Photos by Janicza Bravo
This is the first installment of the novel Toupee by Brett Gelman, which Vice will be serializing through the remainder of 2011. The manuscript was discovered inside an empty toilet tank in an abandoned apartment in Joshua Tree. The current whereabouts of its author are unknown.
There’s a fat woman who wants me dead. Buried and rotting in the cold desert sand. Every time I close my eyes I smell her fucking odor. She stinks like someone left a bologna sandwich on a radiator for a week and then took a shit on it.
They call her Hippo Mary. I guess she’s my pimp or madame or who gives a shit. She’s been pissed at me ever since I told her I won’t fuck anymore. Walked into that greasy bitch’s office and said flat out, “This asshole is closed.”
It was a fine way to make cash for a while. Nothing easier than fucking for money. I ain’t gay or nothin’, but the shit was easy. Actually I imagine it would be harder if you were gay. Somewhere in your mind you’d probably be wondering if the guy ass-crammin’ yuh maybe could possibly be the one. The one you’d get the whole pink picket fence and dog named Cher with.
For me it was cake, though. I’d be so fucking wasted you could’ve launched a nuke up my brown star and I wouldn’t have felt nothin’. I quit because of the sight of the thing. I was starting to get a back package and could feel my asshole kissing my undies. Not a pleasant sensation. I’d look at it in the mirror and the fucking thing was a smear of mustard away from being pastrami on rye. I started worrying that I wouldn’t be able to hold my shit anymore, and then I couldn’t. They would slide down my colon and fall out of my ass like a goddamn racing horse. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve shit my pants plenty. Ain’t no shame in it. But it always happened because I was having a good time. A small price to pay for getting beautifully brain-fucked on whiskey, blow, meth, and nachos. But shitting my pants because my asshole didn’t work anymore? That’s just embarrassing. Might as well have been in a fucking wheelchair with a fucking colostomy bag hooked up to my belly button or however the fuck they do that shit.
So anyway, I tell Hippo Mary that my brown eye’s retired and she throws a fucking fit. “No goddamn way! You’re my best whore! You ain’t quittin’! You do and you’re not only quittin’ ass peddlin’, you’re quittin’ living, motherfucker!” And that’s where that’s at. Bitch wants to kill me. Fucking tumor in my side. I got enough fucking problems. Little Joe still owes me 15 George Washingtons for the crack I slung him last week. It was really just glue balls rolled around in baking soda, but his stupid crackhead ass don’t know the fucking difference. So what do I have to do now? I gotta go see if I can get my gun back from the goddamn pawnshop. Ricky won’t like it. That’s three times he’s loaned it to me. Fucker owes me though. I saved his miserable life once. Guy loves meat, and loves not chewing it even fucking more. Who chokes on a whole rib? I mean come on, I get it, you’re a fat piece of shit, but even my scum-fuck ass has a line. Anyway, I think I saw the Heimlich done in a movie or some shit once, and I lucked out. More like he lucked out. Got behind his blubber back and jabbed my bony fists right between his man tits. The fat fuck owes me. If he doesn’t give me my gun back I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do. I guess I’ll buy a box cutter and rust it up. Nothing like having a rusty box cutter held right up to your eye. That’s a fucked-up thought: “This might be the last thing I ever see. This tiny rusty wannabe knife might be the last image this eye will ever be able to make out.” That must be close to what you think right before you kick it forever. If you’re lucky to fucking think anything before you die, that is. But I need that 15. I need all the 15s I can fucking get to stuff in that fat bitch’s mouth when she shows up with her sawed-off, thirsty for my dirty blood.
I wonder if Hippo Mary would eat me. I once saw a guy eat another guy. Claimed to be a Satanist, but really he was just a fucking asshole. Not even sure if it was an actual human this prick chowed on. Met him at the Red River. The night before I had just smoked the best crack I’d ever seen in my life, and I guess I felt like bragging. He bought me a Maker’s and said he had some crack back at his pad that would make the stuff I smoked look like a fuckin’ bedtime story. Next thing I know I’m sitting on the guy’s beanbag chair, listenin’ to Rage Against the Machine, and smokin’ this prick’s supposed “super-rock.” It was good, but it was nothing to make your heart stop over. He’s giving me as much as I want, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to fuck me or kill me. Before I know it, fuckhead disappears for a minute and comes out eating the weirdest-looking piece of raw meat I’d ever seen. The shit was bright purple and it was stuck on the end of this big knife he was holding, acting like he was Genghis Khan or something. Guy tells me that he cut it out of his fucking neighbor.
He tells me that one night he was watching When Wives Kill or some stupid piece of garbage like that, and his neighbor knocked on the door and asked him to turn it down. So this asshole slits his neighbor’s throat, and he’s been eating him for BLD for the last two weeks. That’s when I pulled out my gun (it was the second time Ricky had loaned it to me). I pointed it at the sicko’s dick and said, “Look, Hannibal Dahmer. I don’t know if you really are a fucking cannibal or what, but either way my ass is off the menu.” Then I smashed him in his dumb fucking nose with the butt. Freako-deako was knocked out cold, but just to make sure he wasn’t getting back up I kicked him in the stomach a couple times before I left. Never saw him again. Figure I would have heard if the guy died, though. The pigs probably would have tried to pin it on me, and besides, you always hear about it when someone dies in this godforsaken desert. It’s the only thing there is to talk about.
I hope nobody’s gonna be talking about me soon ’cause that monster chick is comin’ and she’s got good ears. And, yeah, I know what you’re thinking: “Get the drop on her first! Take care of her before she kills you, ya dumb bastard.” Nah. Couldn’t do that. I’ll never be able to kill Hippo Mary. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a mom since mine told me to fuck off for good after I pawned all of her stupid pots and pans. When it comes to murder, there’s gotta be a code. Without one you’ll really lose your fucking mind. Then you’re a psycho, and there ain’t no room in this world for psychopaths. That’s what Uncle Sam’s motto should be: “If you’re a psycho or pussbag get the fuck out of my fucking house, fuckface.” By “house,” of course, I mean this shitty toilet of a country. But I guess that’s what Uncle Sam is too, a piece of shit. I don’t know. I’ve never been too much of a reader. No time. Gotta make those George Washingtons so I can keep the ol’ cock hard and rockin’. Fucking money. What a pain in the ass. Things would be so much better if we could go back to bartering pebbles or whatever the fuck we used to do. Seemed better. Simpler. Nothing simple about money. On the back of each bill it should read, GET READY FOR A FUCKING HEADACHE. Thinking about it makes me want to light a fucking bank on fire.
Shit. Think I just heard a knock on the door. Not sure. Had two bottles of Nyquil for dinner. Hopefully no one’s there, and if someone is outside I’m praying to that big prick in the sky that it’s not Hippo Mary. If it is, maybe I can convince her that blowin’ me will make her feel better than blowin’ me away. Either way, I guess I’ll see.
Is my toupee straight?