Johnny Incest: P.I. (Part 1 of 2)

CHAPTER ONE

                Johnny stared at his wall in absolute fury. Not for any reason, necessarily. Johnny simply felt that, by virtue of being matter, the wall was up for criticism. Intense criticism.

                This was a hobby of Johnny's. He loved to hate. He loved being bitter. It made him feel unique in a world overrun with conformity and mediocrity. The darkness he spent his whole life embracing made him feel blissfully detached from the world around him. He was a lone wolf, and in his own sterile, emotionless way, he loved it.

                Johnny, still focused on the wall, decided to take this prized individuality further than usual. He rose from his decomposing swivel chair and slowly approached the wall. He punched a hole in it parallel to his waist.  He began violently thrusting his cock in and out of the hole, simply as a matter of principle. After the deed was done, he criticized the wall for its lack of passion. Passion is important, thought Johnny. Without it, there is no cheese.

                Johnny’s post-coital enmity was interrupted by a voice on the intercom – his secretary, Ofelia. Ofelia’s voice could be likened to that of a diseased, sexually frustrated cat being slowly crushed by a steamroller. With it, she said, “Mr. Incest, a Ms. Andross is here to see you.”

                Johnny’s ear bled slightly, but not enough to elicit any sort of bodily response. “Send her in,” he said, and then continued focusing his attention on the wall, wondering if it was capable of being impregnated.

                Ms. Andross entered the office. She was a short, frail old woman, resembling a rabid squirrel crossed with a Holocaust victim. Her breasts resembled recently emptied Ziploc bags.

                “Mr. Incest,” she said. “My husband, Maury, was recently found murdered in an alley. Now, I’ve called the police, but they’ve been of no help at all, Mr. Incest. There was an officer that came up to me and said god-knows-what, and I look down at his shoes and they’re Calvin Kleins. I thought to myself, do I really want my husband’s murder being solved by a man in shoes that might as well just be severed vaginas filled with monkey shit? No, I said. So I told’em all to leave. I told’em to leave, unless I’d call the cops. That seemed to really get’em movin’. Kids these days, ya know? With their skateboards? You see what I’m sayin’, sweetheart. Now, Mr. Incest, do tell, what type of shoes do you wear?”

                “The only shoes I wear, Ms. Andross, are Justice.”

                “Excellent, then! The alley where Maury’s at is the one right next to Ugi’s Shoe-gies down on 45th.”

                “I’m on it.” Johnny leapt out the window and plummeted six stories down into his very own Mystery Machine, a pre-owned Toyota Corolla. He slammed through the roof, landing squarely in the driver’s seat. In the passenger seat was his comically overweight, balding, dimwitted sidekick Quibbles, who remained in a deep slumber despite Johnny’s recent dramatic entrance.

                Johnny pulled a hammer from his pocket and began mercilessly beating Quibbles. After the seventh blow to his skull, Quibbles finally awoke.

                “Huh- What- Holy Bejulius, Mr. Incest!” shouted Quibbles, examining the roof’s newly formed aperture. “How ya ‘spose a hole like that got in the top ‘a the Corollamobile, huh? Wonder if it rained!” The applause of a studio audience could be heard faintly in the distance.

                “We’ve got a mission, Quibbles.” Johnny sped out of the parking lot. “Corpse on 45th. Man named Maury Andross. His wife came to see me. I could see the death in her eyes, Quibbles. That unmistakable look you get perpetually frozen on your face when you finally realize that, overall, life is just a pointless, nauseating sewage pipe that empties into a volcano that turns your dreams, your fears, your memories, your very being, into incomprehensible, nameless ash. Death created time to grow the things it could kill, Quibbles. Life has no meaning. It’s merely the preface to the infinity of death.”

                “Hey, look, a blue car!” said Quibbles, referring to a bush.

CHAPTER TWO

                The Corolla screeched to a grinding halt in front of the alleyway. Johnny realized that he must have hit at least thirty dogs and/or children along the way, but he quickly brushed this aside as a “boys will be boys” moment and casually exited the car. Quibbles squeezed out of the passenger side and followed Johnny to the body.

