Other Fan Fiction / Romance Fan Fiction / Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ The Adventures of Thad Gunter ❯ To Live and Thad in LA ( Chapter 5 )

THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF THAD GUNTER!!!

 

----

 

Chapter 5: To Live and Thad in L.A.

 

----

 

Isaac Thaddeus “Thad” “Dude” “Mammy” Edgar Howard Gunter III never cared much for hotel rooms. He had stay in some over the years, during those crazy, hot days of indie documentary filmmaker stardom. They were always the same. Same type of powdered soap in the bathroom, same type of telephone-like hairdryers hanging on the wall, leather bound Bible in the nightstand… How similar they all were horrified Thad on a subtle level.

 

Well that, and the powdered soap smelled suspiciously of smegma.

 

(Ed. Notes: To make sure everyone gets that joke, other terms for smegma includes: dick cheese, weiner juice, knob cheese, cottage shaft cheese, dick butter, duck butter, cheese-wheel, shaft yogurt, bell cheese, bell cheddar, man cheese, from-unda' cheese, prickorino romano, cockarella, cock curd, nutzerella, phallus flan and so-forth. Thanks Wikipedia!)

 

However, the stay over in the motel was just a temporary stop on Thad's journey. He was here in Los Angeles, city of angels, as in the location for “The Crow: City of Angels;” for one reason and one very dramatic reason alone.

 

The headquarters of shady software printing company Renn-Tech was located in this fine city. Renn-Tech was the company that owned the porn site that the incriminating pictures of his beloved high school sweetheart, Helen Marie Rudwalnagirctekahs, were found on. Thad knew not what the exact circumstances of her situation were. But he knew Helen well enough, even if it had been years since they last talked, to know that she would never willfully agree to such things. He had never been prone to random acts of chivalry before but Thad could not stand by idle while his lady, even if she was his former lady, was degraded in such a severe fashion.

 

He put away his thesaurus and instead turned his attention to his supplies that had been spread out before him on the near-by table. The map crazed friend DJ Silloc had supplied him with which, after hours of studying it, Thad finally figured out how to read, was the most important item. It detailed the location of Renn-Tech's headquarters within the city. They were located in a small warehouse on the edge of the technological corner of town.

 

Also among Thad's supplies were twenty feet of rope, a large monkey wrench, a slightly smaller monkey wrench, a Swish army knife, dental floss, breath mints, a limbo stick, toilet paper, three different flashlight (among them Thad's limited edition “Dukes of Hazard” flashlight, which was designed with a General Lee scheme and signed by all of the surviving original cast), the disturbing photographs in question, as well as several pictures of Helen during happier times, and a large handgun Thad bought at a thrift store outside the airport. He figured it would be best to arm himself, should things get hairy. Sadly, he had no frikin' clue how to use the gun. He'd hope it wouldn't come to that.

 

Thad packed up all the supplies into his attaché case (which is not the same thing as a suitcase, okay?!) and headed out of his motel room to be faced with the sweet… Uh, okay, to the not-completely-vomiting inducing air of Los Angeles.

 

Little did Thad realize that the entire time he stay in his motel room, he was being watched from the camera stealthily implanted in the eye of the decorative porcelain lawn gnome that sat atop the room's TV.

 

---

 

It was a pretty typical day for hardworking and often irritated cab driver, Abu Satajunya. He had managed to make a decent sum all ready, had been yelled out forty times, yelled at a customer thirty times, and had been mistaken for an individual of nonspecific Arab/Muslim descent fifteen times. His mother told him to stop wearing his turban out in public, but that was his style, you know? And you'd think that most people would be able to tell the difference between an Indian-American (as opposed to an American-Indian. That's something else.) and someone related to someone from the Middle East. Abu was real damn tired of hearing 9/11 jokes and/or being called a towel-head or any other number of offensive racial insults every time he picked up a frat boy. He'd also been called “Borat” a couple of times recently which was so far off the fucking mark it made Abu want to start kidnapping said customers and drop them off in the part of town where their attitudes concerning race would be really appreciated by the locals.

 

Abu was just about ready to take a lunch break when some clueless asshole, who looked like a throwback to a hero from a bad fifties Sci-fi movie holding a brown attaché case, which is totally not the same things as a suitcase; flagged him down. Oh, great. Another ass-clown. Abu grumbled as he pulled over for the guy to jump in. He'd better pay well.

 

Thad, enthusiastic as ever, jumped into the back of the taxi. He quickly reached for the direction to Renn-Tech.

