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From the letter I received entitled
I arrive at LAX with nothing but a card in my hand reading "Bring nothing but this card." I was told a driver would be waiting for me. I peruse the suit-and-ties standing outside my terminal holding signs with various names on them, but mine is nowhere to be found. A teeny, tiny ball of worry begins to form in my stomach. I have never been to Los Angeles before (and, on a side note, all the wanna-be actresses and models who will soon succumb to their fate of porn acting do NOT hang out at the airport). As my eyes jump from here to there dying to see my name, I get a tap on the shoulder.
"The Phat Phree." He didn't ask, merely stated.
"Uh... yeah," I sigh in a mix of relief and confusion. "How'd you kn..."
"You're only holding the card, genius. Plus, you're wearing a shirt that says 'Prose before Hoes' with a picture of Shakespeare on it who looks like he's never seen L.A. before. Obviously you think you're some kind of writer."
He turns and begins walking.
"Hey, you mind if I hit the head real quick?" He keeps walking. I follow him to a Kawasaki crotch-rocket.
"Hold on tight, and if you touch my dick or balls I will castrate you with a fucking spoon." He puts on a helmet with "JDL" embossed on the sides. I don't know how far we traveled, nor even where exactly, since the G-force of the ride emptied my tear-ducts and took off most of my facial hair.
"Get the fuck off." After wiping my eyes and picking a few bugs from my teeth I realize I am in front of a huge cast-iron gate. "Now, bitch!" I jump off, and my escort speeds away.
There is an intercom next to the gate. I press "Call."
"Can I help you?" a staticky voice blares at me.
"Um, yes. I'm Tim Baffoe. I'm here for the 'Meet and Greet.'" I can hear soft giggling coming through the speaker, and I think I hear "What a little bitch," but I can't tell for sure. The gates open.
It's a good half-mile walk up a dirt road before I reach a palatial building. Nobody else is around, so I march up the dozens of steps to the front door and pull one of those old-timey rope doorbells. Church bells then blare the hook to Scandal's "The Warrior."
"Mr. Baffoe, sir," says a man in a tuxedo as he opens the door. "Glad to have you. Right this way."
The inside is like a combination between Tony Montana's house and Michael Jackson's backyard. I almost trip over a nude midget asleep on the floor with a bottle of Thunderbird nestled in his arms. "So, is this, like, Charlie's house or what?" I ask.
"First of all, do NOT call him 'Charlie' to his face. He hates it when Fresh Fish call him anything BUT 'El Capitan.' And, yes, he does live here, but so most of us. This is also headquarters."
"Oh, you're a writer, too, huh?"
"A writer?" he faces sours. "I'm a fucking artist, you little bitch! I'm also higher on the ladder around here than you! You're lucky I'm one of the nice ones, or I'd have you locked in a room with fucking Turlington for such insubordination! Trust me, you do NOT wanna learn the hard way what it's like to toss the salad of a unich!"
"I... I'm sor..."
"Shut the fuck up! As a matter of fact, do NOT make eye contact with me or anyone else in here, especially not El Capitan!" There is an orangutan perched in the bannister of the stairs we begin to walk-up. He narrowly misses me with his feces.
We reach a gilded door. I want to ask if that is a glory-hole toward the bottom, but I decide not to tempt fate.
"Chaz," says my escort with a rap on the door. "Fresh Fish for you."
"He may enter, Harvey," I hear on the other side. "Good luck, fucko," Harvey smirks at me.
La Casa del Capitan, a.k.a. TPP Headquarters
The room I then enter is long and narrow. I think there is some kind of smoke machine in there, too, because I can't see more than about five feet in front of me. "In the back, kid," I hear.
I proceed slowly, gingerly. I can tell I'm walking on papers of some sort. The fog begins to clear gradually as I proceed. "Almost there," the voice lures me. I begin to hear musicâ€"keyboards, saxophones. I am suddenly standing before an altar of sorts. Atop it is a throne made of orange football helmets. "Kneel, bitch!" a voice booms. I drop immediately and stare at the floor. "Raise your head, bitch!"
After being called a bitch by a group of strangers several times, one tends to understand that he is at no circle-jerk. I raise my head, conscious of not making eye contact. Two midgets are fanning the figure on the throne. Behind the altar is a screen at least fifty feet tall and wide playing some really graphic S & M film. This figure on the throne, I notice, is wearing nothing but boots. "Do you like what you see?" his voice is like that of the bar owner in Good Morning Vietnam. He does not mean my surroundings. He means the gigantic appendage hanging between his legs and off the seat (I can tell because his legs open ever so slightly as he speaks to me). I can't help but stare, mouth slightly agape. It's like an albino black person that you can't stop staring atâ€"the only difference being I don't want to touch it to see if it will give me magic powers.
