DEDICATED TO HOT KARL ZIMMLER
May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face
________
She wasn't a MILF, a Cougar, more like a Sabre Tooth Tiger, but holy shit she was in good shape for her age. A little rugged looking but still attractive.
I had been downtown Pensacola at World Of Beers when I met Rhonda, a former old school Roller Derby star who used to play for the San Francisco Bay Bombers and was retired in Gulf Breeze. She kinda looked like Holly the HR rep in The Office.
One India Pale Ale led to another which led to smoking a couple of joints of B.C. Thunderfuck in the parking lot followed by heading back to Perdido Key for a dusk to dawn marathon sex-a-thon romp powered by Rhonda's ample supply of Bolivian marching powder.
When I finally regained consciousness it was already 1130. We both had "slept" through my alarm and I realized with a jolt that I was going to miss seeing Hot Karl off at the airport.
First, I called Luther Heggs who was driving Karl to the airport since Karl had been hiding out at his place. No answer after several attempts.
That's when it started getting weird. I tried Hot Karl's number and someone else answered. A man's voice. I hung up and tried again. Man answered again and I hung up. The next time the phone was answered with, "Who the fuck is this?"
I was using a burner phone so I pulled the SIM card and flushed it down the toilet and busted the phone into pieces.
By then, Rhonda was half dressed and drinking an espresso so I told her I had to drop her off at her car and go check on someone. She power slammed her espresso down like a longshoreman, grabbed her clothes, and walked out to my car in her bra and panties like she did it ever morning. Perdido Key is so weird and freaky with tourists that no one said a goddamn thing except for one old bastard...obviously an old Roller Derby fan... that ran up and asked for her autograph.
When I walked into Luther's apartment it looked like a scene from Leaving Las Vegas...
...and his suitcase looked it was a movie prop for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
One suitcase was full of clothes that looked like he could just as well have donated to the Waterfront Mission...and the other was packed with bags of weed, bottles of narcotics and amphetamines, sheets of blotter acid and other psychedelics, nitrous poppers, and what looked like a kilo of cocaine. Four paper grocery bags held a gallon of vodka each.
"What the fuck, Luther? The cops bust in here we're both going straight to getting cornholed at Raiford State Prison."
He glanced over at me frantically. "I'm leaving town for good, Goat!"
"What the hell is going on? Where's Hot Karl?"
"When I took him to the airport a white van cut me off, these goons in black camos jumped out and sprayed me right in the fucking face with mace while they pulled Hot Karl out and beat the shit out of him with batons. They threw him in the van and took off and left me lying there blind as a goddamn bat on that hot ass pavement! While I was lying there a airport security guard came up and wrote me a ticket for being in the loading zone too long. That cocksucker!"
I was thinking just how fortunate I was that my drug and booze induced state had prevented me from waking up on time.
"Was that asshole with the "Cornholing For Jesus" shirt with them?"
He turned around from his suitcase and looked at me with the weirdest expression on his face. "No. But I swear to God almighty that G. Gordon Liddy was driving."
"G. Gordon Liddy? Have you gone off your nut?"
"I swear, it looked just like him. When was the last time you talked to Karl?"
"Just yesterday morning. Right in this room. You were stone cold passed out in the back."
_________
"Here's my passport photo. My contact is doing a rush job. It should be ready by this afternoon." Hot Karl Zimmler...
...slid the photo across the table for me to examine.
"That trip to Great Clips did you wonders."
"I clean up good when I want to."
"It was stealing the box from the White House that was going to the Commissar, wasn't it? That's what drew in the Feds!...
...That personally autographed by Trump shit that was going to be the grand prize at the Labor Day Trump Boat Parade."
"No. But they are righteously pissed about that. Actually, it happened when I was listening to Barr order the Commissar that he was going to have to slip Iron Mike Tyson a mickey before the Jones fight before it got moved back to California...I stayed on the line because the Commissar didn't hang up."
"What the hell was he doing?"
Hot Karl laughed maniacally, "He just put his phone down and started sobbing like a prom queen who lost her virginity to a guy with the Clap named Ray Bob and the phone call she just got came from her doctor who said she was pregnant."
"But curiosity gets turpentine shot in the cat's ass. Some software detected another line when I didn't disconnect quick enough. My computer set off a warning that I was being tracked but it was too fucking late. They traced that fucker in seconds. I threw all my computer gear in the trunk and grabbed my go bag. I tossed all the computer shit off of the Bill Barr Bridge. I'll be out of the country by tomorrow."
"You mean the Barrs Bridge."
"Not anymore. The County is going to re-name it the Bill Barr Bridge. It's going to be announced the week before the OBA Trump Boat Parade They should have the work order for the signs done in 9 to 12 weeks."
He pulled out a CD and popped it in the player. "But listen to this shit. This came from the guy I was working with on this. His name is Otis...
(This is my mental image of Otis) ...Man, this dude is a straight badass hardcore motherfucker on the Dark Web. He was still monitoring after I had to go dark, and a few hours Barr called back...."
Commissar: How may I help you, Mr. Barr, Sir?
BB: You lucked out, Popeye! The fight is still going to be in California so you're off the hook. I was hoping that Tyson would catch you and rip your nuts off but it was not to be.
Commissar: Mr. Barr, I would have gone out on my shield for you and the President.
BB: Can the bullshit with the Audie Murphy spiel. I have another job for you. Hopefully you won't fuck this one up like everything else.
Commissar: You've picked the right man for the job, Mr. Barr
BB: I seriously doubt that, but we think we've located the perp who stole the Trump Flotilla grand prize. His balls are...
...gonna get hooked up to a Sears Die Hard. So if he talks, you're off the hook with that major league fuck up!
Commissar: That's certainly good news, Your Majesty.
BB: I wouldn't be blowing smoke up my ass just yet. You haven't even heard what I'm going to say yet and already you're kissing my sweet nether regions.
Commissar: What is the mission, Mr. Barr? I'm reporting for duty as ordered!
BB: (muttering) Jesus Fucking Christ!... Your mission, Captain Willard, is YOU ARE going to convince the Board of County Commissioners and the city of Pensacola to place a statue with a plaque of Jeffrey Epstein in the middle of the fountain at the Palafox Pier...
...the unveiling ceremony will be held during the Trump Labor Day Boat parade and the Master of Ceremonies will be the John "The Wadd" Holmes of politics, Matt Gaetz and his trusty sidekick, Nestor...
...now you better get your ass in gear, Bitch!
Click!!
I had a tremendous urge to get the hell out of there, so I stood up to leave. "I'll see you at the airport in the morning."
Hot Karl held out to me a white box like you would keep monogrammed handkerchiefs in. "I had my last date with Flipper last night. Would you give this to her?"
"What's in it?" I asked, eyeing the box like it was full of Ricin.
"My grandfather's silk socks that I used only with Flipper. I think she'd cherish them."
"Are you fucking crazy?"
zerafi
SWG
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