 

Abu went through his driver's deal, “Where are you heading too, guy?”

 

Thad, shouting at the top of his lungs, announced, “Renn-Tech Industries! 403 Hindenburg Street!”

 

The driver flinched at the volume, “Calm down, would you? No need to shout.”

 

“But I feel the need to make the urgency of this situation known to all in the area!”

 

Abu glanced in his rearview mirror at his passenger, making an expression the driver hoped properly conveyed his newfound contempt for this man. He unbroke the car and headed to the specific location. Deep down in his heart, Abu hoped this guy wouldn't make anymore announcements that were as important as the last.

 

“And you know I'm just really excited to be here!” Thad shouted again. Mr. Satajunya grimaced. Thad continued, “I haven't been to LA in years!”

 

For the better good, Abu decided to placate this poor fool and carry on the conversation.

 

“What are you in LA for, Mister?”

 

(Secretly, Abu hated himself for even bothering to recognize this sap's existence. The whole need to mingle was incredibly depressing and Thad's entrance into his life was just one of the many reasons the cab driver knew that when he returned home to his shitty apartment, later that night, he would drink himself into a stupor, call all five of his ex-girlfriends up, attempt to get back together with them before calling them selfish bitches; masturbate, contemplate suicide, and then just decide to watch reruns of “Designing Women” and “Golden Girls” instead. Oh, Bea Arthur, won't you be mine?)

 

Thad, shocked and surprised that somebody actually gave a shit, proceeded to tell Abu his life story.

 

“I am here in LA to rescue my beloved Helen Maria Rudwalnagirctekahs from the clutches of evil porn company Renn-Tech. You see, several days ago I waited three-hundred pounds and hadn't left my home in quite some time. But then I discovered an indecent picture of her on the internet. This ghasty sight caused me to launch into a vomiting fit of ridiculous proportions, of the kind usually reserved for outrageous gross-out comedies and cheap “Exorcist” rip-offs such as William Girdler's “Abby” and the Italian “Beyond the Door.” During this puking fit, I had metamorphosis into the being that you see before. Armed with a newfound self-confidence and personal drive, I decided to head off and save my dearest Helen Maria Rudwalnagircetaks from what ever evils had befallen her here.”

 

Thad, having successfully caught any new readers up on the story so far, inhaled. A silence fell over the cab for a second. Abu glanced in the rear-view mirror, giving his passenger a look that could mean a myriad of things. It could mean, “Goddamn, this motherfucker is one crazy ass motherfucker!” It could mean that this was finally the day Abu decided to use that gun he hid underneath the seat on both his current costumer and then himself, but not before running down any unlikely bystanders that happen to get in his way. It could mean, “I want a large quantity of whatever this guy is smoking/drinking/inhaling/injecting/etc.” It could also mean that those four tacos Abu had for lunch were finally catching up with him.

 

Whatever that glance meant, Abu didn't say and or do anything besides drive for an undetermined short and or possibly long amount of time. The silence that had invaded the cab earlier, like a group of petty nerds invading a movie message board with complaints and spoilers after the latest “Star Trek” movie, continued to persist. Soon enough though the time did come for that silence to be shattered, like earlier said group of nerds' self-esteem after realizing no one will ever truly love them. That is, in a manner of saying, Thad decided to speak again.

 

“So, um, what religion are you exactly? Islam?”

 

The murderous rage that had been boiling inside Abu ever since Brad Thompson tore up his Bravestarr coloring book back in the second grade finally came to the surface. Abu hit the breaks hard, causing the cab to screech to a stop right in the middle of traffic. The angry honking horns and the even angrier screamed profanities soon filled the air around the vehicle.

 

The unstable taxi operator removed his pistol from its hiding place and quickly turned around, reaching over the seat, and pressed the barrel to Thad's forehead.

 

The driver screamed, “Indian! I am a second-generation Indian-American! I'm a non-practicing Hindu. Why do I wear the turban then? Because I think it looks cool! Goddamn it is it so much in this piece of shit country that I dare have a personal style? And, yes, I am aware that wearing a turban and driving a cab are both cliché behavior for Indian-Americans, and I don't care about that either! I am a legitimate victim of the system! I mean, do you think it's easy for me to get a job wearing this goddamn thing? Or worse yet, just having the skin color and accent that I do? Hmm? Everyone thinks I don't either speak English or am about the blow myself and everyone else in the room up while praising Allah! Those kind of preconceptions are really lousy for the resume, you know!”

 

Thad, this being the second time in one month that an irate fellow brandished a gun in his generation direction, played it cool and responded in as kindly a manner as possible.

