Other Fan Fiction / Romance Fan Fiction / Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ The Adventures of Thad Gunter ❯ I Fought the Embittered Ex-Girlfriend and the Embittered Ex-Girlfriend Won ( Chapter 3 )

THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF THAD GUNTER!

 

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Chapter 3: I Fought the Embittered Ex-Girlfriend and the Embittered Ex-Girlfriend Won

 

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After arguing with the bank clerk for two hours, running back to his house at least six times, and then arguing with local police for another two hours about the dead body in the bank, Isaac Thaddeus "Thad" “Dude” Edgar Gunter III finally was allowed access to his bank account. As Thad was a highly successful documentary filmmaker of such films as “Inside this Dog's Anus” and “What's Up with Racism?” before his self-inflicted exile, he had procure a rather comfy finical pillow over the years. Due to the horrible wonders of inflation, that large chunk of cash had actually blossomed under *Insert Current Disliked President's Name Here*'s tyrannical control. Thad nearly farted with joy after realizing how wealthy he actually was. He decided immediately that this wealth would be a great service to him in his quest to find his beloved Helen Maria Rudwalnagirctekahs.

 

Thad figured the best place to start on his quest would be to consult the people that knew his dearest Helen the best: Her parents. As far as he knew, they still resided in a deceptively spooky looking mansion on the outskirts of town. Still, it was a long walk and Thad was in need of a vehicle. With his newly acquired chunk of Dead Presidents, he could have bought some ridiculously expensive and phallic shaped sports car and drove out to meet them. However, Thad was never one to splurge. (Except in the bedroom. HA! *Rim shot*) So he decided to forgo the million dollar LambGaniJag-Benz and just settle on the seven-hundred thousand dollar Hummer. After all it could survive armor piercing rounds, drive underwater, and had a moon roof.

 

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Thad was endlessly impressed with himself that he could still recall the way to the old mansion. Yes, many times during his childhood years did a much younger Thad and a much younger Helen frolic about in it's swamps and underground torture chambers. Often they would play wonderful childhood games like “Flay the Corpse” and “Eavesdrop on Mommy and Daddy's Nefarious Plans for World Domination.” It was happy times, for sure. Thad was well aware that it was these quaint and innocent childhood fancies that would lead him and his Dearest Helen Maria to deeper romantic connections later in life.

 

The mansion remained mostly unchanged. Thad recalled the ominous statues in the front yard, the brown patchy dead grass, the fog that surrounded the place even in the afternoon, as well as the flesh eating vines that crawled all over the mansion's surface. All of these things remained intact. As Thad plummeted ten feet from the driving seats of his vehicle to the ground below, he couldn't help but smile at the visage of the old place. It warmed his heart.

 

After navigating through the bear traps and chained crocodiles of the lawn, Thad reached the door and gave it three steady knocks. He expected dear old Lady Rudwalnagirctekahs, or “Ruddy” as they would call her behind her back, to come to the door, smiling and offering treats of deep-fried squid and red wine. That didn't happen, though. Nothing happened, actually. Thad knocked again, this time more forcefully, in hopes that the owners were simply sleeping. He knew that any minute now the old man of the house, Old Man Rudwalnagirctekahs, would appear from behind the door, shooing Thad in and muttering underneath his breath about “little bastards” and “fucking Nazis.” That didn't happen either. Our hero was quite discouraged to learn that he would have to venture into the home without any official say so.

 

The door creeked that kind of creek usually reserved for the bones of 80-year olds and public domain horror films as Thad slowly, dramatically, opened it. He peered inside the mansion and was immediately hit in the face with the stench of backed-up sewer and old people sex. Thad, covering his nose for protection, entered, slowly, cautiously, Indiana Jones-ish-ly, into the building. He notices how the place was obviously uncared for as a thick layer of dust covered everything. The remains of bats, spiders, and homeless people decorated the old rooms. The only thing left alive in the place that Thad could detect were a cockroach and a rat, locked in a battle to the death over the last RitzTM cracker in the pantry. It was depressing to see the home of so many beloved childhood memories in such a state of disrepair. It was so depressing that Thad considered running headfirst into a giant fan and ending it all. But then he realized he didn't have a giant fan handy and if he couldn't end it that way, then suicide just wasn't worth it. Thad was so involved in his thoughts over suicide, giant fans, and, strangely, John Tesh, that he didn't notice someone mysterious and, doubtlessly worthy of italics, had snuck out the front door.