"Yep, she's a beaut, ain't she?"
"Y... Yes, El Capitan," I stutter. For the first time all day, I get the feeling I will not leave this place before being violated in some capacity.
"I read the work you sent," he is now walking down the altar (and swinging).
"Thank you, El Capitan." I think.
"He he. They got you with the El Capitan bullshit, huh? Good. Cause you ain't nothing but my bitch right now, boy. I own you. You think you're funny, you think you're some hot shit from whatever podunk town you're from, don't you?"
"Chicago, El Capitan."
"Shut the fuck up, boy. You don't amuse me. I know funny, and you ain't it. The only reason you're here is because I think your stuff will make some of the sweaty masses giggle. But you gotta be some kinda Dave Coulier motherfucker to get a grin outta me, understand?"
"Yes, El Capitan." I wait for him to say he's kidding about Dave Coulier. Nothing.
"I'll lay it out simple for ya. You show some sort of promise, but I can't quite put my finger on it. For all I know you might just be some one-trick rimjob who can only shit out some semi-palatable mockery of Tom Cruise and can't find his muse ever again. Is that you, bitch?"
"No, El Capitan." This is Catholic kindergarden class all over again.
"Smell that? That's piss. Why do you think I cover the floor in paper? Steamers like you can't hold themselves in my presence... and I relish that. Do you fear me?"
"Yes, El Capitan." I can't tell if I have wet myself or not.
"We'll see about that. You're on probation as of this moment. That means that anything you write worth a dogfart that I feel like putting on MY site will NOT be under your name. Me and the other editors will choose who wants to take credit. Once we deem at least five of your articles worthy, then you get your name on your own shit. Also, you have to live in the guest house until your probation expires. Don't get no illusions--it's only called the guest house because I let MY guests do whatever they want in there, and you ain't no guest, understand?"
"Yes, El Capitan." I do not understand.
"Anything my guests want, they getâ€"and at your expense. Anything. Shit, maybe, if you're lucky, you'll get to ask Hoffman what he had to do for Gary Busey when he was a Probie. If you're lucky."
"Yes, El Capitan." I try to picture my family, since I am not sure I will ever see them again.
"The compound here is pretty big. You must hunt for your own food. Anything goes in that regard, so long as you don't kill anyone of higher rank, which, right now, is everyone to you. The rest you pretty much figure out as you go along. You will not see me again until your probation expires, though I will see you. We are not just about writing here at TPP. Writers are everywhere. It takes a special kind of sick fuck to do what we do. You're here right now because I sense that somewhere in that sack of jizz you call a body there is a sick fuck that can get the job done. If not, I doubt the world will miss you."
Christ sake, man! I said
"Yes, El Capitan." Wait, what did I just agree with?
"Get the fuck away from me. Queen should be outside waiting for you. That's not his last name, if you know what I mean. And if you don't, well, you're about to learn. Run away, bitch!"
I turn and jog, wanting to cry but unable to. The fucking letter I was mailed said "TPP invites you to a meet and greet with your new friends. Lunch and drinks will be served, along with music by The New Cars." What I have I gotten into? Loyal TPP readers, if you never see my name again, know that I was a decent man with a dream of spreading laughter who probably died a less-than-pleasant death involving midgets and power tools and Howie Mandel (he's the new guest in the guest house). God bless.
Posts: 838 Rank: 1 Joined:
12/7/2006
Location:
Seattle, WA
Posted: 6/19/2007 4:53:23 AM
Sounds like you got off way too easy.
I won’t go into details, but let’s just say I will never look at a monkey wrench, Eggo syrup, a ‘boa constrictor’ and the Oxford English dictionary without peeing myself just a little.
Posts: 452 Rank: 28 Joined:
4/23/2007
Location:
Jackson, MI
Posted: 6/19/2007 8:50:33 AM
What article Scunt was talking about. I really liked it. Great fucking job Baffoe. Being stuck in a house with Howie Mandel would probably be enough for me to rip out my own dick and use it to poke my eyes out, and skull-fuck myself to death.
(I would have to rip it off because I can’t reach. I have tried)
Posts: 1123 Rank: 9 Joined:
3/13/2007
Location:
My Cubicle, CO
Posted: 6/19/2007 10:02:35 AM
Definately your best article to date. I just hope you threw in the Scandal - Warrior reference because you heard it was going to be on the 80's guitar hero coming out next month. Otherwise coupled with the graphic description of Charlie's wang, I no longer question your sexuality.
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