looks around the apartment. Ray is gone. Martin’s wearing stained pajamas. He was hoping he’d see something in the immediate vicinity to use as an excuse, but he’s feeling uninspired.

“Nothing yet. What do you want me to do?”

“You say that like I want you to come move furniture.” Martin smiles.

“No no, I just mean... Look, why would you ask me what I’m doing unless you have an idea for me?”

“I guess I wouldn’t. It’s not like you ever do anything interesting.” Blah. Fuck you, Dilda. Oh damn. Martin wishes he had actually said that, but it’s too late now. Already used up.

“Blah.” Damn it! He said the stupid thing.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. You wanna come hang out at my place?” The rage slowly builds in Martin as he realizes he’s becoming aroused at the thought of hanging out with Hilda. Not cool, Lil Horatio.

“I guess so. What are we going to do?” Please don’t be ambiguous.

“I don’t know. We could watch a movie or something. I just figured we hadn’t seen each other in a while. I’ve been too busy with work, and I guess you’ve been busy doing whatever it is you do.”

“Sorry, I was catching up on my articles.” See?

“Well just come over whenever you feel like it, though preferably before I go to bed.”

“What? It’s not even noon.”

“I know. See you soon!” Hmm. Martin is concerned about the consequences of re-socializing himself, but this sort of paranoia comes around every time he breaks cover and gets back out into the world.

He takes the time to clean himself and get something to eat before he makes his way to Hilda’s residence. A car sitting out front startles him. It’s familiar in a way that Martin can’t place. He knocks lightly on Hilda’s door.

The door swings open. “Oh wow, you got here fast.” Hilda’s hair is green with thin strips of purple. It looks...good. Too good.

“Yeah, everybody knows I come quickly,” Martin says sullenly. “I brought beer, by the way.”

Hilda seems confused. “For us? Do you always drink in the middle of the day?”

“I’ll drink anytime that it’s part of the day. Or night, I guess. Can I come in?” Hilda steps out of the way so that Martin can come inside. He is immediately assaulted by a bear of a man who’d been standing just out of sight. “Jesus Christ, Bax, put me down. I’m going to drop the beer!”

“Oh, whoa whoa.” Baxter sets Martin back down on floor. “Wouldn’t want to waste alcohol, eh? How have you been, Martin?”

“I was fine until you crushed my ribcage. Actually, I was pretty good until you crushed my ribcage. Thanks, Bax.” Baxter is about the same height as Martin, but he has quite a bit on Martin in terms of pounds and muscle and facial hair.

“Aw, you’re so sweet, Marty.” Blech. No. Shut up, Baxter.

“Give any good sermons lately? I’m sure my spirit could use a tune-up.” Baxter laughs. Hilda gets visibly angry, though it might just be playful. Horatio likes to think it’s playful.

“Stop it, guys. It’s not funny.”

“Yeah? Prove it, Miss Scientist USA.” Hilda yanks the six-pack from Martin and storms off to the kitchen. Martin turns to Baxter. “I’m an asshole.”

“I love assholes!” yells Baxter, arms in the air.

“What are you guys talking about?” shouts Hilda from the kitchen. At this point she’s already regretting inviting Martin over to hang out with her and Baxter.

“Your brother loves anal play!” replies Martin, and Baxter follows up with “I really do!”

Hilda comes back from the kitchen with a look of disgusted sadness. “There are some things you just don’t want to know about your older brother.”

Martin turns to Baxter. “So tell me more about your love of assholes.”

Hilda sighs.

Tammy the Genius

Martin wakes to pain all around his upper body. All around his entire body is Ian’s kitchen. The floor is not very comfortable. Someone is kicking him.

“...What?” He looks up, but not very far. Leanne is standing over him, and she looks very much half-asleep herself.

“Get out of the way. I need coffee.” Martin groans as he sits up, then pulls himself up using the counter.

“What makes you think Ian keeps any food in this place? These cupboards are probably all filled with underwear.” He recalls seeing Ian’s genitals in roughly the same place he’s currently standing and shivers.

“Underwear? He has to eat something,” says Leanne, though she is becoming more and more frustrated with each cabinet she opens that is filled with either clothing or nothing. “Oh, come on.”

“I told you.”

“Shut up.” More cabinets, drawers, but still nothing even remotely edible. Leanne is flummoxed by the presence of a coffee maker.

“Look, I’m sorry about last night. I am an asshole, yes, but I’m usually a bit more restrained than that.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not like I haven’t been short all my life. I’ve heard it all before.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Leanne looks up at Martin with lips pursed so tight they could cut off the circulation to an ant’s penis. “No.”

“Sorry, really. Why don’t you let me buy you a coffee? There must be a place nearby.” Begrudgingly, Leanne decides to accept the offer.

“Sure, but I was going to meet my friend Tammy for breakfast. Can you be civil if she meets up with us?”

Martin slouches. “I just want you to know that I don’t always enjoy my reputation. The constant questioning of my ability to be a decent human being gets a little grating after a while.”

“So...yes? No?”

Sigh. “Yes.”

Leanne tells Martin that there’s a coffee shop a couple of blocks away, so she calls Tammy and they head over. Martin tries to ignore the quality of the neighborhood. “So hey, any idea what all these welts are from? I don’t remember anything from after we started playing.” The pain Martin felt on his upper body was a number of small welts and a handful of strange smaller marks on his arms. “And what are these, burns?”

“Uh...I don’t think so. How would you have gotten burned?” Leanne deflects.

“I don’t know. That’s kind of the point. I figured if-“

“The welts are from when we started throwing dice at each other. They were supposed to be spells, but then we got angry. You were throwing dice at GM and saying, ‘Stop hitting myself!’”

“Oh man. What happened to him? I didn’t see him or Ian anywhere.”

“GM went to work. I have no idea where Ian goes.”

Martin is confused. “Don’t you and Gay Martin work together?”

“Ehh, fuck it. I’ll just tell them I was there all morning.”

“Yeah, not like they would have seen you walking around anyway.” Leanne punches and kicks Martin.

When they get to the coffee shop, Martin buys himself and Leanne coffee, then Tammy shows up. Tammy is probably a foot taller than Leanne, blonde, and seems to be in good shape. She gives Leanne a quick hug.

“Oh, Tammy, this is Martin.” They shake hands.

“Yeah, I’m her pimp.”

“Martin!” shouts Leanne.

“I didn’t realize you were getting back into the business!” says Tammy, seeming genuinely surprised.

“Wow.” Martin is already so pleased with how things are going. “You used to be a prostitute?” he asks Leanne.

“No. Tammy’s just playing along with your stupid joke.”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

“I thought it was funny,” says Tammy.

“Please don’t encourage him, T.”

“Whatever,” says Martin, sliding down in his chair.

Tammy is slightly confused by the tension. “So Leanne, how’s Mel doing?”

“Okay. The billboards are all up now. I think she’s just worried about what guys will think when they see her in a diaper.”

Martin perks up. “Wait wait, who’s Mel?”

Leanne sighs. “My sister, Carmela.”

“And she’s the one on those diaper billboards?!”

“Yes.”

“Man. Well I don’t think she has anything to worry about. The first time I saw one of those I was like ‘Huh, never thought I’d be attracted to a girl in a diaper.’”

“I guess she’ll be glad to hear that.”

Tammy looks focused on Martin. “So Martin, what do you do?”

“Stand-up. I’m a comic.”

“Oh, well that explains the jokes. Do you do a lot of shows?” Why did the jokes need explanation? Is everyone who tells jokes a comedian for a living?

“Not a lot, I suppose. I’m still kind of an amateur, but you gotta work your way up.”

“Hmm. Well good luck with that.”

“What do you do?”

“Me?” Tammy seems pleased to have the attention on her at last. “I’m involved with a lot of things. Right now my big project is real estate. I’ve got a lot of warehouse lots for sale, if you’re interested.”