 

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After searching through the many varied secret passages of Rudwalnagirctekahs' spooky mansion for hours, Thad found nothing of note but several thousands ancient porno mags from the seventies and a note, written in blood on a piece of wood bark, that read, “Goddamn it, “Star Trek V” sucked.” He wasn't exactly sure how helpful these things would be in his quest, but he decided to hold on to them anyway. You never know when that sort of thing might come in handy.

 

Since his first lead was a definite dead end, Thad decided to head for his second best bet. Back during his days of reporter and documentary filmmaker madness, he once knew a man. DJ Silloc was his name and he was a strange, possibly insane, balding little fellow. He was Thad's sound editor and handled the, er, sound editing for all of his films. He was also an expert at surveillance, the Internet(s), people tracking, paranoia, technology in general, as well as three forms of arcane martial arts and deviant masturbation techniques. DJ owned him one after Thad had pulled his still screaming body from a sewer pipe that was slowly filling with toxic waste as well as hungry baby alligators. He knew DJ would at least be able to give him a rough idea of were to find dearest Helen Maria Rudwalnagirctekahs. After disclosing a near-by phone book, Thad wrote down DJ's address, instead of tearing the page out like every other movie asshole, and headed out to find him.

 

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While the Rudwalnagirctekahs manor hadn't changed too much over the years, the home of DJ Silloc was remarkably different. Where once there was an upper class apartment building, there now stood a field of scourged ground and a rickety outhouse. One that, strangely, had a voice box attached to it. Thad, thoroughly confused, weakly tapped on the outhouse door. When there was no response, he gave the door handle a tug. It didn't open and he finally decided to press the big red “SPEAK!” button on the voice box. As he pushed down, there was a harsh scratching. Thad, still confused, leaned in and spoke.

 

“Hello?”

 

A second later, a high pitch, scratchy voice that didn't sound completely unlike Curtis Armstrong responded.

 

“Who is it?”

 

Thad definitely recognized the voice. Still unsure, he bit his upper lip and spoke again.

 

“This is DJ Silloc, right?”

 

There was static again before the voice ejaculated an answer, “Yeah, who the hell are you?:

 

“It's Isaac “Thad” “Dude” Thaddeus Edgar Gunter the Third. You remember me, don't you DJ?”

 

The voice box paused, (even though, you know, voice boxes can't actually “pause” per say.) before saying anything again. “You don't look like Isaac.”

 

Thad remained confused, not seeing any cameras in the area. Still, being the offspring of an obviously deranged mind, he accepted this incongruent aspect of his reality. He pressed the button again, like one would gently poke a disobedient puppy in the eye, and spoke.

 

“I know, but I swear it's me. I've kinda' went through some interesting stuff yesterday.”

 

The raspy voice clinked/clanked/banged, “How can I be sure it's you?”

 

Thad had seen this cliché before, “Okay, I'll tell you something that obviously no one else could possibly know. Remember back when we were editing `Just Say No to Inter-Species Sex?' And you made that off color joke about how it was a film after your own heart?”

 

There was silence from the voice-box for a moment. The suspense nearly caused Thad's heart to explode. Before that could happen, DJ's voice slowly whispered from the machine, “That wasn't a joke.”

 

The door then opened with a metallic chuuurrr-plunk. Thad was surprised once again when he entered the outhouse. He expected to see some high-tech underground facility, assuming that the outhouse was just a cover. Of course, by doing that he once again made an ass of me… Um, I mean, himself. The required circle of flies buzzed around the head of a short, chunky, balding little gnome that wore nothing but a pair of heart-studded boxer shorts, tennis shoes, and a wrap-around microphone across his face. Surrounding the gnome and adorning the walls of the outhouse was various high-tech audio, visual, and computer equipment.