 

“Maybe you should stop wearing the turban. I mean, yes, its part of your personal style, but if it really causes you that much trouble maybe you should consider putting it aside, at least for now, and finding something else that visually distinguished you as an individual. Maybe get a tattoo or some flashy Hawaiian t-shirts?”

 

Abu's body shook with residual rage which is different from regular rage. He slowly lowered the gun and began to quietly weep.

“I came from a big family of brothers, you know. And all of them have been more successful then me. They're doctors, lawyers, restaurant entrepreneurs, astronauts, professional figure skating champions. And I'm just a lowly cabbie. You know how that makes me feel?

 

Thad put his psychologist hat on, “Invalided?”

 

Abu broke out into full-on tears, “Yeah! Its like I'm never good enough for mom and dad and dad number two! That's why I feel the need to differentiate myself with a unique personal style. But I'm not even good at that. I'm just not a creative guy, okay? I mean, if I was some white suburban kid I would've been a football player or a math teacher or the editor of a monthly literature anthology. (That isn't even all that good anyway and I don't care if you they don't like my stuff! So there!) Some thing that paid well but wasn't particularly taxing on my limited skills! But I can't be those things because I was born different! See, victim of society!”

 

Thad patted Abu on the back while mumbling “There-there. It's okay.”

 

And Abu continued, “And I'm also secretly gay! And can't read! And the school janitor touched me in my swimsuit area when I was five!”

 

Thad gave him a strange look. “All those things?”

 

The distraught fellow cried on, “Yeah. All of those things plus I ran out of coffee and pop-tarts this morning. And this year's new fall shows are all pretty weak, too. I'm just under a lot of stress these days”

 

Thad discreetly cleared his throat, while continuing to pat the poor guy on the back. “Well, maybe we could trade phone numbers and discuss these issues at a later date. You see, I'd really like to get my cab trip along.”

 

Abu wiped the tears from his eyes, “Yeah, I guess your right. Thanks for listening, man.”

 

He sincerely smiled, “You're welcome.”

 

Just as Abu was about to turn around and continue driving, a Random Yahoo came up to the vehicle, punched out the window, grabbed the gun from Abu's hand, shouted something along the lines of “I'll show you dirty camel jocky how't to drive!” and proceeded to shoot Abu in the side of the head, splattering his skull contents on the opposite side of the car. This extreme action resulted in a group of near-by patrol cops and concerned citizens to pile on top of the Random Yahoo and restrain him. During all of this, the long line of traffic behind them continued with its unending honking and cursing, not even taking the time to notice what just exactly happened.

 

As Thad sat in the backseat, covered in brains, once again at a dead-end on his quest, he could mutter nothing but,

 

“Goddamn it!”

 

----

 

The Author's creative writing teacher put down the series of papers in front of him. He scratched his distinctive gray mustache before speaking in a voice not completely dissimilar to Woody Guthrie.

 

“Is that how it ends?”

 

The Author turned off his iPod and the latest Red Jump Suit Apparatus (whatever the fuck that is. Honestly, who the fuck comes up with these stupid ass band names these days? Christ.) song that was playing within before addressing his professor.

 

“Well, yeah. I mean it's the short of funny, inconclusive sudden cliffhanger this series thrives on.”

 

The creative writing teacher sat down and decided to kick into constructive criticism mode, “Okay, maybe, but this chapter really didn't advance the story at all. And neither did the last chapter but I let you by on that one since it had some character-building elements in this one. But Thad really isn't fleshed out much in this one.”

 

The Author considered this, “Okay. Good point.”

 

“And, you know, you kinda' pulled the same gag back in the second chapter.”

 

The young man continued to nod in agreement, “Yes, that's true.”

 

“And, if there are any fans out there, I'm sure they'd be sick of you just dragging the story out more for the sake of length. I mean, I get this is suppose to be a comical, twisted homage to the pulp serials of the World War II era, and they were often long-winded and dragged out for no particular reason, but its kinda' getting old.”

 

The emo writer once again nod slightly, “Perhaps. What do you suggest I do?”

 

“I think you need to expand. Maybe have Thad actually get to Renn-Tech by the end of the chapter.”

 

“So does that mean I'd have to work on it some more?”

 

The teacher, in all his years of wisdom, nodded in agreement, “Yes. That sounds about right.”

 

The Author proceeded to smash his head into the table over and over again while screaming at the top of his lungs,

 

“I SUCK! I SUCK! I SUCK THE SWEATY HAIRY BALLS OF BILL SHAKESPEARE AND OTHER DEAD, PRETENTIOUS, ENGLISH WRITERS! OH GOD IN HEAVEN DO I EVER SUCK!”

