Chapter Twenty Four
Doug lived in Naperville, a far western Chicago suburb, and didn’t concern himself with the logistical burden he imposed on his employees when he dictated a six pm start to the mandatory holiday party on Friday. Friday rush hour in Chicago is considered among the worst in the nation, and those whose attendance was required bitched about the need to begin their weekend commuting in rush hour traffic. They also bitched about having to use a vacation day to allow the three hours it required to travel the thirty odd miles from Chicago, where the majority of them lived. Leaving from work wasn’t an option; G.O.D.’s office and the party were at opposite sides of the city. Doug’s impetus for the early start was to ensure everyone was out of his house by ten pm. This would allow the cleaning crew time to restore his home to its original state before midnight. He had no intention of waking to a messy house.
As the party-goers arrived, they drove into the private gated community of the upscale, exclusive subdivision that held Doug’s home. The home, nested in a cul-de-sac, was palatial and extravagantly decorated for the evening’s festivities. Distinguishing it, from the mansions to either side, were several tall pines strung with lights. Inside, giant metallic globes hung from the ceiling and complimented the spruce trees that were tastefully draped in garland throughout the home. Poinsettias, a mix of red and white, sat as centerpieces on the tables and let the party a festive air.
Doug had outsourced the decorating, much to the chagrin of Aspen who had argued for, and lost, an opportunity to showcase seasonal modern art. She’d hope to center the party’s decorations on a life sized paper-mache sculpture of a skinny, heroin addicted Santa she’d recently added to her collection. Her decorating plan also involved hanging lights, in the shape of hypodermic needles, from latex rubber tubing over the fireplace. On the front yard, Aspen saw a manger scene recast as an open air drug market, with baby Jesus sold into slavery to fund Mary’s habit. When Doug asked the Magic 8 Ball whether playing out the junkie Christmas theme would raise the stock, the 8 Ball provided clear direction, “My reply is no.” Skinny Santa and his accoutrements sat hidden in a closet, and more traditional decorations were used.
The employees entered the house on the first of four floors. To the right of the main entrance was a spacious, formal ballroom that easily accommodated two hundred people. Throughout the rooms, chefs manned various dining stations; rolling sushi, carving beef, offering vegetarian entries and doling out pastries. Connected to the ballroom, through a set of French doors, was a large lounge with billiard table, bar, and an assortment of leather couches.
Mike suffered car trouble and arrived late to the party. At the front door, he received an overly warm and plastic welcome from several of the consultants that constantly hung around the sixth floor. The consultants asked Mike his name, checked it on the clipboard they carried, and thanked him for the tremendous job he was doing. The consultants made it clear Doug was somewhere in the party mingling, but in the unlikely event Mike didn’t happen upon him to please consider this greeting as coming directly from Doug. Before Mike was allowed to enter he was asked to initial the party roster, and formally recognize that he had been the beneficiary of Doug’s warm welcome. Mike wrote his initials at the X.
As he’d made clear, Doug never planned to attend the party. While his employees walked through his front door, Doug was comfortably reclining in the third floor den in his silk pajamas. With Doug were a bunch of guys from the projects with whom he played basketball. Whenever Aspen was out of town Doug invited the crew over to hang and watch TV. With Aspen pissed off her decorating theme had been vetoed, she’d booked herself, and Ed, her favorite barista, on a modern art junket across South America.
Inside the den, within which Doug and his homies relaxed, were three widescreen TVs lined horizontally across from an oversized u-shaped couch. Simultaneously playing on the TVs were a low budget blackxploitation porn movie, a college basketball game, and the golf channel. Club music pulsed from massive speakers in the corner and drowned out the TVs. Domino’s pizza boxes littered the room, and each of the men held either a bottle of Cristal champagne or quart bottle of malt liquor. Two of the guys at the far end of the couch, brims of their baseball hats set at a cockeyed angle over their ears, lit a joint and began passing it around.
With the weed headed his way, Doug sighed contentedly, “Now this is a holiday party.”
One of the unemployed urban youth at the end of the couch echoed Doug’s sentiments. He spoke with the smoke deep in his lungs, his voice barely audible, and smiled as he exhaled, “You got that right Old White Money.”