 

Interspersed among the items of undetermined technological origin were pictures of a quietly pretty young woman, no older then her mid-twenties. She was of medium height and skinny but still had a nice shape to her. Her hair was short and cropped in most of the pictures, and differing between dark black and amber red in others. She wore a mischievous smile, in several of the pictures. One that suggested both a childhood innocence as well as the lascivious thoughts of a sexually experienced older woman.

 

The gnome was, of course, DJ Silloc. Thad didn't recognize the girl.

 

The seated man spoke with all the subtlety of a raging AIDS whore, “Isaac Gunter, I never thought I would see you again after that nervous breakdown you had. I especially never thought I would see you looking like some stock actor in a `40s B-movie. How the hell did that happen? Were you in a horrible car accident and had to have all of John Agar's skin urgently?”

 

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

 

DJ gave him a look as if to say, humor me, before actually saying, “Humor me.”

 

Thad cleared his throat as well as his nostrils, “I was launched into an intense session of vomiting and defecating that drastically altered my physical appearance.”

 

DJ snorted in disapproval, “You're such a wagon-jumper. Don't you know that all the hot young people today are doing that?”

 

“Really?”

DJ threw a ceramic collectable angel at Thad's face. “Fuck you, Thad! Anyway, what do you want?”

 

Thad, after removing the painful pieces of glass from his face, looked for a place to sit down in the outhouse. DJ kicked him in the balls for doing so and told him to, “Sit on the fucking ground, you goddamn lazy pedophile. In case you hadn't noticed, I live in a fucking outhouse, douche bag!”

 

Still grasping his bruised testicles, our hero grunted, “What happen to your apartment?”

 

The crazed gnome looked at him like one looks at a dying armadillo on the side of road before crushing its spine in some sort of sadistic act of mercy, “I burnt it down. Didn't you know arson was my hobby?”

 

“No.”

 

The gnome bit Thad's ear off in response. As he grasps his bleeding auditory organ, that was spurting crimson blood and yellow ear wax, DJ didn't miss a beat and continued talking.

 

“You are here…” He snorted, “HEAR! Hahahahah! Anyway, … to obtain my services, yes?”

 

While applying a very convenient bandage to his newly acquired wounds, Thad sat down across from him and spoke in as calm a voice as he could. “Ah, yes, actually. I need you to find someone.”

 

DJ began to type on the keyboard located on his urine stained lap. “Someone covers a lot of ground. I need a name, Dude.”

 

Thad was almost embarrassed to speak it. Before seeing her on that despicable website, he honestly had not seen his dearest Helen in years. They were going to get married, right out of high school. However, her father forbid it and instead insisted that she go to a very expensive college on the other side of the ocean. Thad promised to stay in touch but as his reporter career took off and the more immediate love of local fan girls took focus, he simply forgot to write her once a week. Truthfully, he was being selfish. He was focusing far more on his career then on his love. But he had been focusing on nobody but himself for the past seven years. He'd had enough of that. He wanted to care for the people he loved once again. Thad was nineteen last he saw Helen in person. He was thirty-five now. God, had it been that long? He remembered…

 

Thad's depressing, character-building, Author induced flashback was interrupted by DJ tearing out one of his eyelashes. Thad screams again as the hair was torn from delicate flesh. The crazed little person berated him again with barely comprehensible profanities.

 

“What the fuck are you doing, fish boobs? Dick-fucking cows in retrospect? Get your head out of your ass! Who do you want me to find?”

 

Holding a hand over his one eye, Thad stood up, proud and shouted the name of his beloved to the heavens and the about twenty homeless people that lived in the next alleyway over, “Helen Maria Rudwalnagirctekahs!”

 

DJ looked up at him, like he always did, being a gnome; “What the hell kind of name is that?”

 

It was Thad's time to get defensive, “The same kind of name every character in this series has. A stupid one. It amuses the Author. How else do you explain “Thad Gunter” or “DJ Silloc?” God, that last one sounds like a rapper or something.”