                Maury’s body was repulsive. His head had been replaced with his ass. His ass had been replaced with his dick. His dick had been replaced with his right arm. His right arm had been replaced with his left arm. His left arm had been replaced with his head. His head had been replaced with his right leg. His right leg had been replaced with his testicles. His testicles had been replaced with his torso. His torso had been replaced with his head. His head had been replaced with his testicles. His testicles had been replaced with his right hand. His right hand had been replaced with his right leg. His right leg had been replaced with his right leg. His right leg had been replaced with his head. It was all very confusing.

                “Figures,” said Johnny. “This god-damn world. We’re bred to believe that taking the lives of others is wrong, Quibbles. Unspeakable. Disgusting. But just look at the world around us. War, famine. Genocide 24/7.  And what’s done about it? Fuck-all. Fuck-all is done. If humans really believed that formulaic, sentimental bullshit, why the fuck don’t we stop it? You know why, Quibbles? It’s because, deep down, deep, deep, buried in our subconscious… we enjoy it. We love it. We love seeing children get slashed apart, women get stoned to death, elderly men get brutally mutilated. And that’s because in this sterile, fuckin’ emotionless, corporate landscape, we feel nothing. Love is gone. Happiness? Don’t fuckin’ make me laugh. But you know what we can always count on? The one eternal constant? Death. Death makes us feel something. Some feel sadness. Some feel happiness. Some, even, arousal. But it’s alwayssomething. And something is all that matters.”

“Did you say steak? I sure could go for a big, juicy steak right now, Mr. Incest!” contributed Quibbles.

Johnny picked up Maury’s severed hand from beneath his arm-anus and examined it. He grabbed his stereotypical magnifying glass from the back pocket of his trench coat and studied the fingernails. A silent “Eureka!” could be seen on his face in the form of a slightly intensified scowl.

“These fingernails, Quibbles. They’re immaculate. Recently manicured. And I know the manicurist. Name’s Herman, he’s got a salon down on 55th. He’s… my brother.”

“Holy bejulius!” exclaimed Quibbles.

“I gotta pretty big erection here, Quibbles. And not just because we’re talkin’ about my sexy brother. No, this is a detective’s stiffy. The kind ya get when that one clue comes, that one fuckin’ clue, the one that really gets the case… oozing. Better get goin’ before this wears off. I wanna feel it get bent at a right angle as I squeeze myself into an incredibly cramped driving position. I like the torture, Quibbles. Gets me goin’.”

“Let’s get a move on, Johnny boy! Gee golly, maybe we can get some frosty chocolate milkshakes on the way back!” Quibbles sharted violently.

CHAPTER THREE

                “Family is fleeting, Quibbles.” While Johnny’s eyes were fixed on the road, his mind was clearly focused more so on the monologue he was about to give. This would certainly explain his insistence on driving 95 in a school zone.

                “Gee-zowie. What’s ‘fleeting’ mean, Johnny boy?” asked Quibbles.

                “It means retarded, Quibbles. Family is retarded. This whole concept of related bloodlines actually meaning something? Like you have some deeper connection with someone made of the same semen as you than you would with some regular Joe Fucknuts on the subway? Bullshit. It’s all bullshit. I mean, just think about it, Quibbles. If you think about it, we all originate from the same matter. We’re all one, we live in the same universe. Everyone around us – family. So why the fuck does it matter who your fuckin’ ‘dad’ is, and who your ‘mom’ pushed out her cunt a year or two after you? Doesn’t fuckin’ matter, Quibbles. Fuck that sentimental bullshit. Fuck it to Hell. Fuck all of society’s fuckin’ totalitarian laws about everything, fuck conformity, fuck fitting in, fuck everything. It’s all fucking meaningless.”

                “Whaddaya mean, Johnny?”

                “What I mean, Quibbles, is that if me and my brother want to have a long, passionate fucking session by a sprinkler while I’m twelve and he’s ten, and I’m the instigator and he’s crying the whole time, then WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THAT?!?”

There was a silence. A very long silence. Quibbles sharted on top of his earlier shart. “Woo, that was a doozy!”