Two floors below, Mike moved past the anteroom and found both the ballroom and adjoining lounge crowded. The few employees who’d missed last year’s theatrics weren’t about to miss the possibility of a second coming. Oldie hits pulsed through the room as the guests mingled. To the music, a handful of Mary’s fugly sales team awkwardly danced on the parquet flooring nearest the DJ. The talk at the party seemed to center around G.O.D.’s key competitor. Earlier that day the competition’s management team had begun acquiring small regional players in an effort to corner the Midwest market.
Jostling through the crowd Mike emerged from a throng of employees and ran headlong into Cuddy and his wife. Cliff-like in their presence, they blocked further passage as they stood before him in matching sweaters, boldly bejeweled with Christmas appliqués. At their feet were the pugs, clad in like sweaters and sporting antlers. As Mike stood and tried to figure out how to navigate the obstacle, the pugs jumped onto Mike’s legs and began dry humping him. Mike rid himself of one dog, only to have the other latch back on. Working to strike the balance between cordial and a speedy getaway to escape the oversexed canines, Mike asked Cuddy, “Did you hear about the competitions move this morning?”
“What did that hoochie mama do know?” Cuddy answered, distracted with something stuck on his hand. He rolled whatever troubled him around with his thumb and down to the tip of his finger.
“No. Not Mary. I mean our competition. The company we fight with for customers.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Quit screwing around. What did Mary do?” Cuddy flicked whatever was attached to his finger, and something small and grey flew by Mike’s head.
“Seriously, the competition bought a key stake in a regional player. It gives them a significant advantage on price and market presence. If we move quickly, we can pick up the last regional player and parry their move.” Walking through the party, Mike overhead a like conversation and used his parroting skills to sound informed.
Cuddy lost interest in the conversation and began scanning the room. In the far corner, whispering back and forth, were Mary and Shap. To Mary’s side, held by his wrist, was Mary’s persona non grata son. Adonus was not in attendance. Mary had ordered him to stay home and make whatever repairs he could to Romulus’ room; their son was not taking well to captivity. Looking up, Mary saw Cuddy staring at her and gave Cuddy the finger, not the subliminal finger in which she pretends to rub part of her face with her middle finger, but a full on fuck you.
Cuddy leaned far back, bent his knees and pretended to masturbate. Ripples shook his jowly cheeks as his right arm jerked frantically back and forth. He ended his performance by exhaling wetly, “Phhttt,” and spraying Mary with his imaginary ejaculate.
Irene kicked him in the shin, “Quit cheating on me.” Then she shouted at Mary, loud enough that all in the room could hear, “Don’t you try and steal my man. I see what you like.” Irene pointed at a group of Mary’s sales team which included Pie Hole, Possum Face, and the Blob. Like a rhinoceros, Irene pawed at the ground with her left foot, a final warning before she charged.
Possum Face overhead Irene, and whispered to Pie Hole and the Blob, “That explains everything; she’s got the hots for us. It’s no wonder she hired us. It’s for the sex. She’s jones’n for the bone.” Possum Fa
ce caught Mary’s eye and winked.
Pie Hole weighed in, “I’d hit that from behind,” he pointed his thumb at Mary, like he was hitchhiking, “If she begged me.”
Pie Hole, Possum Face, and the Blob, all snickered, now under the belief their boss, Mary, wanted to sleep with them.
Mary blinked in shock as she tried to undo everything she’d seen and heard the last few minutes. Below Mary, and unflinching as he stared at the pugs, was the boy. The child twirled like a leashed serval, with his eyes rolled back in his head as he sought his escape from Mary’s viselike grasp. Like an animal caught in a trap, Romulus’s own bite marks marred the palms of his hand.
Cuddy looked at Romulus’ hands, then at his hands, and then at the hands of his wife. Working his way backward in time, he realized he’d intended to get a drink when Mike distracted him. Without excusing himself from his conversation with Mike he walked over to the bar and cut to the front of the line.
“Two glasses of white zinfandel,” he demanded from the barkeep.
“Sir, we’re serving either a 1994 Opus One noted for its complex nose of lead pencil, toasty oak, violets, and black currants, or a 2006 Chateau de Beaucastel Chateauneuf du Pape Blanc Vieilles Vignes, noted for its smoky pear and apricot aromas. We’ve also a full complement of domestic and imported beers and complete liquor service.” The consultants who had organized the party were among the best in the world at spending their client’s money, and since they were required to be at the party for its duration went top shelf.