 

High lord of rhythm, The DJ Silloc responded, “Yeah, I know. What an asshole.”

 

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In his secret underground bunker, the Author bemoaned, frolicking in his own shit, endless self-loathing and shirtless emo-tivity. (What the fuck does that mean?)

 

He spoke with a voice that specialized in shitty poetry, “God, even my own characters hate me.”

 

He then proceeded to cry and slit his own wrist. What a pussy.

 

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The reaper of rhymes typed the name into his super fancy dance-y computer thing as he talked, “With a name like that, she should be able to track down, no problem.”

 

Thad was relived, “That's wonderful! My quest is nearly at an end!”

 

The sultan of scratch smiled an evil smile at Thad. Something nefarious was boiling in his brain. “Not so fast. I don't do anything for free, Thad.”

 

The taller man crossed his arms. He wanted to say something like, “But I'm your friend!” but didn't want DJ to smash his ankles with a meat tenderizer afterwards. So he chooses his words very carefully.

 

“I saved your life once, remember? You owe me one.”

 

“You mean that sewer, alligator thing?”

“Yeah, how could you forget!”

 

DJ smashed Thad's ankle with a meat tenderizer. As our hero writhed on the ground in agony, DJ stood up over him, shouting at the top of his lungs, sounding like some sort of Japanese cartoon character.

 

“I was enjoying that, clam face! You denied me the greatest orgasm of my life!”

 

Thad, despite the pain, could only say one thing next, “Eww.”

 

DJ then stomped on his face a couple of times, just for good measure.

 

After Thad was rushed to the emergency room, had two hundred stitches, major surgery, recovered for two weeks, speed around the county in a hot red convertible with Christian Slater, Juliette Lewis, and Quentin Tarrantino for seven days; then discover a metaphysical time machine and soul-traveled back to the exact moment in time following DJ stomping his face, completely changing history as we know it, he questioned the little demented man's terms.

 

“All right, what do you want me to do?”

 

The diminutive fellow snatched one of the girl's pictures from the wall and handed it to Thad. “I have a mission for you. Complete it successfully and I might consider helping you. See that girl?”

 

Not wanting to provoke him too much, he simply said, “Uh, yeah.”

 

“Her name is Rachel Merchawitz. She's the only woman I've ever loved. And I mean on a spiritual level, not a physical one. I'll let you know, I've loved many women on a physical level.”

 

Thad wanted to roll his eyes dismissively at this but also noticed a hacksaw within arms length of DJ. He decided to reframe and just said, “So what does she have to do with this?”

 

“A year ago she left me, saying I was psychotic and a freak. What a bitch. Anyway, immediately afterwards she runs off and married some greasy punk rocker named Joe Doe. I mean, what the fuck? What's that guy got that I don't? A job? A house? Friendly and personable behavior? The ability to care about somebody beyond a selfish and possessive level? Who the fuck needs that shit?”

 

Our hero did nothing but watch in horror and absorb the little man's diatribe. My God, what was he going to ask him to do?

 

Thad, risking an injury, decided to interrupt him and let him catch his breath, “I'm not killing anyone, DJ.”

 

The gnome laughed a demented laugh, “I don't want you to kill him!”

 

He then produced a splintered two-by-four with an old four inch nail through it and handed it to Thad before continuing,

 

“I just want you to beat him severally about the head and shoulders! If I kill him, Rachel would never take me back! I just want to put him on life support so as to traumatize her. Being in a state of grief, she would then seek comfort in my near-by arms.”

 

He twirled his non-existent mustache and cackled madly, “It's an infallible plan! Infallible, I say!”

 

Thad was over his head. Holding the piece of wood, he looked down into DJ's black eyes, completely depressed.

 

“You swear to help me find Helen if I do this for you?”

 

The gnome shook Thad's hand, “Scout's honor!”

 

“You were never a boy scout!”

 

Mr. Silloc spat, “Fine. Then I promise on my life, I'll help you if you beat the crap out of this Joe Doe ass hat.”