 

Having seen this behavior numerous times before from The Author, the professor could do nothing but rub his head in frustration.

 

One of the classmates piped up, “Is he going to do this every time?”

 

As The Author fell to the floor, pissing and shitting his pants, Mr. Creative Writing Teacher could do nothing but state blankly, “Yeah, probably.”

 

----

 

Ashley “Ass” Jenkins quickly limped through the offices of the Renn-Tech floor. The other workers, generally twenty something computer geeks, all freshly snatched from local community colleges, tried their best not to stare at Ashley's deformities; his abnormally large head, his mismatched in length limbs, his twitching eye, his left shoulder that jutted out at a higher angle then the right. They tried their best not to look at him but the constant smell of flatulence that followed him around, owning in part to a difficulty controlling his lower body functions, was much more difficult to ignore. Everyone called the guy “Ass” for a reason.

 

Most of them tried anyway. Some of the co-workers where infantile jack-offs who often laughed at other people's pain.

 

Ass was far too preoccupied with his own world to notice though. The aching in his bones, an aching that had afflicted him since early childhood, had been growing in intensity steadily since lunchtime. He gritted his teeth, wiped the sweat from his brow, and knew his fix would come soon enough.

 

He gripped the brown manila folder as he quickly approached his boss' door. Carefully, Ass pushed open the door and called out, in his lisped voice, to his employer and mentor.

 

“Mr. Eaalhi! I have that file you requested!”

 

Or at least that's what it was suppose to sound like. It actually came out closer too:

 

“Mizzta' Ally! I'd hat'd dat filffze you'd wed'qusssteded!”

 

James Eaalhi, or “The Nefarious Dr. Eaalhi” as his novelty license plate referred to him, turned from the large window that sat behind his polished mahogany desk to face his jigsaw puzzle like minion. He observed the poor bastard through his two-way mirror sunglasses and smiled a sly grin.

 

He reached his gloved hand out to the boy and motioned to him to come hither.

 

He spoke in almost complete monotone, “Good job, Ashley. I have a treat for you.”

 

Like an overly excited retired puppy dog, Ass quickly ran over to Dr. Eaalhi's desk, tripping over himself, tumbling to the ground, as well as very slowly getting back to his feet, several times in the process. After about ten minutes of this, Ass finally reached the ridiculously nice desk.

He handed the folder over to his boss who in return threw a handful of thin, four inch long, needles at him. Ashley, like everything else he did, clumsily grasped at the needles as they danced through the air. He caught one or two, allowing the others to fall to the floor. As if it was Christmas morning, Ass plopped down on the floor and excitedly held onto the needles. He pulled up one of his shirt sleeves, revealing a series of scars up and down his arm. Very carefully, he stabbed the needle through the top layer of his skin, causing it to protrude through the other side obscenely.

 

He hissed in pleasure and flicked the needle, causing a sharp pain to shoot through his body. Ass sighed in satisfaction and he reached for the other needles, intending on inserting them through his skin as well, properly displacing the pain in his bones.

 

While his underling happily abused himself, James Eaalhi opened the so-desired file and examined its contents. He began to hum Mozart's “Requiem” as he pulled out a series of photographs.

 

James looked on at the utterly unspeakable pornographic acts three out of the seven pictures displayed. He nodded approvingly before placing them back into the folder. He then removed the last four. A smile crept onto his face.

 

“Oh, yes. This is just what I have been waiting for.”

 

He tossed the Polaroids down onto the desk, dramatically. The surveillance camera picture quality was poor but the images clear enough. Newly reformed documentary filmmaker Isaac Thaddeus “Thad” “Dude” “Mammy” Edgar Howard Gunter III stood in line at a bank. Thad Gunter explored the empty, dusty rooms of an ailing mansion. Thad sat nervously in an airplane seat. Thad picked his noise as he sat on his motel room bed.

 

James, a supervillain grin on his face, neatly placed the photos in his desk and turned his attention to Ass, who bleed slightly on the floor from numerous needles marks.

 

“He is here in LA, Ashley. Soon enough, everything will be exactly where we want it to be.”

 

James Eaalhi threw his head back and “B'HAHAHAHAHAHA”ed so loudly it actually caused a family of squirrels living inside the air ducts of the Renn-Tech building to go insane and tear each other limb-from-limb. It was that evil, man.

 

TO BE CONTINUED!!!