Jared Club is a man who can say he has been to Hell and back without being dramatic. Once a private investigator, he employs the skills he learned in his new job as a bounty hunter for the gods. Jared’s new assignment is to hunt down a rogue vampire who threatens to reveal to the world the whispered lore and legends exist through her actions. Will Jared be able to complete his assignment, or will this assignment be his last?
I sat in the studio’s green room waiting to be called to the stage. I didn’t want to walk around just in case the movement upset the already tight knot that had situated quite nicely in the centre of my stomach. At forty-six you would think nervousness would be old hat and that I would have figured out the proper way to deal with situations like this—but nope. I caught a glimpse in one of the mirrors that seemed to be everywhere. The reflection of a black Stetson wearing stocky man with a four day old brown haired beard peppered with grey to match the collar length hair didn’t match the little boy inside who felt like he was waiting for his punishment. I didn’t want to be there at all. If I hadn’t stopped for a couple of whiskey sour confidence boosters I didn’t think I could have waited as I did.
A mousy looking woman stuck her head in. “Mr. Club, the doctor is almost ready for you,” she informed me. I stood up, straightening out the wrinkles in my trench coat and pants and cinched my Stetson tighter onto my head, then followed her through a maze of people and props of the television studio’s back stage. She told me that when the doctor announced me I was to simply walk to the middle of the stage and sit down. I thanked her and peered at the stage as the audience was taking their seats. A guy with a microphone stood directly in the centre telling poor but very clean jokes. A chorus of hoots and hollers came from the audience. From the opposite side of the stage the host of the show walked on to take his place, okay shuffled more than walked. The guy looked like a dick. It wasn’t a figurative assessment of his personality but a literal description. He was a six-foot cock with two large, oval eyes in the centre of the head with a mouth at the tip’s edge. He was dressed in a white long sleeve shirt that hung halfway down and he wore two gold cufflinks on the ends of the sleeves that covered the two arms that were attached just after the tip of his head. His pants were almost like shorts because his black shoes covered his sac, I assumed his balls slid back and forth to give him motion. There was a call for quiet, the cock cleared his throat and a countdown started at ten then went silent as it reached three. A second later, the red light beside me turned green.
“Well, howdy and welcome to my little corner of the psychobabble universe that we here like to call your four o’clock wakey-wakey time,” the talking cock said to the audience. “The saying goes that when a person goes through a traumatic experience they have been through Hell and back. It’s just a saying but my first guest doesn’t just say this, he believes that he has been to Hell and back! Let’s get down to the nitty-titty of things and welcome Jared Club!”
His hand came up and motioned for me to join him on the stage. I walked timidly to the centre of the stage. “Uh, I was told to come here for my appointment by mental health for an assessment for eligibility?” I told him then commented, “Uhm, I didn’t know there would be so many people.”
“Well, my boy, there are! It’s the government’s new cost saving measures, ya see!” the talking cock informed me. “This show and its advertising dollars are paying for your assessment and recommended treatment rather than the average taxpayer footing the bill. Cost effectiveness, my boy... oh and the dull hope that the public humiliation of being on national television will motivate you to hide those deep dark mental distress issues that have you on the government bill and declare your life is all sunshine and roses!”
He motioned for me to take a seat. I did, then he took the other seat. It was like watching a two-year-old sit in his grandfather’s overstuffed chair. His shoed sac stuck straight out from the chair rather than bending so they were on the stage’s floor. I couldn’t help but wince at the amount of pain I would be in if it was my dick that was bent into a sitting position.
“I’m going to be the doctor doing your assessment today, Mr. Club,” he said. “Phal MacOck at your service.”
I had heard the rare stories before of medical personnel taking advantage of patients, but usually it was in the privacy of their offices and with some form of sedation to the patient. I thought I better clarify in case I had misheard. “Excuse me? Feel your cock?”
“No, no,” he responded, shaking his head although most of the upper part of his shaft turned left to right along with it. “It’s Doctor Phal MacOck!”
“Listen, buddy, I don’t care if you’re a doctor, but I ain’t telling you to feel mine just like you ain’t telling me to feel yours. Quite frankly, I’m just not that type of guy,” I said defensively as my hands curled up into fists. “If you want a hand job there’s this chick down the street, that’s looking for a couple of bucks, whom I’m sure would.”
“It’s not a request, it’s my name,” he said as he leered at me. He took a set of cue cards that someone came and handed to him, he thanked the person then looked at them. “Moving right along, according to the file that the ol’ Alberta board of health sent over, you were discovered screaming from inside a stuffed couch,” he read aloud. Afterward, he looked at me expectantly.