Martin looks at Leanne in an attempt to figure out who Tammy’s talking to. “Me?” he says, clearly mocking Tammy from a few seconds ago.

Tammy nods. “Yeah, absolutely. Have you ever thought about what you could do with a warehouse?” Martin is suddenly unimpressed with Tammy.

“I haven’t, no. There’s not a lot to think about. They’re just big open buildings.”

“That’s not true! I’ve come up with a lot of ways someone like you could use a warehouse. Tell him, Leanne.”

Leanne looks quite uncomfortable. “Yeah, uh, Tammy’s pretty smart. She and her husband have been thinking up ways to convert warehouses into grocery stores and schools.”

“That’s why I go by Tammy the Genius.” Martin nearly spits out his coffee. “Are you okay?” asks Tammy, looking quite concerned.

He wipes his face. “I...did you just say ‘Tammy the Genius?’”

“Uh huh.”

“Martin...” says Leanne, wary of what he might say.

“How many of these warehouse properties are adjacent to one another?”

“Oh, all of them. They’re just one long lot that’s been broken up,” says Tammy.

“Then how do you plan to have more than one grocery store and school in that area? Do they even all have street access?” Martin asks.

“What? There are eight warehouses, Martin. We could have five of each if we wanted.” There’s a pause. Leanne is scared that saying something might provoke Martin, not that he needs further provocation. “And plus we can always make streets if they don’t touch streets.” Another pause.

“So Tammy, are you any good at math?” asks Martin.

“Yeah, really good, but what does-“

“Can you tell me what the square root of 196 is?”

“I...don’t think that you can take the square root of an even number, Martin. Is that a trick question?”

“It’s fourteen.”

“That sounds right,” says Leanne, hoping to end discussion.

“Hmm. I disagree.” Tammy the Genius is quite sure the even numbers do not have square roots.

“Uhh...” Martin’s brain is telling him a lot of things at this point, so he feels the strong urge to just run away from the situation. “Oh shit. Leanne, I just remembered that I need to drop something off for my roommate before he goes to work.”

“Oh, okay.” She’s relieved, even if he’s lying.

“Wait, let me give you my business card before you go in case you know anyone interested in developing those properties.” Tammy quickly whips out one of her cards and hands it to Martin. It reads “Tammy the Genius, Real Estate and Etc.” Martin laughs most of the way back to his car.

When he gets there, Martin checks his phone. He notices a text from an hour earlier. It’s from Ian. “Are you in any position to be making demands?” Martin texts back: “You. Are. Crazy.” Ian replies immediately: “Oh, and don’t let Leanne light any of my stuff on fire. Water damage is okay, but I have a thing about flames.” Martin yawns despite the caffeine in his brain. “Sorry. Your house burned down. I’m driving to Mexico. Goodbye forever.”

The next text surprises Martin. “You do realize I can see you.” Martin looks around for a few seconds before he sees Ian in one of the front windows of his house, holding back the curtains. His eyes are wide and terrifying. Martin slowly puts his keys in the ignition and starts the car. He sends one last text back to Ian. “Please don’t have children.”

Two Guys, a Goth, and a Pyromantrix

Before the three grown men get ready to dive into a world of fire lizards and damp subterranean rooms, Martin and Ian get their smoking out of the way. Gay Martin hangs out in the kitchen until the boys are finished with their preparatory bong rips.

“Alright, we’re finished, you big, mopey queen,” cries Martin from the living room, and GM soon returns to the area looking especially sullen.

“Is this how it’s going to be all day?” asks GM with an appropriate amount of guilt-inducing self-righteousness.

Ian shakes his head wildly; his eyes are closed the entire time. “Don’t worry, silly. He just thinks he’s funny.” A nasal screech builds before Ian breaks into open-throated laughter directed at Martin.

“Fuckin’! Ian! You!” cries Martin before flopping his head back onto the couch. He frowns emphatically in an attempt to inspire pity. This only causes Ian to laugh harder. Gay Martin, entirely sober and annoyed at this point, is finding it hard not to leave.

“Can we just get started? You guys are being ridiculous.”

Martin’s head snaps upright, and he begins smiling a scrunched smile. “I totally see what you mean about this guy’s mudstick.”

“Dude,” Ian mutters at Martin. “That was private.” GM doesn’t even understand what a ‘mudstick’ is supposed to be.

“Ian, hey.” GM has to work for a second to get Ian’s attention. “Do you have the books here?”

It takes a second of wide-eyed, unfocused existence for Ian to attempt to figure out what books GM is talking about, abandon that thought process and then come up with a totally inappropriate adapted movie quote. “Books? Where we’re going, we don’t need books!” Ian won’t remember this very well later, but at this moment he experiences the most pride he’s ever felt.

“Do you have dice? Pens? Pencils? Paper? If we don’t have those, this is just going to end up being an approximation. Do you want me to call Leanne?”

“Uhhh, yes. Call the little one and have it bring forth the tomes and trinkets,” mandates Ian, now up and marching about the room triumphantly, though he’s not sure over what exactly he’s triumphed.

“Little one?” asks Martin.

“A miniature woman. A pocket-sized female human,” says Ian. “Dude, I hope you can not make fun of a midget.”

Martins mind reels. “WHAT? She’s a…an actual little person? I thought she was just short.”

“Well, she is short,” GM says condescendingly. “I mean, she’s a dwarf.”

“You…son of a bitch. I know.” Martin struggles to get to his feet, manages, and then walks off to the kitchen. Ian still seems quite triumphant.

A short time later, Leanne arrives with the appropriate equipment. Ian glances at her awkwardly and flips through the books. Gay Martin chats with Leanne about Ian and Martin being obnoxious. Martin wanders back from the kitchen.

“JESUS CHRIST, IT’S AN ELF!” he yells upon seeing Leanne. She’s a diminutive blonde woman, and not bad-looking considering she’s a foot and change shorter than Martin usually likes his women. Gay Martin looks up with disgust. Ian shakes his head and smiles. Leanne looks as though she’s mentally adding Martin to a list of people to murder.

“Excuse me?” she says with expected sass.

Martin approaches her cautiously, occasionally turning away from her and then back to see if she’s real. Once he gets close, he leans down to her. “How’d you make your way down from the North Pole, little lady?” Martin asks, his voice reaching as high as it can while his throat is scratched up from all the smoking. “Jeez, at that height you could probably give a standing blowjob!” His eyes meet hers; bloodshot meets steely conviction.

Her fist is a meteoric blur that rises quickly from her side to his crotch, sending Martin crashing and folding into a pathetic heap at the foot of the couch. This is the first time that Gay Martin laughs since his arrival.

While Martin recovers pathetically on the floor, the rest of them discuss the game. Ian usually serves as the Dungeon Master, but he claims to need a few more turns with the bong to be appropriately inspired. Leanne shares it with him while GM retires to the kitchen again.

“Okay, they’re finished, you big gay bastard!” yells Martin from his position halfway back onto the couch. GM comes back and sits down. The group is now gathered around Ian’s low coffee table with sheets of paper and books spread around.

Despite Gay Martin being the only coherent one, Ian is leading the show. He has his guests prepare their characters.

“Well you know I’m gonna be a pyromancer,” says Leanne. “Fweeeoooo!” She pretends to be blasting Martin with fire, but the sound effects are too terrible for anyone to really take notice.

“Why?” asks Martin.

“’Cause fire’s just…my thing. I think my dream job is…there are things. I set them on fire, and then someone has money for me! ‘Good job with the fire, Leanne!’ And then I buy things and set them on fire.” It’s at this point that Martin feels blessed, to a certain extent. He is currently doing one of the nerdiest things imaginable with a goth, a midget, and one of the craziest people he’s ever met. Martin only wishes another reliable party were present to corroborate this story later.

“But what do you actually do?”

