Fiction

Ménage à Trois
by Abel Diaz

Anonymo the mystery jerk. The schmuck in a corner no cunt would peep twice. He’s a waste of time. A fucking nobody. A real ghost of a prick.

Until now.

Now he’s got a ham sandwich at a funeral. A goddamn funeral--never even met the stiff. Sandwich dry as an unsullied tampon. Not a drop of mustard in sight.

“Where the Hell did you get that ham sandwich?!?” fumes the priest. He’s seen some real bullshit in his time, but THIS?!? THIS!

All eyes on Anonymo. Old ladies see him for the first time, pass out from shock. One lady dies of a heart attack: “Tae think he wis thir the whole time--aaack! Ma fackin hart! Thit shitein puff burst ma poor auld hart! Ah’m comin, Laird, wi shite oan ma keks an pish in ma Scottish veins!”

Anonymo chews and swallows a dry mouthful. He becomes painfully conscious of the sandwich in his hand...

* * *

Anonymo at a brothel outside Big City, trying to get a hooker for hours. They don’t so much as notice him. Eventually he follows a whore and her John to a room. Two people making nasty love until:

“OH MY GOD THERE’S SOMEBODY IN HERE!!!” gasps the broad in mid-fuck. “You pervert, you sick-o! I never said your friend could watch!”

The John is flummoxed. He stops pumping. “Lady, what the hell are you talking about? I don’t got a friend in here.”

“Get out of me! Get out! It cost you extra if your pal wants to watch!”

The John pulls out and looks around the room. Lots of tiger print, pillows, and sex toys, and not much else. “Will you just calm down a minute? There ain’t nobody here. What are you, one of those crack whores?”

“He’s right there.” She points frantically. “There in the corner staring at us with his pervy little eyes.” She shudders instinctively.

The John gets out of bed and starts swinging in that direction. He tosses left and right jabs, uppercuts, round houses. Hoooah! “Barge in on my piece of ass, will ya? I’ll fucking murder you!”

Anonymo catches a lucky punch in the mouth. His lip bloats out like a fat pink tit.

“You got him!” shouts the prostitute. “Now kick his filthy ass. Break his legs for me and I’ll suck your balls off for free.”

The John keeps punching air with gusto. Whatever makes the lady happy...

* * *

Anonymo likes to watch all right. It’s what he do. Him and two friends keep an eye on Big City. Call themselves Ménage à Trois. Every good super group’s gotta super name.

Torchy Pete is the man in charge. He apprenticed with a Tantric master for years and now has absolute command over his bladder. When there’s trouble afoot Torchy Pete gets his cock out. Dips the ample organ in gasoline. With unconscious ease he siphons every drop of fuel into his body.

Villains beware.

Torchy Pete could knock the ash off a cigarette at fifty yards with a quick shot of piss. But when the big guns come out--when maximum firepower is what’s required--Pete becomes a human flamethrower. Cuts loose with his bladder. Holds a lit match at cock level and sprays the room. A squad of Nazis turn to pom frits--BAM! Kicked up a notch.

* * *

Any Ménage à Trois worth a damn needs three: meet Two Second Sam. Got his brains fucked inna war. Gets nostalgic about something happened two seconds ago. Comes walking out a toilet and bursts into tears: “I was just thinking about the time”--he takes a deep breath, carries on--“the time I took a shit so hairy had to scrub my ass with steel bristles!”

“Sam, that was two seconds ago.”

“I know! Times were simpler then...”

Or he’s in the minivan with Anonymo and Torchy Pete: the van turns left on Boulder Ave. “Remember the time?” he weeps openly and unashamed. “The time we took a left on Boulder? That was back when people did things and went places. Back when you made your gravy on a magazine. You had to hold the magazine in one hand and your Will Rogers in the other. That’s how you buttered your bread and you liked it! And when you finished her off, you passed the book to your best buddy so he could take a turn. Now it’s all done with computers. Where’s the romance?”

* * *

Torchy Pete calls the meeting to order. Ménage à Trois needs to talk. “Take a look at these numbers, men. We’re finished.” He drops a phonebook stack of documents on the table. It’s all there in his report. Any damn fool could see it.

Anonymo reads a page, reaches for his asthma inhaler. Blurts out a question.

“That’s right,” Torchy Pete confirms it. “Mayor Rupert is pulling our funding. We’ll have to get jobs and work for a living like every Tom, Dick, and Harry. We’ll lose our lease on this building. Live in apartments like shitheads.”

“But why?” Two Second Sam grinds his teeth. “Why, why?!?”