 

Thad shook his head in shame. “All right. We're do they live?” Honestly, the things people do for love.

 

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It was another calm day at the Doe-Merchawitz residence. Rachel had worked hard that day at her new job as a modeling company intern. Being a recent addition, she was still vulnerable to the various pranks and heckling that older employees tend to run on greenhorns. A sort of friendly hazing. Well, mostly friendly, anyway. Rachel didn't much appreciate the dead cat in her desk draw.

 

Meanwhile, Joe had spent a good portion of the day practicing with his band for a show later that week. It wasn't exactly a smooth session. Their guitarist, Keith, had to be rushed to Sweden overnight and receive a full-body blood transfer. He was determined to kick his heroin addiction and this was, by far, the easiest and most expensive way to do it. Keith promised everyone, including Joe, that he would stay clean from now on. His band mates laughed at that and playfully handed Keith back his crack pipe. However, due to the transfer, his arms had all the consistency of wet electric cables, so Keith's guitar playing skills were not up to snuff. This made the fifteen minute guitar solo during “Consistent Punk-Rock Beat with Incomprehensive Vocals and Vague Political Commentary” rather awkward.

 

Joe spent the rest of the day cleaning house and preparing the evening's fine fish dinner. Most men, especially those with the rather macho occupation of punk-rocker, would object to being a house-husband. Joe, however, embraced his newly found status as a married man with a working wife. He always enjoyed cooking and never minded the idea of cleaning, either. He also admitted to finding Martha Stewert mildly attractive, though these were thoughts Joe reserved solely for discussion with his psychologist.

 

Rachel's thoughts of work were far away as she pulled into her suburban driveway. She eagerly awaited the peace of mind coming home guaranteed. As she exited her middle class car, she gave her surroundings a good look. Painted white fences, rows of nearly identical houses, a neatly trimmed, impossibly green lawn, her own moderate sized heels and blueish-gray pantsuit. She couldn't help but chuckle. Never in her life would she image herself here, looking like this, a not-quite fully fledged suburbanite. How did her wild teenage self wind up her? Worse yet, how could that punky little girl ever be happy here? But she was happy, incredibly so. Who woulda' thunk it?

 

As she entered her home, she was greeted with the pleasant, mystique smell of grilling fish. Joe stood in the kitchen, his long greasy rock star hair pulled back into a neat little bun, and wearing a pink frilly apron that read “Kiss the Cook.” Rachael chuckled again, causing Joe to look up, spatula in his oven-mitt covered hands.

 

He grinned, “What's so funny?”

 

She walked over, wrapped her arms around him and lightly kissed him before responding, “You are, goofball.” She kissed him again, this time more deeply.

 

Distracted and fairly occupied with his wife, he laid the spatula down absent-mindedly next to the beautiful cast-iron skillet, “Diner's going to burn.”

 

Rachel give him a “What kind of dumbass are you?” look, “Are you really all that worried about it?”

 

He laughed, feeling more then a little stupid, “Well, this wasn't cheap you know? I've worked hard all day fixing this.”

 

“You sound just like a suburban housewife, Joe.”

 

He laughed again, “And it's not easy being a suburban housewife, I'll let you know. Besides, fish is a natural aphrodisiac. Let's see how you feel after dinner.”

 

Rachel smiled coyly to herself and walked off to the bathroom to change, leaving Joe to his fish.

 

Thad, clothed in a ski mask and not at all conspicuous camouflage body suit, provided by DJ, watched all of this rather sic-com like gallivanting from a window at the back of the house. Many times in his life, he had felt like an asshole. When he pushed Steve “Fatty” Warner to the ground back in the third grade. When he blind-sighted an old lady back when he was sixteen. When he accidentally assassinated vice-president, Al Gore. All of those were low points on Thad's otherwise pretty decent moral scale. But this, beating the crap out of an obviously decent guy and traumatizing his very loving wife, however, might take the assholery grand prix top award. As he jimmied the backdoor and slowly crept through the living room to the kitchen, jagged board with a rusty nail in it in hand, Thad felt nothing but the greatest shame possible.