“Horse’s ass. Give me two glasses of the Oh Piss.” As Cuddy spoke, his head shook in disappointment that a fancy party like this didn’t serve white zinfandel. “What about Cold Duck, ya’ll got some Cold Duck?”
“No sir, only the wines I’ve described.”
As Cuddy stood, impatiently drumming his fingers on the bar top, the sommelier carefully poured the expensive red from the decanter within which it had been breathing into two oversized grand cru glasses. The pour was exact and caring, leaving the appropriate space for the bouquet to develop. The sommelier then delicately lifted the leaded crystal glasses by their stems and passed them to Cuddy. Within, sat some of the finest wine the Napa valley had ever produced.
Cuddy grabbed the glasses, inserting his thumbs into their bowls, and returned them to where they’d just been filled. “Boy, pass me that bottle of cherries.”
“You would like the jar of maraschino cherries, sir?” The barkeep struggled to process the request. He couldn’t imagine why the fat man wanted the sickly sweet cherries.
“Yeah. The cherries you use on ice cream sundaes, dipshit.” Cuddy licked the wine from his thumbs as he spoke.
Having received the quart of cherries from the sommelier Cuddy unscrewed the top and stuck his hand as far into the jar as was possible. He wrestled out as many cherries as his meaty fist could hold. Cherry juice dripping from his hand he dropped about half the cherries into each of the glasses. Next, using his index finger and middle finger as a screen over the top of the jar, he filled the wine glasses to the top with the maraschino cherry juice. The wine glasses looked like lava lamps as the cherries floated within the red liquid. As Cuddy set the nearly empty quart jar back on the bar he looked at the barkeep. “Ya’ll be running low on cherries.” Cuddy wiped his hands on his pants and moved to find Irene.
The drama at the holiday party began innocently enough. In a manner consistent with matter in a closed container, eventually all molecules collide. Roughly ninety minutes into the party, when everyone was deep into their cocktails, Mary and Cuddy ran into each other at opposite sides of the same dining station. In tow were their respective entourages; Mary dragged her child by the wrist, with Shap close behind; Cuddy was accompanied by his wife and pugs.
“Mary,” Cuddy said unenthusiastically. He elected to forego recognition of Shap. Seeing Romulus sizing him up, Cuddy stepped back. Because Cuddy had spent his formative years on a working farm, he had an intuitive understanding of animals and knew this child was not to be trifled with.
“Cuddy,” Mary spoke with disgust, and a hint of inquisitiveness. She was puzzled by the strange cocktails Cuddy and Irene held. Mary wasn’t sure if she should throw a temper tantrum - Cuddy had something she didn’t.
Uncomfortable in each other’s presence, Mary and Cuddy floundered for conversation and a standoff ensued. Cuddy had no intention of leaving the dining station empty handed, and Mary wouldn’t consider the weakness leaving first would imply. As they stood, silently sizing each other up, a small group of children approached Romulus.
From the pack of children that now surrounded Romulus, the wayward and surly teen who had negotiated last year’s spectacle held five dollars in his hand. The teen leaned in and spoke quietly in Romulus ear. Romulus listened earnestly and then pointed at one of the two pugs. Several other kids in the group shook their head in disagreement and pointed instead at the couch, the scene of last year’s debasement. The teen shook his head no. He again pointed at the pugs, adamant whatever villainous plans lay ahead include the antlered canines. Romulus nodded and asked a clarifying question. The teen shook his head yes and handed Romulus the five dollar bill. They vigorously shook hands and the teen wished him luck. Upon the teen’s return to the large group of children, who had observed the negotiations at a distance, he was swarmed with questions. He didn’t answer, but instead led the group a safe distance away and told them to watch. Romulus cracked his knuckles and bowed. The maestro was about to perform.
Over stimulated at the smell of food, and with a new and palpable tension in the air, the pugs jumped onto the serving station. The chef immediately tapped Cuddy on the shoulder, pointed at the dogs, and gestured wildly for Cuddy to remove them from the food area. “Monsieur, non, please the dog must not be on the table,” said the chef emphatically. In their excitement, the dogs stepped all over the beef that had just been carved. Cuddy stood watching the pugs but made no effort to shoo them from the dining station. The chef repeated himself and urged Cuddy to remove the offending creatures, “Monsieur, non. Please, the dogs must not be on the table.”
