The VIP Room

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
I reflect back on my time in a certain VIP room surrounded by fellow sinners.

Submitted: September 12, 2012

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Submitted: September 12, 2012

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Jeff and I walked into the cornered off section of the place and sat across from each other on the mirrored couches. We were the first two there, but more people would soon join. To the right of me, and to the left of him, was a 72-inch flat screen TV. Playing on that TV was the pregame for Game 7 of the World Series.

Jeff was wearing his usual, shorts and a shirt with, a symbol of man whose home was here. And like always he was wearing his Army hat backwards, covering up the long hair, which with the accompanying facial hair exclusive to his chin, made him look like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.

I was wearing a dress shirt over my Keep Calm and Chive On. I added the extra layer because it had started to become cold down. Contradicting that statement was my Emporia gym shorts, but hey, I have enough leg hair to keep that shit warm. On my left wrist I was wearing my Notre Dame bands, on my right, I was wearing my Batman watch. Around my neck were dog tags that had nothing special about them except a last cry for a Hero. Finally my aviators were on, something Jeff noted made me look like a douche bag.

We were sitting there five minutes or so when my Dad walked into the place. I got up to give him a hug and Jeff shook the hand that wasn’t carrying the cooler. In that cooler was an impossibly large amount of beverages. Once opened, you saw Jack Daniels, Canadian Mist, Budweiser, and for Jeff and I, Mountain Dew. All of it fit easily into the small cooler.

My Dad sat down and began packing his Camels. I began to imitate each pack against his palm, which he noticed gave me glare that burned a hole in my soul. I smiled to cover the pain, Jeff hid his face from laughter and that is when another guest arrived.

In walked a man with long black hair and perfectly round glasses. He had a slight limp and when we all shook his hands, I gripped pale, thin hands with black fingernails. He muttered out a hello, although none of us understood it as much, and we all sat down again.

My Dad looked to me and said, “Are you cold Tommy?”

“Yeah a little bit.”

“W-w-w-where did you find a long sleeve down here?” Ozzy asked.

“It wasn’t that hard to find one. There’s a lot of fashion profiteers down here.” I answered.

“You look like a dipshit with long sleeves and your gym shorts.” My Dad said.

“Thank you Dad.” I sarcastically replied over Jeff’s laughter.

At that time two more people walked in. One tall in stature with long hair and glasses, he looked like he was just bursting to talk. The other was short and balding and even in hell, had never spoken a word. I went to shake the latter’s hand and was inches away before he made his hand disappear.

“Teller, quit dicking around. I’m sure everyone is tired of your tricks.” Penn said. Teller looked up at him and nodded his head and we all sat back down.

My Dad passed Penn, Teller and Ozzy a beer and Jeff and I a Mountain Dew. We all opened them up at the exact time, we couldn’t have choreographed it any better. My Dad then lit up a cigarette and Ozzy a joint just as the Royalty walked in. We all acknowledged him and stared back at the TV.

Tim McCarver was announcing on the television, and even Joe Buck was looking like he was going to give McCarver a pair of Irish sunglasses, as his announcing was so bad so soon.

“I swear McCarver must have been dropped on his head as a baby.” My Dad said.

“Or his parents played dodge ball using him as the ball.” I added.

“Get your jokes in quick before the real comedian gets here.” Jeff said.

“Yeah but he’s lost his touch. Like a pedophile that’s starting to like teenage androgynous boys.”

Jeff lowered his eyes in thought for a second before motioning like an Umpire and telling me to, “Get the fuck out.”

On cue, ol’ George Carlin walked in and gave everyone what must have been a sarcastic smile.

“Jesus Christ…” he began and the group laughed. “...bad way to start off, but did you see that Amy Winehouse? Holy shit she looks terrible. I thought they dressed up the bodies before they came down here. She looks like she got pushed off the ugly tree and was face-fucked by every branch on the way to hell. I mean Dear God...” (More snickering) “…her teeth look more crooked then…wait where is he?” He asked of the guest he was going to take a jab at.

“He’s not here yet. Probably ran into someone who died from his ‘health care’ plans.” I answered.

“Well, then I guess you can insert any politician, or judge.” Carlin replied.

“Like that jurors on the Casey Anthony case.” Sam Brown said walking into the room.

“Don’t fucking start with that shit.” Penn began. “Did the dumb ass mother kill the kid? Probably. But there was nothing dirty about the trial.”

“Except her vag.” Jeff said, eliciting a whoop from the group.

At that moment a man walked in that no one seemed to know. He looked mixed, walked femininely and didn’t acknowledge anybody. The group remained quiet as the last of the guests arrived, as Seth MacFarlane and Obama marched in, speaking with each other.

“C’mon dude, quit jocking on Obama for like five fucking seconds.” I said.

“Yeah for someone who loves making fun of everyone, you sure love some Barack-cock.” Jeff said.

“Wait, what is Obama doing here?” the stranger asked.

“You get enough white, red neck, Christians to praying to God that he goes to hell…well, looks like religion is just as terrible at decisions as the Government.” I answered.