“She’s also an accountant at my firm,” replies GM. Ah, the standard workplace comedic relief.

“During the day,” Martin narrates in his best movie trailer voice, “she’s an accountant in the city, hiding her identity by never crossing eye level. But at night! At night she transforms into the incinerator, the cleanser of evil, burning away the city’s sins. She is…Supermidget.”

“I hate you.” Leanne looks at her character sheet quietly.

“Whatever, pyromidget.”

“Maybe Martin can pretend to be a decent person. Is that a class?” Martin does not appreciate humor coming from some deformed excuse for a comedienne.

Ian flips frantically through the pages, checking out the different types of characters. He’s very worried that he’s forgotten something. “I…don’t think there’s just a ‘good person’ class. He could be a paladin or something. I’ll keep looking.”

“And what does the gay me usually play as?” asks Martin.

“Vampire war princess, motherfucker."

Martin and Ian and...Martin

Ian’s house looks no different than the last couple of times Martin’s seen it, yet he can’t help but feel that something’s off. First, Martin has arrived early. This makes him uncomfortable. Second, he’s holding a bag of brand new white socks in a neighborhood that looks like it could use an injection of fresh underwear just to turn a few frowns into less world-weary indifference. He finds himself hugging the bag tightly to his chest. The text said noon. If he went in early, would he find the creature normally dressed as Ian just putting its skin on?

Martin shakes his head like an Etch A Sketch and knocks. It’s 11:51. No one answers. He tries the doorknob. It’s locked! Martin is stunned. He hardly knows what to think or do at this point, so he slumps down next to Ian’s doorway and reads every word he can find on the bag of socks two or three times over. At 11:58, Ian comes racing around the end of the block in a fast walk, apparently carrying a large bag of something himself. As he gets closer, Martin can see that it is, in fact, a massive bag of weed, the kind that makes you start wondering more where someone got a plastic bag that size and less about how they got that much weed. Martin’s also amazed that Ian is just carrying it around outside like it’s no big deal, certainly not illegal or anything.

“Hey man, I guess I’m a little early,” says Martin, standing up and brushing off his pants while Ian jams his key feverishly into the lock and goes inside. He shuts the door behind him and locks it. It’s 11:59. Martin clutches his socks in some unexpected Ian-centric reflex.

He reaches into his pocket and grabs his cell phone to check the time. Hmm.

As noon hits, Ian flings open his door to find…

“Martin?” Ian is pretty sure it’s Martin, but he’s dressed rather awkwardly.

“I was once known by that name. I am now simply known as The Ambassador, envoy from Sockland,” delivers Martin with the necessary dramatic embellishments. He is also wearing socks on his hands, loosely so that they may be flailed around for visual interest. A wreath of socks hangs pathetically around his neck.

The look of condescending disgust that forms on Ian’s face is one of the most impressively effective ones Martin’s ever seen, and he considers himself something of an expert when it comes to disgust. “What the hell are you doing?” asks Ian plainly.

Uh. Is it mean to tell someone you were just mocking them outright, just trying to make a clear reference to their insanity? “I thought maybe we were just…playing a game or something. I mean you totally ignored me on the way in here.” He peels off the socks from his hands and takes off the wreath, trying with futility to smash them back into the bag whence they came. Martin finds it weird to be embarrassed in front of Ian of all people.

“Come in before someone sees you,” Ian says, herding Martin inside.

“Sees me?” asks Martin. He doesn’t know whether to be angry or thoroughly ashamed.

“Yeah,” Ian says with a mocking tone, “I hear there are spies from the Staple Remover people in the area!”

“Fuck you; I brought socks.” He tries to hand Ian the socks, but Ian looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Okay…but where’s the money?”

“Are you shitting me? You said ‘bring socks or money,’ so I went with the socks since the latter option was both ambiguous and reasonably absent in my life right now.”

“I…don’t think I would have said that. And how is ‘money’ more ambiguous than ‘socks?’ Maybe I wanted black dress socks or rainbow toe socks. Maybe I only wanted you to bring three dollars, hm? I’m not sure you thought this through at all.”

Martin feels like he’s standing on shattering, sliding ground with no way to stabilize himself. He thinks back on the first time he saw Ian. The man wore no pants. The second time? Ian was wearing a tux at a fake tea party. Now Ian is being altogether too rational for Martin’s sanity. “Ian?”

“What?” Martin doesn’t respond. “Yes, Martin? What?”

“I just wanted to make sure it’s you. I repossessed your furniture once, then you went to my stand-up show, right?”

“Yeah? Are you okay, Martin?”

“I guess I’m okay. I have no idea, though. You don’t even remember asking me to bring socks or money?”

“Oh, I do. I was just seeing if you’d do it, though.”

Marting glares at Ian before hurling the bag of socks down the hall. He sighs. “Okay. I did it.”

“That seems a bit passive-aggressive, don’t you think?”

“It was entirely passive-aggressive. I wasn’t really sugarcoating it. You seem too normal today, and it’s freaking me out.”

“Too normal? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Fine. Look: what did you have in mind for an activity today?”

“Ah, well I thought we’d wait until my friend Martin came over so we could play Dungeons & Dragons.” This strange statement is a small relief for Martin.

“Oh ha ha, Ian. I’m here already.” Martin isn’t really looking forward to playing a tabletop RPG with Ian.

“What? I can know more than one person named Martin, dummy. Martin Varney usually comes over after he gets out of work.”

“I don’t know how I feel about hanging out with someone else named Martin. Can’t we call him like…Unfunny Martin? Boring Martin? Martin Number Two?”

“Gay Martin? He’s gay.”

“Uh…are you?” Martin has to ask these questions.

“Ah, no, but I’m sure Gay Martin wishes I were. That seems to be about the only reason he hangs out with me. He doesn’t do drugs, he’s into weird music and goth get-ups, and he is otherwise a big stick in the mud. Hell, he works as an accountant.”

“I’m not so sure that’s as boring as you want to make it sound. But hey, as long as he’s not a comedian, at least I have the Funny Martin thing locked down,” Martin chuckles.

“You think so? I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I think you’re probably funnier off-stage than you are during your act.” Martin’s feelings are hurt.

“Really?”

“See, you have good timing and pacing during regular conversations, but your act was just a retelling of things you’ve experienced with very little refinement or dressing up. You did your act as though you’re more of a humorist, maybe someone who expects people to look at his work for a while and appreciate the humor of the whole instead of just a punch line here or there.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to follow a formula,” says Martin, trying to defend himself.

“I know, and you’re still pretty funny. You just need to turn your stories into a few jokes, maybe. Cut out the unnecessary bits. I don’t think you mean to just be the cream of the crop for amateur hour, so try just keeping them laughing with what’s comfortable for you.”

Martin doesn’t like this new Ian. On the outside he’s still the same skinny motherfucker with sandy hair, but he’s turned into some analytical powerhouse that makes Martin feel stupid. “I don’t like you now.”

Ian bursts into laughter that threatens to shatter Martin’s eardrums at its peak. While his convulsions continue to cycle as his mind processes the whole conversation, Ian takes a seat on his couch and starts grinding and packing marijuana for one of his bongs. He doesn’t pause his laughter until he’s just about to take his first rip. “Can you imagine? Jeez, that’s what I would sound like if I lived just a few more miles southeast.” The laughter continues renewed.

The front door flies open and slams shut almost as quickly. There stands a giant with shoulder-length dark hair, white face makeup, and an outfit that screams business casual, if it is at all possible to scream something so boring. He looks at Martin as if trying to silently create some sort of masculine mental bridge, but Martin worries more that Gay Martin won’t make it to the bathroom.

“Ian, who is this interloper?” says Gay Martin sternly. It’s only now that Martin wonders if the look of constipation was intended as intimidating.

“Oh, I’m Martin.”