 

Joe whistle the absolutely horrible song, “Appetite for Destruction,” completely clueless to the well-built, intimidating, armed fellow, taking special precautions not to squeak on the linoleum floor, that was approaching him from behind. As he raised the board above his head, readying to strike, Joe hit the chorus and started playing air guitar while flipping the fish over at the same time. Thad gulped and closed his eyes, just as he was about to bring the wooden plank down on this poor, poor bastard's cranium.

 

He imagined a loud cracking sound, coming from both the shattering board and Joe's shattering skull. Thad could clearly imagine him coughing up blood and he could smell it slinking onto the pan and starting to crackle and pop. He could hear him falling to the floor and beginning to shake and vibrate like a 42nd street crack whore badly in need of a fix. Thad knew he could easily escape through the still open backdoor and just hoped he could get lost before Rachel found the body and started screaming. If there was anything he hated more then hitting innocent people over the head with a jagged board with a rusty nail through it, it was the sound of a woman screaming.

 

At least, that's what would have happened if Rachel hadn't enter the room again, just in time, and noticed the strange assailant armed with a jagged board with a rusty nail through it. Despite being dressed in lounge pants and a robe, it didn't deter Rachel's self-defense skills. Acting as quickly as possible, she immediately delivered a flying kick to Thad's face, knocking him against the pantry and sending the jagged board with a rusty nail through it flying across the room.

 

Thad's body crashed through the pantry door and into a shelf, causing pork-rinds, bagged sugar, canned and bagged cat food, Oreaâ„¢ cookies, several different soup products, salad dressing, canned gravy, paper towels, a twelve ouch container of pickles, as well as some rat poison; all smashed down onto his head. As if that wasn't humiliating enough, Rachel grabbed up the board and, gripping it like a baseball bat, swung it at Thad's ass, embedding the nail deep into it. He screamed just like a little pussy Catholic boy and grabbed his injured posterior. She yanked it out, repositioned her weapon, and waked him again in the face.

 

Our hero curled up into a ball, cowering beneath a 5 foot, 5 inches, 105 pound woman, just as she continued to pummel him about the head and shoulders with his own jagged board with a rusty nail through it. After that stopped being satisfying, she then took to stomping on him with her bare feet. In-between grabbled grunts and little hurt noises best resembling “Offt,” or “D'oh!” Thad tried to explain himself to the enraged women on a rampage of revenge. He wasn't succeeding.

 

Putting out his hand in a pathetic attempt to protect his all ready battered face, Thad managed to sputter out, “Wait! I don't want to hurt you!” before Rachel's heel was forcefully, uh, forced into his mouth.

 

Rachel scoffed and kicked him in the eye, and said, “You don't want to hurt us! You nearly killed my husband!”

 

Thad spit out the foot sweat, “Yeah, but I didn't want to!”

 

Joe could do nothing but stand back and watch, confused, not completely understanding what was happening, with a “What the fuck is going on?” look on his face.

 

Tearing off his mask and yanking on his hair, causing Thad to utter, “Owwie-owwie-oww!,” Rachel screamed in his face,

 

“What do you mean you didn't want too? Who the fuck are you?!”

 

Speaking as quickly as possible, trying to get everything out before she hit him again, Thad explained the story so far,

 

“My name is Isaac Thaddeus “Thad” “Dude” Edgar Gunter! I am on a quest to save my long lost love, Helen Maria Rudwalnagirctekahs, from evil, nefarious, and currently unknown forces! I asked people location expert DJ Silloc to help find her and he promised he would only do so if I beat up your husband first, so that you would go back into his arms being his ex-girlfriend!” Thad inhaled.

 

Rachel punched him again before saying, “What the hell? Are you retarded or something?”

 

“No! I swear! I'm of average intellect!”

 

“What do you mean DJ Silloc put you up to this?”

 

Thad's confusion had begun, “You don't know him?”

 

Rachel, still holding onto the board for safe keeping, shook her head. Joe continued to be confused. The fish was starting to burn.