Cuddy gingerly lifted the pugs from the table and set them on the floor. Upon being set down, Cuddy patted each on the head and gave them a large piece of steak. “Good boy,” he said, positively reinforcing their behavior. The dogs circled excitedly, eyeing the table above as they readied to jump back up.
As the pugs prepared a second assault, Mike stepped towards Mary and offered his hand. He thought he might be able to patch things up. Their relationship had been noticeably strained since she’d first demanded his allegiance undermining Cuddy. Mary’s mouth turned into a frown as she extended her hand, and when she shook his hand she didn’t exert the crushing force Mike expected, but strangely kept her thumb nested against its palm. Mike wondered if this was the secret greeting of some hidden penis society.
The strange handshake and its hidden organ implications set Mike’s thoughts racing. Mike envisioned Mary straddling the barrel of a tank as she screamed, “Fuck, yeah!”, crashed through the front door at work, and smiled at the havoc she would wreak with the weapon between her legs. Her strange behavior was explained when Mike realized Mary was wearing thumb-less leather gloves, and was hiding her thumbs to avoid revealing this. Mike returned to reality to find the pugs had jumped on the table a second time.
More forcibly than before, and gesturing wildly with his hands, the Chef demanded, in his snooty French accent, the dogs be removed from the serving station. Mary snickered at Cuddy’s scolding. Cuddy removed the dogs and rewarded them with another treat.
Nervous in the continued and pained silence Irene attempted a conversation with Shap. As she spoke, staring at the purple welts on his forehead with her good eye, she stepped in front of him and blocked his exit. Her giant, fifty gallon drum of a belly, made escape impossible. Pointing at the circle on his head, she spoke with a thick Texas drawl, “The bi
g man didn’t mean you no disrespect. He simply can’t tell you people apart, and he figured branding you would simplify identifying the leader. Wasn’t done in spite, purely a matter of convenience. Done all the time to cattle in Texas.”
Cuddy, overhearing the conversation, nodded in agreement. “It’s true, ya’ll look alike. I don’t rightly know how you tell yourselves apart. Wonder you know which one you’re married to and what kids is yours.”
Before Shap could scream, “What people!” the pugs jumped on the dining table a third time. This elicited the most severe reprimand yet, from the chef. “Monsieur! S’il vous plait, the dog must not be on the table. This I have told you twice before.” The pugs ran roughshod over the dining station, snapping up bits of food and drooling as they forced into their mouths all they could before their return to the floor.
Cuddy turned to tell the chef to mind his own business, “Pugs is just hungry like everybody else.”
With Mary’s attention diverted by the pending hostilities, Romulus broke free, stepped directly behind Pugsly, and buried his middle finger fully into the dog’s butthole. The dog’s guttural howl shook the wall. Cuddy stared in horror. Mary yelled, “Fuck!” The chef removed his apron, threw it to the ground in disgust, and declared his station closed. The children at the far end of the room offered a polite golf clap, nodded in admiration. “Bravo!” they cried out, “Bravo!”
With all eyes in the room upon them, and the room reduced to absolute silence, Cuddy struck first. “Your son stuck his finger up my dog’s butt? Up his butt! Who does that?” Cuddy recast Romulus’ assault on Pugsly by fashioning a butthole from the index finger and thumb of his left hand, and violating it with the pinky of his other hand. He turned to his left, and right, to show everyone what had happened.
“Look at my fucking son’s finger. It’s covered in dog shit you asshole. What kind of fuck-job brings a dog to the office holiday party?” Mary stepped to put the dining station between them.
Rico leaned into Nels, concerned with the grammatical accuracy of Mary’s statement, and quietly asked, “Wouldn’t it be son’s fucking finger?”
“Good question. It depends on which fucks – the son or the finger. Both are equally effective.” After a moment’s reflection, Nels agreed, “I think you might have the preferred phrasing.”
Holding her son’s soiled hand by the wrist, as if pointing a gun, Mary lunged. She wiped her son’s finger down Cuddy’s sweater. A singular brown streak now marred Santa, and what might be Rudolph.
Inexplicably, Cuddy raised the sweater to his nose and sniffed. His face scrunched in anger. “Horse’s ass!” Cuddy cried out as if shot, “Horse’s ass!”