“Martin?” GM asks incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

“No? Can’t Ian know more than one person named Martin?” Ian, who is now at least moderately high, begins to laugh quietly.

“That was my line!”

“Uh, yeah,” says Martin, then looks back to GM. “You must be Gay Martin.”

Gay Martin purses his lips, and his eyes shrink in contempt, dark ovals in a sea of white. “I guess I must be.”

A Thief Telling Some Jokes, Part 3: Exeunt

Things go well after the show. A few people tell Martin he was hilarious. This is expected. A lot of people don’t talk to him at all. This is nice. Herb makes his way through the crowd to shake hands with his headliner.

“A good show as always, Martin. How about I give you one-and-a-half the usual rate?” Not bad! Everything Martin can deduct from the balance owed to Michelle is welcomed.

“You’re too generous, Herb! Too generous.” Once again Martin is forced to scare up some friendliness for financial reasons. Although there’s really no reason for Martin to not be nice to Herb, he needs to keep up the idea that he’s an asshole deep down. He wouldn’t want to tarnish an otherwise stellar reputation.

Martin hangs around in the club with Ian and Hilda until almost everyone has made their way out. At one point Martin spots Ian and Herb talking. Herb is clearly confused and possibly on the verge of laughing. Ian does not disappoint.

“Looks like Herb’s getting a taste of the insanity,” says Martin, pointing out the conversational pair to Hilda.

“I think you mean ‘the fanciness.’” She laughs softly knowing that Martin won’t understand. He really doesn’t. “Hey,” she exclaims, smacking Martin on the chest, “what’s the gift you have for me?” Uh. Hmm.

“Well, I got your voicemail today.”

“And you didn’t come to get me?” she seems genuinely offended. Uh oh. Bring it around, Martin.

“No no, I didn’t even get the voicemail until it would have been much too late. But I figured that, rather than karmic retribution, it was probably some repo guys who took your car.”

“Yeah…probably should have figured out those payments, huh?”

“See, that’s my gift for you.” Martin enthusiastically thrusts the gift envelope toward her.

“You figured out how to pay for my car?” Hilda begins to open the envelope, but Martin stops her mid-flap.

“Yes! Yeah, just open that after I drop you off. I’m not good with gifts.” Hopefully she’ll be more inclined to accept if she can’t reject it in person.

“Okay, I guess I can wait, but now I just want to get home.” She smiles at Martin, and for a moment he feels absolved of his guilt. If this is what it feels like to be nice, he’s not entirely sure he hates it. Weird.

“Yeesh, so greedy.” There we go. Hilda scowls at Martin, then quickly lets it go. Ian and Herb have finished, and the crazy man is also ready to go.

“Let’s get this gypsy caravan out on the trail.” Yes, Ian, let’s do that.

Even later in the evening, Martin’s cell phone begins buzzing. Hilda’s face pops up on the screen, so he just lets it ring. It’s late enough that he can say he was sleeping. As soon as the voicemail icon comes up, Martin calls it and taps in his password.

“Martin! Thank you…so much.” Oh lord, is she crying? “I guess I owe you now or something, but I’ll pay you back. Thank you. I guess I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” Sometimes Martin worries that he’s defective, at least emotionally. The thankfulness from Hilda is making him wildly uncomfortable, and he needs some debauchery.

He looks up Ian’s number, freshly entered that night, and sends him a text. “Hey man, you wanna do something tomorrow?”

The response comes moments later: “My house at noon. Bring socks or money.”

A Thief Telling Some Jokes, Part 2: The Show

When the trio gets to the club, it looks like there’s a pretty good crowd. They make their way inside, then Martin leads them directly to the bar. The bartender notices the group and looks up. “Can I get you guy-oh, Martin! Hey. Looking for Herb?”

“Yeah, is he out back?”

“No, uh, I believe he’s over by the stage. He said there was someone he needed to talk to.”

“Oh okay. I’ll find him, then. Thanks.”

Martin finds a table for Hilda and Ian, then spots Herb at a table by the stage talking to…Landon Freeman. Huh.

“So do you do drugs?” Hilda asks Ian.

Ian squints with the caution of paranoia. “Yes. Why?”

Hilda laughs. “I was just wondering if you were insane or altered from your normal mindset.”

“I’m not high now, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Hilda stops laughing. “Oh…oh? You wear a tux as loungewear all the time, then?”

“Well I certainly don’t just do it when I’m high. That would be pretty pretentious.”

“But who does that at all? Most people only wear a tux for prom or weddings.”

“Hmmph. Clearly you don’t understand how fancy I am.” That’s it. Hilda doesn’t know what to say.

She is thankful when Martin returns with Herb in tow before she has to suffer through much more awkwardness. Ian stands up to be introduced.

“Hey guys, this is Herb Rollins. Herb, this is Hilda,” she waves timidly, “and Ian.” Ian cheerfully shakes Herb’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, Herb. This is quite the place you have.”

“Thank you, yeah, it’s kind of a crumby neighborhood for a club, but luckily I know some people who are good at marketing. Can I get you guys some drinks or anything? They’re on the house since you’re guests of our headliner.” Pssh. Martin knows Herb’s just teasing his ego.

“Ha. Headliner. You can get better headliners than me, Herb. You and I both know that.”

“Better known, perhaps, but not as entertaining.” Herb nudges Martin playfully, and Martin can’t deny that Herb is a fun host. Martin just isn’t gay.

“It’s not gonna happen, Herb.”

“Ha. We’ll see, Martin. We’ll see.” Hilda and Ian are both aware of some present subtext in the conversation, but neither of them knows what it is exactly. Herb quickly distracts them from pondering by asking once more if they’d like drinks. Martin heads backstage to get himself ready.

One thing Martin’s known for is his improvisation and originality. He even does his best to never repeat jokes, though that leads him to not do a lot of shows. Tonight’s just one of those nights, a night when he could really use the fucking money.

Somehow Herb’s pulled in a guy to do the lead-in act on short notice. He’s this kid who does a lot of quick shows at clubs with open mics, and he tells the same jokes over and over again. Martin understands the value of a popular joke, but he can’t stand people who are known for one act and just milk it. Now it’s his turn.

Martin strolls on-stage with all the confidence his skinny body can muster. He’s met by a rousing applause and a few whistles. Not a bad entrance. He waits for everyone to quiet down.

“Hello.” One person shouts back a “Hey!” Martin laughs. “What the hell is this? Someone says ‘hello’ to you, and you just ignore them like they’re a piece of shit? Jeez. I know I can be an asshole sometimes, but you guys make it seem like I have no conversational value whatsoever.” The audience likes his intro. “No really, how are you guys?” They cheer. “Okay, well ‘yeeeeaaah’ isn’t really much of an answer, but nice try. I…I don’t even care anymore. I just thought maybe all of you had a friend die yesterday and that’s why you’re giving me shit. Luckily for you, I’m pretty quick to forgive.

“Don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I have a sister. Really, I do. She’s kind of a strange woman, though. And to be clear, I don’t mean she’s a strange human being who happens to be a female. She acts strange considering she’s a woman. I thought it was well understood that guys want chicks with huge tits who dress like sluts and know how to suck dick. It’s totally perverse and chauvinistic and blah blah blah, but that’s what we want! Bonus points if you can figure out how to rub your tits in my face while you’re giving me a blowjob. Don’t expect me to help, though. If you ask me to hold your leg in some position so you can attempt that, I’m just gonna immediately turn into deadweight. Except for my boner, of course. I don’t have any control over that son of a bitch traitor. Oh, speaking of boners: back to my sister.” Laughter. Phew. “My sister, Michelle, seems to think that guys can empathize with women, like we understand how emotions work and what it’s like to be periodically insane or something, and I’d like to just point out, for the record, that my sister is a moron. Don’t get me wrong, please. I love her, at least to some extent, I guess, but she’s gotta have some sort of mental defect to think that every guy is going to be sympathetic to her problems as a woman. She asks me for advice with this kind of shit, and then she caps it off with ‘you must understand what that’s like from a woman’s perspective, yeah?’ Are you fucking kidding me? Those aren’t magic words, sis. You can’t just say ‘you must understand’ and expect me to hold your hand and say kind words to make you feel special. If you could control guys just by appealing to their sympathy, no woman would ever let a guy have sex unless he’s Clooney or Pitt.

