Photos by Janicza Bravo
This is the second installment of Toupee, a previously unpublished novel by Brett Gelman that Vice unearthed a while back. We will be serializing it throughout 2011. No one has heard from Brett since last October, when he sent us a bag of cat shit in a Ziploc bag along with a note that read, “Keep this safe.” Please get in touch if you’ve seen him. We’re getting worried.
I open up the goddamn door. It’s daytime. The sun slaps me in the eyes with its burning solar cock. Can’t see shit. Next thing I’m expecting is a bullet in my head or a knife to my chest, followed by Hippo Mary’s deep, shitty laugh.
That’s not what I hear, though. Instead, a little, paper-thin, annoying-as-fuck voice pierces my eardrums. It’s Shit Bird. He looks like an emu and is a total and complete piece of shit. Hence the name. I hate Shit Bird. He’s the kind of creep who makes you want to kill yourself because it’s impossible to bear the notion that the world would allow someone like him to exist—the type of guy who makes you ask yourself: “Why should I be a part of such a dumb fucking world?”
I shield myself from the UV, just as the little bastard starts flapping his beak lips: “Hey, Toupee. What are you doing right now?”
“Beating off to a murder fantasy, starring you. What do you want, Shit Bird?”
He steps aside and reveals an old beater—the kind of car you’re scared to stand near for fear it’ll explode in your fucking face.
“You giving me a car, Shit Bird?”
“No, asshole. I’m giving you a job. That car’s got something inside, and it needs to be driven off a fucking cliff. Pronto.”
“What’s in it that’s so goddamned get-riddable?”
I watch a tear fall down Shit Bird’s cheek before he meekly says, “Dead Dick. Dead Dick’s in there, and he’s dead. Dead Dick’s dead.”
Holy shit. Dead Dick’s dead, and so is his dick. Must be a bad day for Shit Bird. You see, Dead Dick and Shit Bird, they were fuck buddies, lovers, boyfriends, whatever you want to call it. Dead Dick was pretty much the worst smack junkie in the desert. Always nodding off, puking everywhere. Bald as fuck too. Puking bald fucks are the worst. Their heads get bright red when they spew. It’s like watching a baby being strangled to death. Still, Dick wasn’t so bad when he was alive. He was a better boyfriend to Shit Bird than that asshole deserved. Must be hard to drive around with your boyfriend’s corpse in the trunk. He’s probably supposed to get rid of it but can’t handle the job. That’s why these assholes come to me. I can deal. It’s not that I take death lightly. It’s not that I hate people. It’s just that I hate most people.
“Sure, Shit Bird. I’ll do the job. By the way, my condolences.”
“Fuck you, Toupee. You can fuck my asshole with your tongue.”
Next thing I know I’m driving. Should’ve taken the edge off with something. I hate driving sober. Nothing more boring than sitting in a fucking metal box, looking at miles of desert. If that bullshit wasn’t bad enough, I got to listen to my own stupid thoughts like, “What the fuck am I doing with this dead asshole in the trunk? Jesus Christ, are human beings really this expendable? Poor Dead Dick. He just was doing the best he fucking could, and now he’s gone. Probably over some stupid pointless shit. And here I am, going to dump his body like it’s a bag of bat shit. What is my life?”
If I were high I’d only have two thoughts: 1) “I love drugs” and 2) “I love money.”
I see the cliff ahead. They call it The Dump. I’m sure you can guess why. It really is the best spot to dispose of your baggage. Either that or The Dump Jr., which is like The Dump but smaller. I’m sure you guessed that too, smart-ass.
I reach The Dump. I don’t even stop. I’m used to this part. I just slow the beater down a bit, jump out, and let ’er roll. I scrape my fucking elbow this time, though. I hate that. Scrapes are half-assed cuts. I prefer gashes.
I rise to my feet. Then I feel a kick to my back, and I’m down again, dry-humping the dirt. It’s the pigs. I know it’s them because of the smell. It’s a clean scent. Don’t know which feeling I hate more: the boot stomping the back of my neck or the cold metal around my wrists. Looks like it’s back to the fucking zoo. Rape City. Hope they at least let me wear my toupee.