Mario Muscar

Stage Four

by R. Jeffrey Sears

 

Adrian was an asshole, albeit an accidental asshole. But one nonetheless. He made terrible jokes. Sometimes he made terrible choices. But he was honest. Sometimes too honest. He was the sort of guy who had a difficult time letting trivialities and injustices go. The world conspired to make him into an asshole.

 

For instance, everyone of a certain learned state has the inclination to correct irresponsible speech. Things like unthaw and irregardless are a bane to language. Sometimes it’s too impolite to correct these as they happen. Sometimes it’s plain unwise, especially when the person using these non-words is your boss. Adrian couldn’t turn it off though.

 

But deep down, he really did want to be liked. Don’t tell anyone. He had a reputation to uphold.

 

Adrian finished his black coffee. He wanted cream, but wasn’t able to muster the courage to try it again. Not for a bit. Black was good for now. He dropped the empty cup in the garbage, and entered the very place he had hoped to avoid.

 

“Flight 11235 to Raleigh, Group B please line up.”

 

“Too much coffee! Crap!” exclaimed Adrian. He willed the pee out as fast as possible. He normally avoided public restrooms at all cost. But when you had a 2.5 hour flight to North Carolina, a conspicuously short layover, then a 2.5 hour flight to Texas, restroom breaks are not something to dick around with. Full bladders on the other hand…

 

“Auto-flush urinals are a god-send,” Adrian said to the guy next to him. The guy, face forward, moved only his eyes toward Adrian. The guy, whom Adrian realized was a priest, made an I-just-want-to-pee-in-peace face. Adrian, sensing tension, decided to lighten the mood with a shitty joke.“They don’t have holy water, but they do have a water holey.” Adrian didn’t stay for the raucous laughter. He had to hurry. Certainly there would be raucous laughter in his absence. Surely.

 

“Flight 11235 to Raleigh, Group C please line up.”

 

Urinals are one thing, but the airport restroom didn’t get the memo about sinks. Paper-free hand drying is good only when a person can operate a sink hands-free. Adrian had to forgo hand washing. Fortunately, half the people he passed were in a zombie-like state of airport faux cheer, so no worries about random encounters.

 

With time ticking, Adrian rushed his way back to the boarding line. Moments away from his spot, he spied an impending problem: some guy looking directly and intently in his eyes. This dude just so happened to be next to Adrian’s place in line. Crap.

 

“Yo Adrian!” the guy said. “Thank goodness the calvary is here! I hoped I’d see you.” He stuck out his hand as if to shake.

 

Who the crap was this guy? Adrian knew he should have recognized the dude. He was presented with three problems. The first was the handshake. The second was whether or not to slap him in the face. The third was the dude’s name.

 

“Came from the urinal. Didn’t wash my hands, sorry. And I think you mean cav-alry,” Adrian said immediately. That settled problem one. He could tell the guy was off-put. “Better pissed-off than pissed on, right?”

 

Problem two was not too hard to diagnose. A general rule of life is that sometimes people just need a solid slap-in-the-face. This is reserved usually if they are: facing hypothermia, summoning ancient evil beings, sleep-driving, checking a stranger’s clothing tags, or being a douche-bag. This guy didn’t fit any of those. Yet.

 

There are a number of strategies a person can use to access another person’s name. About two-hundred and twelve or thirteen, give or take four. But when one person is expected to already know the other’s name, the number is exponentially smaller. That number is three.

 

Option 1.  Ask a person what his mother calls them when she’s angry. This method works 23% effectively, though awkwardly.

 

Option 2.  Check a person’s clothing tag for a name. This works if they are seven years old, but the consequent business of registering as a sex-offender might not be ideal.

 

Option 3.  A flat out “I forgot your name” works. This brands the offender an asshole.

 

Choose wisely.

 

Adrian kept the odds in his favor. One awkward look, a solid slap-in-the-face, and a “Dave, you asshole” later and Adrian was boarding the plane. He passed rows of blank, expressionless faces. Many people, it seemed, were unhappily awaiting the ride. He stowed his man-purse and settled in back, pondering his place in reality.

 

Lately, Adrian had the feeling that the world was actively conspiring against him. Expiration dates seemed to matter no longer, where milk was concerned. Last week he bought one gallon of milk, brought it home, and placed it in the fridge. Two hours later, when he was ready for a nightly cereal snack, the milk was bad. The next day, this happened again: the milk purchase, refrigeration, snack-time, and sour milk. Wash, rinse, repeat. After the fourth time, Adrian quit. Nothing else went bad in the fridge. He could have sworn his refrigerator was messing with him.