“By the way, I know at least one person will probably be tempted to come up to me after the show with a ‘hey, I thought you were great, but you have a lot of misinformation and bad opinions mixed in with your funny jokes’, and I’d like to prepare you for what I’m going to say back to you. The reason you might need some preparation is that it’s not really words that I’ll start with. First, I’ll give you a look like ‘bitch, please’, and then I’ll flip you off. THEN I’ll probably tell you that I say a lot of things specifically because they’re funny and not necessarily because I think they’re the gospel truth and I gotta get up here to preach before my spirit testicles explode with righteousness. Just…just thought I’d get that out of the way.

“So guys, I’d like to try something new tonight, okay? We’re gonna have a tiny bit of audience participation. Specifically, I want you guys to give me a subject for a joke, and I’ll make it funny. I swear, and not just canned shit that could be applied to any subject. Oh, and I don’t have plants in the audience like a damn magician or anything, alright? Just shout some stuff out.” Martin’s sad when only a few people give him suggestions. “Okay okay, clearly you guys aren’t in the right mood for this, but you gave me something to work with.” Martin paces back and forth while he processes. “So I’m gonna take my three favorites out of your suggestions. I heard ‘math’, ‘beer’, which I’m turning into ‘alcohol’, and ‘comedy’. How meta. I have to say, actually, that I’m pretty thankful that I’m well-versed in all three subjects. So here we go:

“Alcohol is funny on its own, which I really appreciate as far as comedy subjects go. I’m going one step further, though; I’m going to combine alcohol and mental instability, because – let’s face it – they’re both funny on their own, but the synergy is just phenomenal. My roommate, okay, my fucking roommate,” Martin can’t help but laugh as he thinks back on all of Ray’s oddities, “he’s a strange guy. Let me start by saying that he’s obsessive-compulsive, majorly OCD. Ray’s obsessed with the number five, and as a result I end up compelled to punch him in the head. And I don’t mean to say that I want to punch people with mental problems or that I have anything against the number five. My problem is what he does with his obsession. Ray doesn’t turn the lights off and on five times or wash his hands five times to prevent whatever disaster he thinks is about to happen. Ray drinks. He drinks five drinks. Five alcoholic drinks? Ha, well that’s the great bit. Nope. Ray picks up six-packs of non-alcoholic beer, BEER, which should be alcoholic, and he drinks five of the beers from the six-pack, then he collects the stragglers from each six-pack until he can form a new six-pack and drink five of those. It drives me nuts. Again, that alone is just quirky, and maybe not enough to justify my outrage, but then he has some strange need to act as though he’s actually been drinking. Yesterday I came home to find him on the floor, pretending to be passed out, and pretending that his speech was slurred! What kind of sick drive do you have to have to carry on with that sort of delusion? Christ. No worries, though, beer companies. I made up for it by drinking my share of the good stuff later in the evening.

“Now, let’s see…comedy? Why would you possibly suggest comedy as a subject? I bet you were assigned topical analysis papers in high school and you chose topical analysis as your subject. I would also bet that it was a shitty paper and your teacher hated you for it, but they probably gave you a good grade because they pitied you. I don’t see how that would come up in your head and pass through whatever filter you have that separates good ideas from bad ones. I’m pretty sure if your average audience member was trying desperately to come up with something to suggest as a subject and ‘comedy’ came up in their head, they’d sooner stab themselves in the hand than say something so embarrassingly annoying. It’s just a ridiculous idea. And see, what I’ve done here is close the loop. Instead of making jokes based on your subject, I made jokes based on the idea of your subject. How’s that for meta?

“Maaaaath! Who suggested math?” An average-looking guy to Martin’s right raises his hand. “Alright, I’m gonna guess you’re one of two types of people, so sorry if you hate being pigeonholed. The way I see it, you’re either a nerdy kid all grown up who’s looking for vindication or you’re some hipster douchebag who thinks math can be neither interesting nor funny. People have made math jokes before. Not good ones, mind you, but math jokes have been made. There are references to being tangent to a girl’s curves, there’s talk of filling asymptotes, and I suppose they’re funny within the scope of mathematics, but on the whole? Meh. Math nerds can be funny, though. I dated a nerdy girl one time, and I think my favorite part about dating her was just that she put out. Nerdy girls who are willing to have sex pretty much get carte blanche from me. But then something awful happened, clearly. We’re not dating anymore. So what happened…well, one time I mentioned that I thought it was kind of weird that she was so quiet during sex. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t make any sounds, really, but she said she enjoyed it. Then, she tried compensating by just saying whatever came to mind while we were doing it, so she’d start talking to me like I was a famous mathematician from history, or maybe she’d just start reciting different formulas and theorems. That’s fine, I guess, but it was a little boring, and I think it was weirder than her not making any noise. So I tried pushing her in the right direction, I said to her, ‘No no, try saying something dirty.’ She responded with ‘Oh, oh yes, point nine repeating is almost, but not quite, equal to one.’ I stopped. My dick went limp. It was horrifying. I looked at her and said, ‘I told you to say something dirty, not fucking retarded. Now get out!’” The math guy and a few others go nuts. It might have gone over the heads of most of the audience, but Martin thinks it was worth it.

“Thanks guys, I hope you had a good time!”

A Thief Telling Some Jokes, Part 1: The Gathering

Martin has, for the time being, gotten out of his mess. By borrowing from Michelle, he has wisely transferred his debt from the bank – a large organization with thugs at its disposal – to a levelheaded family member, officially hauling him out from waist-deep financial shit. Kiefo sent Rico over a little past midday to make sure Martin paid up. In return, Martin revealed that he did indeed have the money and also that he planned on doing a show that night. Rico said he’d pass the word along

Now Martin is wondering what to do before his show. He’s lucky to have a friend who will let him pop up on stage every once in a while for a quick buck. His friend, Herb, seems to have the club and bar concept nailed, because despite being nestled in the shitty ghetto near Ian’s house, Herb draws in all kinds of business.

While trying to figure out what he should be doing with his time, Martin calls up Randy, yet another crazy S.O.B. in the string of crazies that Martin has to deal with on a regular basis. The only difference is that Randy is a sort of miracle worker with handyman-type jobs and car repair. Back to the crazy, though: Randy has the strange idea that building up a reputation of stealth will get him noticed by someone important enough to give him a life-changing job. So how does he integrate stealth into this handyman lifestyle? By doing all fund transfers electronically, Randy repairs things without alerting their owners to his presence. His clients never even meet him. This means his jobs require a significant amount of intelligence gathering – not to mention breaking and entering – but the bastard does it. Martin figures that if he calls Randy before his show, the window will probably be replaced before he gets back.

Sigh. Martin knows he should be calling Hilda, but he doesn’t know what to say. She may believe in karma, but surely she’ll question why he feels so compelled to give her money to pay what’s owed for her car. Martin isn’t known for his generosity as much as his bitchiness. Ah, what the hell? He calls her.

“Martin! Hi.” The constant cheeriness is grating to Martin. No one should be this happy after their car gets repossessed.

“Hey there. Um…you doing anything tonight?”

“Well, I was going to dye my hair, but that doesn’t usually take me very long.”

Martin heaves a long sigh. “How do you still have hair? It boggles the mind. Boggles it.”

“Look, I told you: PeteLab has all kinds of fixes for color treatments that I’m trying out. It’s a good supplementary income.”