“Oh!” Jeff started.

“Oh!” I answered back. This went on for two or three minutes before the Royalty, who was in a purple robe, told us to stop. Obama the whole time sat with his head in his right hand.

The National Anthem had just finished and the first pitch was about to begin. The temperature had dropped just a tad already and I gave a little shiver. My Dad, seemingly for the first time, noticed the sunglasses and decided to give me shit for it.

“You gonna watch the whole game with those on? You might miss something.”

Taking them off slowly, I gave him no other acknowledgement, which he noticed and said,

“I’m sorry, you just look like a faggot wearing sunglasses while watching a TV.”

It was then the stranger spoke up again, “Excuse me, but some of us take offense to that. I am gay.”

“No shit?” Jeff asked. “Yeah you had no shot of not coming here.”

The group laughed while I still held my sunglasses, really wanting to put them back on.

“What’s your name?” Penn asked.

“Juan.” The stranger replied.

“But you look like a black guy.” Sam noticed.

“I’m part black, part Mexican.” Juan said.

“Yeah, you had no shot.” My Dad said laughing.

It was just then that I noticed that the Royalty in the group had brought a woman. I knew her, she looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place my…finger on it. So I asked,

“Hey, Lucifer, who’s the chick?”

“You can’t tell that it’s Megan Fox?” He replied with a smile.

“Ah. This in no way surprises me.” I said, turning back to the game. About an inning later I turned back,

“Does she not speak?”

“No, her mouth is only used for one thing.” Once again, the group exploded with laughter. She began to speak, but a sound of thunder arose and she stopped.

“Yo Satan, I need a sandwich. You think thunder tits can help me out with that?” George Carlin asked.

Without the Royalty saying anything, she got up and left the room, no doubt to bring food back. The fourth inning was here already and the game was tied 1-1.

“What I wouldn’t do to be at the game right now.” I lamented.

“Why are you guys here?” Penn asked, nodding towards Jeff as well.

Jeff just shook his head and focused his gaze on the TV, so I answered, rather reluctantly.

“Uh…it’s a funny story.” I began.

“No the fuck it’s not.” Jeff interrupted.

“Ya see, my girlfriend was over and we were fooling around on my bed, and she kicked Sox my cat off. Well Sox didn’t like that, but she let it slide. My girlfriend however, didn’t want Sox on the bed so she kicked her off again. And Sox…she uh…she kind of killed her, and then when I defended my girlfriend…Sox killed me too. Then I guess Jeff walked in to see what was happening…and she killed him too.”

“I wasn’t even on your side, asshole.” Jeff said.

“So yeah…it wasn’t pretty. They could barely identify our bodies. No one knows where she went afterwards. And my girlfriend, while she’s down here too, we’re not together anymore.” I finished looking around.

“That’s pathetic.” Seth said. My Dad shook his head in disapproving way.

“You should talk Dad, fucking pneumonia?” I asked. He responded by throwing a beer bottle at me, which I ducked.

“This pitcher’s pretty good. What’s his name?” The Royalty asked, bringing attention back to the game.

“Hank Braun.” I answered.

“A Jewish pitcher? Shit…” Jeff said.

“Excuse me...” Juan spoke up, “I’m Jewish as well.”

“Yeah, you really had no fucking shot of going to heaven.” I said, and before I finished my sentence, the Royalty was on the phone.

“Really? I mean I know we disagree on a lot of things, but why did you just like handicap this guy…uh person’s chance?” He whispered into the phone. A few minutes later he hung up.

“God is such a prick.” He said to no one in particular.

Three more innings passed with each of us taking turns ripping on something. Religion, women, the things happening to the Japanese, global warming, shit like that. At about the eighth inning with the home team winning, the temperature was nearly freezing, when someone spoke up, I forget who, and asked the Royalty,

“What’s going to happen if this actually goes through?”

“Well we have to continue in some fashion I suppose.” He answered.

I shivered as the top of the ninth approached, three outs from a champion being crowned. I looked around the room to take in the surroundings. There was my Dad smoking away, Jeffrey with one headphone in jamming out to his iPod, Ozzy shaking like he had cerebral palsy, Penn and Teller not doing much, Seth MacFarlane sitting next to Obama, who still had his head in his hand, George Carlin had passed out two innings to go, Sam was playing with his man boobs, and the Devil had Megan Fox on his lap…that last one took me awhile to look away from.

Behind us, outside the room, the flames that always appeared to be stirred by a hurricane were now slowly moving. The heat that melted metals and souls was gone, replaced by a chill that swept through the land. The boiling of human flesh had stopped; they all were stuck in the oil like popsicles. The screams were matched by the howls of the wind.

The away team was down to it’s last strike and Jeff, my Dad and I were all on our feet, waiting for the last strike. Waiting to celebrate. And when the last strike came, when the final out was made, when the Kansas City Royals won the World Series, hell froze over. I know, I was there in the VIP room. 


© Copyright 2017 Tommy McMahon. All rights reserved.

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