 

In fact that whole business with the milk was the reason for his current flight. Strangely, the brand change coincided with the sudden inability of any of his milk to stay fresh. All of a sudden his normal milk brand was replaced with this new one. It was called Li’veklĭm.

 

Days ago, he tried speaking to the Li’veklĭm people. It went poorly:

 

“Excuse me,” started Adrian, after about twenty-seven minutes waiting on hold. The Li’veklĭm customer care number was hard to find. So hard, Adrian had to hire a private eye, solve an algorithm for Ⅎ, and insult his mother-in-law (whom he actually liked, but now didn’t return the favor.)

 

“Hello, I am Gary,” went the operator in a strange thick accent that could never be attached to a Gary. “Thank you for calling the Li’veklĭm care center. We care about you. Really we do. We swear it, in fact. So believe you-me, you are well cared-for.”

 

“Okay,” said Adrian. He explained about his recent milk purchases. He also explained that the milk was the only thing to expire in the fridge well before its time. He explained that certainly there were various forgotten-about leftover containers and condiments. They’d all gone bad, but he still kept them refrigerated, as to not bring about the apocalypse too soon. He even explained that Li’veklĭm coffee creamers also successfully ruined any coffee Adrian tried to drink, thus his switch to black.

 

The customer service representative explained in 2000 words all about how they cared for Adrian. The Rep. was sorry for any untoward thing, but there was nothing they could do over the phone. Or email. Or any other sort of correspondence, so don’t bother trying. But the Rep. assured Adrian that he was much cared for, have a nice day.

 

So Adrian, taking one for the team, took a week off work to see the fine people at Li’veklĭm in person. Thus the plane. And the current life introspection.

 

Take-off was good. The rest of the plane ride was uneventful. Except the turbulence. And the vomiting.

 

What happened was some college student attempted to squeeze by Adrian. That’s when the turbulence hit. That’s when she (the student) landed on Adrian’s lap. That’s when she vomited (and peed a little). So Adrian was stuck holding a collegiate and her vomit. He artfully bent his head back in an effort not to add to the vomitorium slowly building around his seat.

 

When the plane finally landed, Adrian’s layover time had all but expired. It was night. His connection was, naturally, one of the last flights out.

 

“Thanks for flying with us,” the flight attendant announced. “Due to the inclement weather, we’ve arrived late. Two passengers have a connection to Houston, so we ask that you remain seated until both passengers exit the plane. Thank you.”

 

Obviously everyone on the plane stood immediately. They jammed the isle for no other reason than to cut Adrian off from exiting. Despite a few Good Samaritans letting him slide past, Adrian was utterly stuck. He was angry. And vomit covered. The type of vomit-covered angry which surpasses those annual occasions when he receives a raise of $700/year, only to find out his health insurance cost went up $2400/year.

 

Something inside him snapped.

 

Anger has four stages:

 

Stage 1. Frustration. This lingers until either it dissipates, or builds.

 

Stage 2. Rage. This usually results in slapping a douche-bag.

 

Stage 3. Wrath. This is usually reserved for the vengeful gods. Bad stuff happens here: fire, famine, floods, and furniture. Vengeance sometimes benefits those with nothing to sit upon.

 

Stage 4. Snapitude. This is a higher plane of existence, reserved for those whom have hit stage three and have the added bonus of body excrement on their person. Anything can happen here. Absolutely anything. The will of the individual is carried out completely.

 

Adrian ripped open the side of the airplane and exited. The sun had already passed on, leaving a thick haze of fog to greet Flight 11235. The commotion in the plane stopped. There was a mass stunned silence. None of the passengers had ever seen something so astonishing. As Adrian dropped to the tarmac and stormed off, screams slowly chased him from the plane.

 

In this moment, Adrian was a force. Sirens flared. Spotlights lit. Somehow security could not gain advantage. Not knowing where to go, Adrian fled for the woods beyond the fence.

 

On one hand (it was the pee-hand), this experience was a total rush. On the other, Adrian’s inside voice was yelling: “Whoa what?! What the Hell buddy?! Stop this! Come on man, we had a good thing going. Sure the world conspired against you. Sure no matter what you did, you came out like an asshole. Sure… ah screw it.”

 

Adrian crept through the woods. He never thought about what would happen next. He let the pee-hand guide him. After hours of trekking, he leaned against a giant tree monstrosity. The weirdest thing was Dave (the guy from the airplane boarding line) appeared. He must have been as upset as Adrian, and fled the plane on Adrian’s heels.