And you still can’t meet your car payments? Thankfully, Martin has the presence of mind to internalize. “Yeah yeah. I still think a different color every day is ridiculous.”

“I’m just trying to be thorough AND quick.”

“The ladies must love you.”

“Martin!” Yeah, Martin needed to turn off the jokes.

“Sorry, I know you’re not a lesbian. We’ve had this conversation. Blah blah blah. Sorry. Oh, and I didn’t mean to miss your call today. I guess I didn’t notice my phone ringing.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I ended up just getting a ride from Bax.” Ah, Baxter, a priest after Martin’s heart. Bax once gave a series of sermons on the laziness of God. He wasn’t allowed back to that church.

“Baxter’s around? If he is, you should both come to my show tonight at The Glorious Hole. It’d be a cute little Jenkins family trip.”

“No no, he was just in town for a little while running some errands, I guess.”

“Shoot, well you should still come tonight. I actually have a present for you.” Two thousand dollars is a good gift, right? Do women like checks?

“A gift? You’re not doing another set on me, are you?” Oops. Martin forgot that he had done a whole set of jokes making fun of Hilda one night while both drunk and angry with her. He has ceased drinking and delivering.

“Oh lord, no. That was like…two years ago. I promise you I won’t be drunk. Hell, I have to drive over there. No DUIs for me.”

“Fine. Can you pick me up?” Oh, right.

“Yeah yeah, absolutely. I’ll come around your place at eight or so.”

“Alright, that sounds good. Talk to you then.”

“Uh huh. Bye.”

Phew. Now Martin had the opportunity to entertain her for a while, maybe loosen her up a bit before giving her a bunch of money. What an odd train of thought.

Martin, though not punctual for his sister, has the capacity to be on time when it suits him. He shows up at Hilda’s place promptly at eight o’clock. Once again, she is confusing him. She comes out wearing a cute dress and her hair is a normal color, maybe slightly red. The only thing Martin can hope for to break the spell is that she’ll say something stupid as soon as she gets in the car. Please oh please.

“Well hello!” Idiot. No, never mind. Not stupid.

“Sup.”

“What do you think of this color?”

Totally suits you, AND it goes well with your dress. Mmph. “Better than your usual tendencies toward neon and blinding, at the very least distracting.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad. I figured I could tone it down for your show, though. Don’t want you catching a glimpse of my hair color and going off about the strangeness of hair dyes and blue monkeys or whatever it is you talked about last time.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Not sorry, but Martin’s doing his best to not directly cause any hostility. That’s against his principles.

“So what’s my gift?” Pfft.

“I’ll tell you after the show. Just relax.”

“How am I supposed to relax? You don’t normally give people random gifts. This must be interesting. Are you going to set a Bible on fire and tell me it’s actually a gift?”

“Jesus. I didn’t realize I was such a horrible, horrible bastard. Forget it.”

“No no, I’ll stop asking.” She’s grinning, though. Hilda is grinning malevolently at Martin. He can feel it.

“So I’m actually gonna go check to see if someone else wants to go before we head to the club. He only lives a few of blocks away from The Hole.”

“Is he my present?” Occasionally Martin gets the feeling that she is intentionally driving him to be dour, but that wouldn’t be particularly good for his career as a comedian.

“No,” Martin says sternly. “You might find him interesting, though. I know I sure did.”

It doesn’t take long for them to get to Ian’s house. Martin gets Hilda to wait in the car.

Martin knocks apprehensively. Last time he was at the house there wasn’t much argument with just opening the door, but he’s not sure if that was a one-time permission or what. As he goes to open the door on his own, Ian yanks open the door. Martin looks away in case Ian isn’t wearing pants again, but he’s actually fully clothed.

“Martin! Come in! We were just sitting down for tea!” Martin didn’t expect anything less than insanity. Ian is wearing a full tuxedo and a top hat. Wonderful.

Curiosity piqued, Martin peeks inside Ian’s house. New furniture is set up already, but there’s no one else inside. The guy from the bank made a good call when he wrote “crazy/drugs”; still no idea whether this is drugs or just an excellent form of psychosis. “You remember me from yesterday?”

“Of course, Martin! Of course. It’s not every day fellows come along to abscond with my belongings, but alas, I was behind on my payments. I suppose I’ll just have to be more careful in the future, yes?” Ian whips around and grabs a teapot. “Oh shoot, let me just grab another cup from the kitchen. I’ll only be a moment.”

Ian starts off down the hall with a fast, deliberate gait, but Martin calls after him. “Ian! Wait, man. Stop. I can’t stay.”

“And why not?” says Ian, turning around.

“I’m actually doing a show tonight. I just came here to invite you, assuming you’re available, of course.”

“Hmm.” Ian has to think for a moment. “I’ll have to tell my guests that I’m leaving, but I suppose I could go out for a bit. What sort of show is this? Vaudeville? Burlesque? A one-man retelling of your memoirs, perhaps?”

“Uhh…stand-up comedy.” The two are silent for a bit.

“I see. Yes, I think I shall attend, Martin.”

“Great! I can give you a ride over, actually. I’ll just wait outside so you can tell your guests that you need to leave.”

“Indeed.”

Martin nods and heads out to his car. Hilda seems confused. “Why aren’t we leaving?”

“Oh, he’s coming. He just needed to take care of something quickly, I guess.”

“Why was he wearing a tuxedo?”

Martin smiles. “He had guests for tea.”

Hilda has no response for this. Ian exits his house shortly, now wearing…a t-shirt and jeans. Seeing Hilda, Ian hops into the back seat.

Martin cranes his head around the driver’s seat. “Dude, what happened to the tux?”

“What?” Ian seems perplexed. He continues buckling his seatbelt.

“You were just in a tux and a friggin’ Abe Lincoln hat. Why did you change?”

“You must be referring to my loungewear. I would never leave my house in loungewear.” Hilda, having not been previously exposed to Ian, is utterly confused. Martin just fires off a solid thumbs up and starts the car.

Just Us Avery Women

After leaving Ray to do his own thing, Martin is feeling like having a drink himself, but he showers first. What little work he did over the course of the day has left him feeling dirty, although it’s more likely that it just compounded whatever grime he had left on him after lounging around drinking for a few days prior.

When he’s finally clean and ready to relax, he grabs one of his alcoholic beers from the fridge and retires to his room. He sits down at his computer with the intention of brainstorming ways to make money and possibly help out Hilda with her new car troubles, but he ends up chuckling to himself and recounting the day’s various oddities in joke form so he’ll have material for his next show. Those little bastards in the audience are always demanding more from him. Sigh.

Occasionally the thought of monetary problems pops up again, so he takes a few more swigs of his beer to distract himself. There’s no time to worry about debt when you’re in a humorous mood.

Then a message pops up from his sister (her horrifying screen name being classyass101):

classyass101: are you sober?
funnymartin: what? no
classyass101: come on, marty
classyass101: how can i catch you when you’re sober?
classyass101: do you have some sort of schedule?
funnymartin: I”M THE FUNNY ONE
classyass101: right.
classyass101: are you doing anything tomorrow?
funnymartin: probably getting my shit stolen by this gargantuan black fucker and his mexican life partner
classyass101: um…i'm not really sure if you’re being serious or not
classyass101: that scares me
funnymartin: nope,no jokes here, sissy
funnymartin: we might as well do something if thats what you want
classyass101: i was just thinking breakfast or lunch or something
classyass101: i'll even buy
funnymartin: OH MYG OD
classyass101: excuse me?
funnymartin: hey so…can i have like 10000 dollars (i think i got the zeros right)
classyass101: jesus, for what?
funnymartin: i have a pretty nasty coke habit
funnymartin: and midget hookers are more expensive than you might think
funnymartin: i always figured you’d pay LESS to have sex with a smaller person, but they’re more of a collector’s item or soemthing
classyass101: why don’t we talk about this over breakfast, then?
funnymartin: hookers?
classyass101: martin!
funnymartin: micheellllllle!
classyass101: christ, i'm just going to call you in the morning, so pick up
funnymartin: MICHEELLLLLLLLEEEEEEEE!!!!