 

“I've never met a DJ Silloc, much less dated him. What does he look like?”

 

“Uuh, bald, about four foot five, completely demented, has a natural aversion to pants.”

 

Rachel looked at her husband in disbelief. Their eyes met and a state of understanding passed between the two. She rubbed her forehead, hoping to ease away the pain.

 

“I can't believe this. That guy? The closest he ever came to being my boyfriend was my stalker. I can't believe he actually put you up to this. What kind of idiot must you be?”

 

Thad was hurt even though he knew she was right, “My intentions are good.”

 

“Yeah, I guess they are. You say you're just doing this to rescue your girlfriend?

 

He nodded and she sighed. “That is the most pathetic thing I've ever heard.”

 

She shook her head in disgust and well-earned resent before walking back towards her bedroom, “I'll deal with this.”

 

Thad, in his continued confusion, said, “How exactly? I'll warn you, DJ Silloc is a very dangerous, well armed, and should not be kept in the company of small children.”

 

She shouted back, “I'll promise to give him a blowjob or something.”

 

Joe spoke for the first time since page eight, he interjected on his wife's words, “What?!”

 

Rachel sighed, mumbling, and answered, “I won't actually give him one. I'll just say I will. He's stupid enough to fall for that.”

 

As she disappeared behind the bedroom door, Thad squeaked out a, “Thank you.” He found himself standing around in a somewhat wrecked kitchen, battered with several bruises and sore ass marks. Joe stood next to the stove, still not completely sure of what the fuck just happened here. He began to tap his toe as the smell of cooking fish continued to perpetuate the environment. It was all very awkward. Uncomfortably so. Some might say the current situation Thad found himself in was uncomfortably awkward.

 

Joe cleared his throat before saying to Thad, “You want to try some fish?”

 

Thad slowly walked over to the stove and sniffed the air, “It smells good.”

 

The other man said flatly, “Yeah, I know.” He produced a toothpick out of his ass and offered the other man a small piece of skewered fish.

 

Our hero took the toothpick and plop the tasty piece of grilled fish into his mouth, we're he brutally masticated it. Thad smiled.

 

“It's good!”

 

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Somewhere across from town, far away from the happy little suburb were Rachel and Joe's rumps rest, DJ Silloc sat in his dingy outhouse, typing at his keyboard. From the opposite side of the small wooden shack, a piece of paper printed out. DJ stretched out his arm to reach out and grab it before handing it to Thad, you had been standing there the whole time, waiting patiently for DJ to say something about the mysterious paper he just created.

 

DJ giggled like a drunken college frat-girl, “Hee-hee. I can't wait for this next Thursday night! You're a godsend, Thad! How'd you convince her to orally pleasure me?”

 

Thad shutter at the mental image before lying through his teeth, “It involved torture and activity that is illegal in at least forty states, except Idaho, the godless bastards.”

 

The dwarf chuckled again, this time more like a super-villain in some crappy superhero movie, “Anyway, I couldn't find your squeeze exactly. Turns out there are actually one hundred and fifty six people named Helen Maria Rudwalnagirctekahs in this state alone.”

 

Thad whistled, “Wow. Small world.”

 

“However, assuming that the URL address of the porn site you gave me is correct,” He brandished a bloody meat cleaver, “And it is correct, isn't it, Thad?”

 

Coughing nervously and peeing himself just a little bit, our hero spoke, “Yes, I'm certain.”

 

“Anyway, after some serious hard knuckled hacking, I traced the website back to the organization that owns it, a shady software printing company out of LA called “Renn-Tech.” These are the direction to their building.”

 

Dramatic music built in Thad's head as he eyed the paper and rolled those words over and over in his head. “Renn-Tech.” That was the name of the vile people responsible for corrupting his precious, pure Helen Maria Rudwalnagirctekahs. He knew his enemy. He knew where to find them. He knew what he had to do.

 

However, upon examining the paper closely he realized something. Meekly, he spoke,

 

“I can't read this map.”

 

TO BE CONTINUED!!!