 

“Yo Dave!” greeted Adrian, in a hushed, squeaky voice. His temperament cooled. Maybe Dave was the forgiving type.

 

“Shut up asshole,” replied Dave.

 

Adrian supposed Dave wasn’t the forgiving type. That was fine with Adrian. He didn’t really like Dave. Dave was kind of a douche-bag.

 

Slumped against the tree, Adrian realized he was bone dry. All the running and sweating must have sapped his water reserve. He craved something – anything – to drink. Dave must have read Adrian’s thoughts, because just then he pulled out a bottle.

 

“Drink this,” offered Dave, handing over the bottle.

 

“You read my mind.”

 

“No. No I didn’t,” said Dave. “You’ve been mumbling your thoughts aloud since we stopped.”

 

“Oh…” mumbled Adrian, taking the proffered bottle. Its contents were milky, and it tasted vaguely salty and sour. Soon the world went black. Well, even more black – it was night. Fine. Adrian’s eyes closed. Boring, but to the point.

 

Adrian dreamt of floating, as if he were carried off in the night…

 

“Have some breakfast dear,” went the elderly voice that interrupted Adrian’s unconscious break. Her voice sounded like a Raven that refused to quit smoking even after the laryngectomy. All hypothetical, of course, because the ability to communicate verbally after such a thing is surely reduced.

 

Adrian opened his groggy eyes to find out that he was indeed not alone. His ears did their job reasonably well. There was a small old lady, hunched and wrinkled. And there was stew of some kind, viscous yet colorful and oddly taunting him. He was also lying down in a bed of sorts. The mattress must have been straw for the sheer amount of itchiness he felt.

 

“Wha-?” Adrian slurred hazily, sitting up partially. Soon after opening his eyes, his semi-conscious brain did its job sounding an internal alarm. He made to throw a woolen blanket off his body and stand. To his eternal dismay, he succeeded only in revealing his complete nudity, followed by a quick clumsy drop to the floor.

 

“Hush now,” the woman, whom Adrian decided to call Lumpy, interrupted. She motioned for the other presence in the room. This one, huge and moronic looking, bent to aid Adrian back to the bed.

 

“Eat,” the woman said, thrusting the bowl of whatnot forth.

 

Adrian grasped the bowl with shaky hands. For some odd reason, he couldn’t wrap his mind around what was happening. His mind was slowed. After closer inspection of the “stew” he realized it was less stew, and more completely milk-sodden cereal. With extra lumps.

 

“Eat.”

 

Adrian could tell this was no offer. It was a command. Still, he could not comply. The woman must have read his face, and gestured to the huge lump of a man. This man-thing, whom Adrian also decided to call Lumpy, grabbed a spoon, and proceeded to force-feed Adrian. It was horrible. Lumpy had no sympathy. Neither did Lumpy.

 

Adrian quickly decided to call the man-thing Lumpy2, as differentiating between them was getting difficult. Lumpy2 was exponentially bigger and dumber and uglier than Lumpy anyhow.

 

Right after the decision was made, Adrian realized he was again mumbling his thoughts aloud. Lumpy’s expression, and Lumpy2’s confused, slow remark affirmed that Adrian was 100% correct about the names.

 

“Eat.”

 

He did. -ish.

 

“Water,” said Adrian after expelling his stomach. The bowl of yuck did not stay with him for long after Lumpy2 finished flying each spoonful to Adrian’s mouth-hangar. Lumpy gave him a cup. He drank, not realizing until too late the same salty, sour taste from his encounter by the gargantuan tree. He had obviously been drugged. He didn’t have long to worry about this turn of events, for soon he drifted off, and floated again.

 

Adrian awoke tied to an altar for sacrifice.

 

There are three distinct signs that a person has been tied to an altar for sacrifice:

 

Sign 1.  Aching wrists. This can also be a sign of tendonitis or carpel tunnel syndrome, also tough to deal with. Check with a professional if possible. If not possible, it’s due to the constricting ropes.

 

Sign 2.  Guttural chanting. There is always chanting, usually in some nearly unrecognizable language, which literally translates to “Yea I/we summon you ancient evil. I/we agree this is a douche-bag move, all things considered.”

 

Sign 3.  The weird dude in the hood with a wicked knife. Bad news. However, a weird dude in a hoodie with a wicked knife may not start sacrificing, but is still dangerous – hang out with different people.

 

Thence came the chanting.

 

“Yea bumth/wizzumth theeeeeeeeeeebol94if Li’veklĭm. Bumth/wizzumth bleeerrgdidooba, Pbbbbbtttttttt!!!”