Clearly, Martin is excited when he remembers that his sister is a well-to-do businesswoman who spends her days in the financial district making waves and, more importantly, a healthy sum of money. Martin’s always avoided borrowing money from her simply so he doesn’t have to talk to her very much, but he has no doubt that she’d be good for $10,000.

In the morning, he is startled and manages to move when his phone begins vibrating loudly on his nightstand. 7:30 seems unimaginably early to him, but he’s also aware that it might just be the hangover talking. Ugh. It’s hard to think about eating eggs when your stomach seems rattled by the previous night’s romp through Beertown. The thought of bacon makes him feel slightly better, but knowing his sister, she’ll probably want to hit up some vegan café for a meal that only vaguely resembles breakfast. Fuuuuuck. Martin blames Ray for all of this.

Michelle wants to meet Martin for breakfast at 8:30, so he strolls in at a gentleman’s 9:13. As expected, Michelle is waiting patiently and has not yet ordered anything. So predictable.

“I can’t help but notice that you didn’t pick one of your shitty breakfast spots,” says Martin as he takes a seat and signals for coffee.

“Well, I figured you wouldn’t be in the greatest shape this morning. I’d rather not get puked on if I can help it. Some of us actually have to work for the rest of the day.” Despite the bitchy ‘tude rising up at the end there, Michelle was seemingly too accommodating for Martin’s liking. Then he realized what was going on.

“Oh no. God no. Did you go out on a date last night?” Martin could not believe exactly how predictable she was. This is how it always went with Michelle.

“Look, I just don’t get why I didn’t even get a goodnight kiss. If a guy doesn’t kiss you goodnight, what are you supposed to think?”

“I’m supposed to think he respects my boundaries as a stalwart heterosexual, I guess.”

“No, but c’mon. I was interested in what he had to say, I tried not to go on too long about myself, but he just seemed put off by the end of the night. This always happens. How would you get a guy interested?” She always reeked of desperation when she appealed to Martin for help, but she continued to ask in the most unsettling way.

“Why must you always do this? You can't drag me out of bed and into town in the morning and expect me to answer questions from a girl’s perspective. I’m a guy; that’s all I know. If you want to ask a question, you’d ask what would make me interested in a girl. I know it’s a subtle difference, but the way you ask me shit freaks me out.”

“Are you done?”

“Yes.”

“What would a girl have to do to get your attention?”

“Not dress like a librarian and hint at a possible desire to have sex. This is what’s so appealing about prostitutes. They go above and beyond the call of duty on both of those criteria.”

“You’re disgusting, you know.”

“Yes, I’m very well aware, but it’s hard for me to care when there is impending bacon.” Martin really was excited for the bacon. “Seriously, what did you wear? Something you’d wear to work? ‘Cause that just won’t cut it.”

“I dressed…appropriately.”

“Boooo-rriiiiiiing. No guy wants appropriate. You should really consider dressing like you’d take money for sex.”

“This isn’t very helpful.”

“You say that now, but think about it: has dressing ‘appropriately’ ever gotten you laid, NOT counting anyone else who’s in the finance industry? You guys are all so repressed."

“Not to mention we never have to ask our siblings for large sums of money.”

“Oh right, I’m glad you reminded me. I need that before the end of the day.”

“What the hell did you DO? Ten thousand dollars? I hope the midgets were pretty.”

Martin chuckles. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about hookers.”

“You kind of forced my hand on that one.”

“Well…eight thousand dollars to get me and my roommate out of a jam, then two thousand to help out a friend. See, I thought Ray was going to pay off the loan alright, but apparently he never got around to it. I can make the money off a few shows.”

“Then what about the other two thousand?”

Sigh. “I’d actually rather not talk about it. I feel like enough of a dick as it is.”

“Hey, if it’s to help out someone you’ve wronged, I’d say it’s part of my civic duty as your sister to heal their wounds with my money."

“That’s a pretty retarded sense of self-righteousness, not to mention a gross underestimation of my ability to be a decent human being.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Fine. I can put the money in your account tomorrow.” Martin nearly spits out his coffee.

“Ah, well I was hoping we could go to the bank after this.”

“What? I need to get to work, Martin.”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t joking about the black Hulk and the Mexican, so have a little mercy.”

“I see. It’s all coming together now.”

“Yeah, the-“

“You’re gay, aren’t you?”

“WHAT?”

“Black Hulk? These guys are your midgets, huh?”

“Fuck off, Michelle. See if I ever help you with your guy problems again.”

“You haven’t even helped me now!”

“But you’re still paying for breakfast, right?”

“I’m taking it out of the ten thousand.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

Non-Alcoholics Anonymous, Non-Alcoholics Anonymous, Non-Alco…

After laying Ian down onto the floor, the crew is able to finish their work in peace. Martin is almost impressed when “crazy/drugs” doesn’t even wake up before he leaves. He can only imagine what kind of drugs are swimming around in Ian’s head. They’re probably pretty good drugs.

“You want us to drop you off at home, man?” Rico asks, lacking his mid-day verve. The labor of the day has caught up with most of the group. Martin’s probably the only one who isn’t exhausted. He’s sure this is because he barely did any work, but he can only hope the other guys didn’t notice or don’t care.

“Yeah, that’d be good. I have a few things I need to take care of.” Martin has been trying to keep in mind that today was a waste unless he can actually get the money Raymond needs by tomorrow.

“Like getting me some cash!” Kiefo laughs as he climbs into the front seat.

Martin sighs. “I’m not getting the money for you, dumbass. I’m pretty sure I only owe the bank.”

“You watch it, little man. Once you get me that money, I’ve officially saved your ass.” Kiefo slams his door.

Whatever. Martin hops in the back and plops down onto Ian’s couch. That’s when he remembers to get his phone so he doesn’t forget it. He’s been leaving it in the back of the truck while everyone’s inside working. No one really calls him anyhow, so what’s the harm?

1 New Voicemail. Hmm.

“Hey, you’ve reached Martin. Pretend I said something funny.” Martin enters his password here. “You have one unheard message. ‘Hey Martin, this is Hilda. I was just calling to see if you were around your place and might want to give me a ride home from work. Um…’” Fuck. The surge of guilt is almost unbearable. “’It’s okay if you don’t get this, though. I can just ride the bus. Not sure what happened to my car. Karma maybe? I’m sure this is all just part of the bigger plan for us all. Well…okay, call me back if it’s not too late when you get this. Bye.’” Martin snaps his phone shut.

It’s actually right around six at this point; Ian’s place took a bit longer than expected for various reasons. Martin figures there’s no point in calling back now. Really, though, he just doesn’t want to talk to her about the car. What a coward. He doesn’t know whether to focus on his guilt or self-hatred at this point. Now he’s just hoping his roommate is back when he gets home so he has someone to vent at.

The repo guys drop Martin off with little fanfare, just a reminder that they’ll be back tomorrow afternoon for payment – or the rest of his shit.

When Martin tries to open the front door, it won’t budge. What the hell? Then he realizes that Ray must have locked it for one of his “binges”. Thankfully, the repo crew made a secondary entrance for Martin that morning. He can hear Tommy and Kiefo laughing at him; Tommy and Kiefo see him flip the bird as they drive off.

What a fucking mess, and all for the sake of showmanship. His roommate, Raymond Joseph, the obsessive-compulsive “alcoholic”, lies face-down in the middle of their living room. If they had all of their furniture, he’d be passed out on the couch like he usually is. At least this time he didn’t make himself vomit for realism.