Still holding her son’s hand, Mary tried to wipe the finger on Irene. Irene jumped back, surprisingly deft for a boozy three hundred pounder, and barely avoided the intended desecration of Ms. Clause. The excitement caused Irene’s lame eye to spin aimlessly in its socket.
The crowd “oohed” at the breach in protocol. Even mob bosses know women and kids are off limits. The crowd took a further step back, not wanting to share Cuddy’s fate. Mary’s unpredictability, as evidenced by the attack on the misses, put all on edge.
Cuddy attempted to jump over the table and stab Mary in the ear with the carrot he was eating. His attempt ended in dismal failure, with him stuck like a whale suspended by its belly. Unable to free himself, his short arms wind milled in the air and his feet kicked uselessly. In his rage he swung wildly, but found himself a good half a foot short of reaching Mary. The table groaned in protest.
Mary stepped back a few inches from the hands of the beached whale, calmly reached into her purse, and pulled out a small aerosol canister. She smiled as she sprayed Cuddy in the eyes with Binaca. She sprayed him a good long time. Her breath management system again proved itself in the defeat of ugly.
Cuddy writhed in agony as he cried out for help, “I’m stuck. I’ve been blinded.”
Terrified at the war above them, and hoping to avoid further violation, Pugsly sought shelter under the table that held Cuddy hostage. The table creaked and moaned as Cuddy rocked back and forth and tried to get free. As his efforts intensified, Cuddy’s weight proved no match for the table. The table groaned a final time and then crashed loudly to the floor. A loud pop emanated from underneath the smashed table, and like a catsup packet under foot red splatter shot out. Alas, Pugsly was no more and Doug’s carpets were once again soiled, as death visited the holiday party.
With the dining station flattened to the floor, Shap stepped in to try and pull Mary back. Mary kicked him in the shin. Doubled over to rub his shin as he hopped on one leg, Romulus stuck the finger that had been in the dog deep into Shaps eye. Shap swore, and in an effort to escape inadvertently pushed Mary away from Cuddy.
Cuddy fought to stand on the demolished table, unaware his beloved Pugsly was entombed beneath. Broken dishes, meat, and culinary tools, littered the ground. As soon as Nels saw Shap step in to break Mary and Cuddy up, Nels moved in front of Cuddy and Irene. As he did so, the remaining pug began dry humping his leg. Undaunted, Nels spread his hands wide and told Cuddy and Irene to step back. For a fleeting instant, Nels felt like the elephant trainer at Barnum and Bailey’s. Under his breath he muttered, “Bad elephants, bad.” Nels then retrieved the flattened pug. At the sight of their beloved Pugsly, Cuddy and Irene broke down and began to cry.
Relegated to opposite ends of the banquet hall, Mary and Cuddy continued to glare at one another. The party split into allegiances as the Operations team surrounded Cuddy, and the world’s ugliest Sales team surrounded Mary. Within Mary’s cluster a small group gathered around Shap and administered to his eye. Mary screamed for someone to tape a bag around Romulus’s hand. Mary’s husband would deal with the clean up when she got home. Minutes later the consultants blew their referee whistles’ indicating the party was ending. The consultants then began to shoo the employees to the door and out of Doug’s house.
The party over, Mary sat in her sedan seething while the child bounced trampoline like on the tiny backseat, his right hand hermetically sealed within a zip lock bag duct taped to his wrist. Mary floored the accelerator. The wheels squealed and the car raced forward. The sudden jump forward caught Romulus off guard, and he found himself pinned above the seats and against the rear window. The circular drive forced Mary to pass the front door she’d just left. As she neared the head of the turn, Cuddy stepped to the edge of the drive with Irene at his side and the remaining pug on a short leash. Mary slammed the brakes, sending Romulus through the air and into the rear of the seats where he fell onto the floor mats. Leaning into the passenger seat baring her teeth, Mary gave Cuddy the finger for the second time that night.
Standing quickly, like mother like son, Romulus followed Mary’s lead and gave Cuddy, and Irene, the finger. He flipped them off Johnny Cash style; bent slightly at the waist with his arm fully extended and parallel to the floor. Romulus’ teeth snarled in rage as he offered his tainted middle finger, captured in the Ziploc baggy, to Cuddy and Irene.