 

“Balls,” said Adrian. He surveyed the situation. The weird dude in the hood with a wicked knife was poised over the altar, chanting with others. Amongst these others were Lumpy and Lumpy2. The others were all various lump-like people, presumably from the area. Maybe they had a little town. A lumpy town with lumpy people.

 

The townspeople were nearly surrounding him, carefully not between him and the weird dude in the hood with a wicked knife. Perhaps they disliked the thought of being an accidental sacrificeé. They kept chanting low and guttural. Adrian couldn’t really make it out.

 

It didn’t matter.

 

Studies show that stress and bowel release are directly proportional. Adrian proceeded to turn this crapfest hellhole into a literal crapfest hellhole, complete with authentic crap. Oddly enough, that very action sounded like “pbbbbbtttttttt!!!,” and coincided with the chant. He just hated public restrooms, but left with no choice, he persevered. That will teach them, thought Adrian feeling relieved, yet not relieved at the same time.

 

“Augh,” choked the wicked wicked-knife-wielding dude, pausing his chant. “Who crapped? Oh god, that’s horrible.” As he retched, Adrian could see a little of the face under the hood. It was Dave.

 

“Dave?” said Adrian.

 

“Now you know my name,” mocked Dave.

 

“I’d shake your hand, but I didn’t wash, sorry,” Adrian replied.

 

“Well, I wouldn’t shake yours anyway,” started Dave snarkily, “’cause I have a wicked knife to stab your ass.”

 

“You want to stab my ass?”

 

“No. But you’ll wish I had, asshole.”

 

“I don’t wish you had an asshole, douche-bag.”

 

“You know what I me-“ started Dave. He didn’t get to finish what was surely a good comeback because –

 

“STOP IT HENCE!” went an evil voice. “Enough. Make with yon bloodletting already. Mine time is valuable.” The ancient evil god the lumpy townspeople were worshiping suddenly appeared expecting the blood of the innocent. Adrian’s blood. The beastly god creature reached forth to partake of the town’s offering.

 

“Yee may think the events of yourn life have randomly delivered yee to this place. Yee are wrong. Ween delivered yee to this place. Yee are also under the impression that the world has conspired against yee; yee are not entirely wrong. This world does hate yee, and if it had the chance, I doubt it would apologize,” spaketh the creature. When a godlike creature such as this talks, it doesn’t merely speak – it spakes.

 

“I have altered events and even milk itself to drive yee to yourn doom! Such is the power of Li’veklĭm,” shouted Li’veklĭm. “I am the eater of assholes – wait, that came out wrong. Not like the gay kind. I’m totally hetero. I promise.”

 

Suddenly the crowd of onlookers changed their chant to “Hetero hetero not-gay not-gay we promise we promise.”

 

“Anywho,” Li’veklĭm continued far too loudly, “yee are just the type of asshole I require for sustenance, as is my right! Feel my wrath!”

 

Dave held his knife aloft, ready to plunge into the heart of his offering.

 

For the second time in his life, Adrian felt a well of fury erupt from the bowels of his anger place. This place is quite different from the bowels of his gut. Fury has been known to erupt from Adrian’s gut-bowels, but that usually only happens after some carne asada with the red sauce. His gut-bowels were relieved that no carne asada was available. They were just plain relieved.

 

Far beyond wrath and covered in poop, Adrian fucking ripped out of the bonds holding him, and latched onto David’s knife arm. The sound of torn flesh permeated nearby ears. Dave wailed. The arm, seceded from the United Appendages of Dave, thwapped Dave in the face as Adrian silenced that douche-bag for good.

 

Dave dealt with, Adrian grabbed that dickhead Li’veklĭm by the balls and yanked them clean off. For some reason, all ancient evil gods appear to their respective cults in the buff. He fed the beast its own balls before reaching into its chest and yanking a beating heart out.

 

The lumps gasped. They were fucking douche-bags. Adrian back-handed each, one by one, alphabetically until they peed their stupid pants and cried from the humiliation like the dickheads they were.

 

Adrian sat for a minute catching his breath. Slumped against the altar, Adrian realized he was bone dry. All the ripping and slapping must have sapped his water reserve. He craved something – anything – to drink. He checked the mini-fridge (it was under the T.V.). There was one 12oz. bottle of Li’veklĭm inside, chilled to perfection.

 

As he opened the milk bottle, Adrian wondered about his life. He reflected. In this moment, he decided to cease being an asshole. And his milk never again went bad.

 

MORAL: If you go around like an asshole all the time, inevitably you have to battle a dark un-earthly force, and make diarrhea along the way.