“Come on, Ray. Get up. We need to talk about that loan you took out. I actually had to work today so the bank didn’t take everything.” Martin stands over Raymond’s still body. The empty corpses of non-alcoholic beers litter the floor. At least Ray is unquestionably insane. One can’t say the same for Ian. Hmm.

Ray lifts his head slowly, doing his best imitation of how a drunk person would act grateful. “Ugh, thanks,” he mumbles as he rolls over, an empty still clutched in his hand. “Ugggghhh. I’m so sorry, Marty. I’m so sorry. I did it again.” Somehow Ray manages to not open his eyes through all of this. Martin just shakes his head at the stupidity.

“God…damn…it.” Martin grabs Ray by the shirt and lifts him up to a sitting position. “You are not drunk! You can’t be an alcoholic without alcohol!” Usually Martin does not get this angry, but people who seem unwilling to properly use their brains piss him off. This is doubly so when he has to live with the person and co-sign on their loans.

Martin lets go of Ray and sits down next to him. He looks around, noting the five empty bottles. It’s always five bottles. Ray buys six-packs of non-alcoholic beer, but he only drinks five each time. Then, once he’s purchased six six-packs, he consolidates the loners into a new six-pack…and only drinks five. Martin’s always tempted to dump out the sixth one and see what Ray does, but he’s really not that cruel. Hell, he helped Ray get that loan. Now he’s going to suffer for it unless he can figure out a way to make a decent haul in one day that pays cash.

Shit.

Mr. Thomas and His Things

It’s the end of the day. One stop left.

The house looks pretty nice, actually, like the owner held the place together while the rest of the block was falling into disrepair. Martin feels kind of bad repossessing items from what looks like the only decent house within a few miles from where he’s standing. He knocks.

“Mr. Thomas?” Kiefo yells from behind Martin. “Knock again, little man.” He knocks again.

“What do we do if no one’s home?”

Kiefo sighs as he looks down at his clipboard and back up at Martin. “Well, I guess you could just check to see if the door’s open. This is definitely the place.” The large man continues to look down at his clipboard then back up to the door. He yells to Rico, currently hanging off the back of the vehicle parked at the curb. “What do you think this means, Rico? ‘Crazy-slash-drugs’? Why would the bank make a note of that?”

Rico hops off the moving truck, which seems relieved to not be carrying his weight anymore. He grabs the board from Kiefo and looks at it for a few seconds. “No sé, mi amigo. You’d think that if it were a big deal they’d explain it more. Maybe they were just making fun of him?”

“Then why’d they put it on the forfeiture notice?”

“That’s…a good point, jefe. Shit.”

Martin doesn’t know what to make of the situation. Looks like they might not be going in, but it seems that a bona fide nutjob lives here…or a drug addict. His curiosity is mingling with his sense of humor, and they really want him to go inside. The door is unlocked.

“Oh.” He goes to step inside, but Rico grabs him by the shoulder.

“Hold on, man, you don’t wanna just go walking in there unprepared.” Huh?

“Do you guys have flashbangs? Smoke grenades?”

“Forget it, let’s just go in. You’re first in case someone starts shooting.”

“Faaantastic.” Martin walks into the first room. It appears to be the living room. There’s a small TV, a couple of chairs, a couch, and several bongs spread out on a short table in the middle of it all.

“Damn,” says Kiefo. He steps closer to inspect the smoking devices. “Why does he need so many of these?”

“Huh, no idea.” Martin is a little overwhelmed by the stench of weed. Clearly the bank was at least right about the drugs part of their note. “Should we check to see if anyone’s home?”

“Yeah yeah, good idea. You and Rico go check out the rest of the house.” Great.

There’s a hallway leading out back to the kitchen and what appears to be the stairs up to the next floor. Martin looks at Rico imploringly. “Ladies first…hombre.” Rico shakes his head, but Martin’s fine with accepting pity so that Rico will go ahead of him. One should always bring a large Mexican meat shield when entering an unfamiliar house uninvited. Rico pokes his head into the bathroom partway down the hall.

“Hey Tommy, come get some of this stuff!” Martin is jumped by Kiefo’s raised voice coming from the living room, but he quickly laughs it off as he turns back toward Rico.

And…this must be Ian Thomas, the owner of the house – a tall, lean blond man standing at the end of the hall in a t-shirt and absolutely nothing else. His face makes him appear to be on the verge of laughing, with no apparent shame over his exposed lower half.

Martin grimaces. “Aw, c’mon! That’s your dick!”

Rico grimaces. “Aw, man. Put some clothes on, pendejo!”

“Oh, hey. You guys want some toast?” Ian turns back into the kitchen, exposing his bare ass to Rico and Martin.

“Goddammit, man. Do you have no shame?” Martin has headed back toward the living room at this point. Rico decides to just turn around and push through the conversation without actually looking at Ian.

“I’m all set with the toast, Mr. Thomas. Could you please, PLEASE put some pants on?” In the living room, Kiefo is standing around watching Tommy drag stuff out to the truck, completely oblivious to the drama in the kitchen. Martin takes it upon himself to make the injured boss handle the situation.

“Kiefo, Mr. Crazy-slash-drugs is in the kitchen without any pants on trying to feed us toast. It’s kinda creeping us out. I think I’d be okay with the toast if he’d just cover up his dick.” It would appear that Kiefo is as turned off by the idea of Ian’s penis as Rico and Martin, but he grimaces in silence before making his way down the hall.

“Jesus Christ, man, put some pants on.” Ian doesn’t take his eyes off his toaster.

“Shh. Hold on for like…twelve minutes, man.” The group waits in silence.

In the living room, Martin is obliged to be moving furniture with the driver instead of dealing with the pants-less stoner in the kitchen. He has a high tolerance for wacky shit, but unexpected dicks make him uncomfortable.

The toaster’s tray pops up in far less than twelve minutes. Nothing. Ian smiles a slow, dopey grin and cranes his neck back as he looks over at the repo men. “I forgot bread.”

Rico is incredulous. “Isn’t that the only ingredient in toast?”

“Yeah, thankfully. Gotta get some bread now.” Ian starts swinging open cupboards, but then Kiefo restrains him, getting him to stand in one spot again.

“Mr. Thomas, do you know why we’re here?” He’s just trying to do his job. All Kiefo wants is a smooth interaction. Ian seems to be on another plane of existence.

“Of course! Of course I know why you’re here,” says Ian, gesticulating excitedly. “You’re the toast guys; you came for the toast. My grandfather, see – he always said to provide toast if that’s what they want, and since you said you want toast…you do want toast right? Well anyhow, I apparently need bread for you fine gentlemen. We may have to go to the store, though. My apologies. Let me get my keys.” Ian squats down, much to Kiefo’s chagrin, and opens a cupboard in the kitchen’s island. He pulls out a pair of sweatpants and pulls them on quickly before brushing past Kiefo and heading down the hallway. Rico goes after him, but meets Martin halfway. “Excuse me. There’s toast in the kitchen if you want some.” Martin doesn’t know what to say when faced with insanity.

“Hey Rico, uh, I was just coming to say that I can’t actually lift my end of the couch. It’s kind of a one-man show starring Tommy in the living room.”

Sigh. “I knew it, man. Whatever. Where’s he going?” Martin looks back to see Ian stop at the end of the hall, then disappear around the corner into the living room. Tommy can be seen standing by the front door, both waiting for help and suddenly looking in horror at the strange spectacle of a man who just walked into the room.

“What?” Martin doesn’t understand what’s so bad now that Ian’s wearing pants. Kiefo and Rico follow him back to the living room.

Oh.

Ian is passed out on his couch, face down, with his hands both stuffed down the front of his pants.

“What the hell’s wrong with this guy?” asks Tommy. Oh Tommy, who knows?

Silence. Martin looks around at the perplexed faces. The working class just can’t wrap their heads around this sort of eccentricity. “Am I really the only one who finds this hilarious?”