Mary stomped the accelerator, spinning the back wheels, and Cuddy’s eyes widened with fear. Mary aimed for the remaining pug. Cuddy snapped the leash, and popped Scootch off the driveway just in time. The pug sailed through the air as the car flew by, and landed forcibly against Irene’s shins.
Drunk on maraschino cherry juice and red wine, and still reeling from Pugsly’s demise, the attempt on Scootch’s life proved too much. Irene bent at the waist and vomited. In doing so, she instinctively stuck her hands in front of her mouth in a last ditch effort at emetic avoidance. The barf hit her hands and blew back onto her face and hair. Red maraschino cherry chunks stood in sharp relief to the brown stew that covered her. The remaining pug, Scootch, looked up, saw her vomit covered owner, and dead brother Pugsly squashed flat and upside down in the purse, and fainted.
Cuddy tallied the damage on his chubby f
ingers; a dead pug, an unconscious pug, a vomit dipped wife, and a desecrated priceless holiday sweater. Cuddy wedged Scootch into the bag containing Pugsly, and guided his wife by her elbow to their SUV. He vowed vengeance, and seeing Shap’s car steered Irene toward it.
A few minutes later, and nearly blind in his left eye, Shap hopped on his good leg to his car. He clumsily got in, started the car, and away he drove. Shap couldn’t escape the holiday party soon enough.
Unbeknownst to Shap and hidden from approaching traffic, Officer Nonutz waited. Twice Nonutz had apprehended the cop hating, Taliban loving, scumbag. Nonutz had watched enough Fox News to know the predictable ways of the deviant foreign mind. Nonutz wasn’t certain where in the criminal evolution this perp was, but he knew he was dealing with a work in progress. As the familiar Toyota rolled past, well under the posted 35 miles per hour speed limit, it became clear to Nonutz that this terrorist was well past all things un-American. Nonutz had a bona fide, altar boy loving pedophile on his hands.
As Shap approached the spot where he’d twice been pulled over, his tic involuntarily started. “Almost home, almost home,” he thought. Suddenly red and blue lights lit up the back of his car. Shap didn’t pull over. He slammed the brakes on, and with the car still rolling jumped out. He hopped on his good leg as fast as he could manage, through the drainage ditch to the right of the road and into the subdivision.
From behind him Officer Nonutz ordered, “Freeze you cop hating, Taliban scum, pedophile pervert, son of a bitch. Stop or I’ll shoot. I mean it, stop, or I’ll shoot. As God is my witness, and my savior, I will discharge my sidearm. You Bin Laden loving scum will not ruin our suburbs and rape our children. I am preparing to fire.”
Shap hopped like a one legged kangaroo, hoping to put as much distance between he and the fascist cop as quickly as possible. Shap was a stickler for details and corrected him as he fled, “I was born in Detroit you asshole. I’m Indian.” Then, as a point of further clarification, he added, “Native American, not from India.”
Nonutz took a deep breath and began to wrestle his pistol from its holster. After a half dozen tries the gun came free. As he aimed in Shap’s general direction, prepared for the terrifying report and violence of the gun firing, the gun flapped in his hand like a fish fresh from the river. Nonutz turned away from the direction the gun pointed and buried his face into the crook of his elbow. He stuck a finger from his unarmed hand in his ear. With his eyes and ears safely covered, and facing the opposite direction of his target, Nonutz emptied his service revolver. He squeezed the trigger until all the bullets had been expended and the hammer clicked on spent shells.
In Shap’s first turn of good fortune this night, Nonutz was known for three things at the department; his wordy nature, his unwillingness to pursue, and his poor aim. To date Nonutz had hidden from his fellow cops whatever hex like spell kept him from predictably un-holstering his side arm.
Shap heard the bullets fly past, but none found its mark. Far to his left, a tool shed succumbed to the barrage of fire, and a sole shot ricocheted off the John Deere lawn mower contained within. House lights began to flip on, and Nonutz ran back to his squad car.
Hours later, having hid beneath an upside down kiddy pool in the freezing night, Shap returned to find his car where he’d left it. On his car’s trunk he found a previously unseen, ManBoyLoveAssociation sticker. He also found his car adorned with parking tickets. They sat stuffed under the windshield wipers and flapped in the wind. “Cuddy!” Shap raised his fists in rage.