“It’s an election year. Our economy is in the crapper. That’s why! A recent survey shows the average voter on the street don’t know Ménage à Trois from a hole in his ass. They think we’re superfluous. They think Big City is fine without us. Why? Because we haven’t made the news in months. That’s why! Because we cleaned this shithole up. Where’s all the scum we had around here ten years ago? In jail where they belong!” He punches the table and turns to stare out the window. This is why democracy don’t work. Every shitting bastard got Alzheimer’s come time to vote.

Anonymo makes a suggestion.

“Yes,” the ever patient Torchy agrees. “We could boost our popularity by recruiting a blonde with gargantuan tits, and that might sway public opinion. But damn it! We’d have to change our name to Four’s Company or the Fournicators.” He spits on the floor, disgusted by the mere thought of it. “No, this outfit began as Ménage à Trois and by God it’ll end that way!”

Two Second Sam gets misty eyed. “Think back, my friends. Close your eyes and go to a special place with me. The time we all thought it was over. Mayor Rupert cut our funding...Big City turned its back on us...and I farted like a toxic bagpipe...”

“Shut up, Sam.” Torchy Pete hands Anonymo a dossier. “There’s only one crime boss left in town. I want you to infiltrate his headquarters. Scope his next move. Get us a lead on some juicy shit. We need a major bust and soon or we don’t stand a chance with Rupert.”

* * *

Anonymo infiltrates the underworld by walking in its front door. No one notices him. He makes camp in a corner of Logan’s home office--the last crime lord in Big City. Sometimes a henchman becomes aware of Anonymo (as happens from time to time for reasons beyond his control), but writes off the puny creep in a sleeping bag as one of Logan’s numerous children.

Anonymo camps out for five days straight, but doesn’t hear any news. He visits the toilet when he needs to, and takes food from the kitchen when he’s hungry. No one gets suspicious. But after ten days Anonymo still hasn’t learned anything. He goes downstairs to do his laundry and sees the butler. He overhears the man talking to himself as he folds Logan’s underwear:

“Don Logan always tells me not to open my mouth upstairs, because of FBI informants and listening devices and such. I don’t know about that. I don’t know much about anything if it don’t involve ironing, sweeping, or scrubbing shit stains from a pair of crusty old boxers. But I know one thing: I feel like running off at the mouth for no good reason at all. I just want to talk about something out loud. ANYTHING. So maybe I’ll ramble on at great length about Logan’s plan to heist that bank on Tower Street. I’ll go into amazing detail about the biggest theft in Big City history. I’m going to stand right here, fold this laundry, and muse over every little aspect of the job as if my life depended on it. I don’t want to leave nothing out. I just won’t shut up about it! Now let’s see. As I recall, the boss said...”

* * *

The Big City Bank on Tower Street. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Inside, Ménage à Trois is ready. Anonymo stakes out in the vault with a loaded six-shooter. Two Second Sam positions himself by the rear entrance. Torchy Pete takes cover behind a large plant by the front door. His bladder fit to burst on a new type of rocket fuel.

Bang on time the gang arrives. Logan packing a Desert Eagle; five of his best men with shotguns. They come in through the back door in masks.

“Remember when?” blubbers Sam uncontrollably. “When Don Logan and his cronies came right through the back door?”

“Sam, get down!” yells Torchy. He drops his trousers.

“Took me by surprise! Couldn’t even draw my gun,” cries Sam.

They open up on Sam, empty round after round in him until his insides are all over the bank. Everyone is on the floor with their hands over their eyes, praying to God. Customers and bank tellers alike.

“Bastards!” howls Torchy Pete and lights a match. He jumps out from his hiding place, opens the tap, and hoses Logan’s gang. Rocket piss in their eyes, soaking their clothes. Two go down overcome by fumes.

“It’s payback, you God damn cowards!” Torchy puts lit match to urine and--!!!WHooooooooooSH!!!--Armageddon from his crotch.

But the blast is unanticipated. Torchy Pete never used this fuel before. CUNTY BALLS! he thinks when he’s knocked off his feet. Flames of wrath fan out, torch the walls. The heat is unbearable. A deafening roar as fire devours everything, even the oxygen. Geysering out of his own body, a brilliant fountain of light crashes down and incinerates Torchy Pete entirely.

Don Logan scopes the situation. He’s got three men dead, fried to a fucking crisp. He’s got a heist gone bad. He’s got customers and employees in a panic running all over the goddamn place. He’s got the whole east side of the building burning to Hell in a hurry.

“Move your ass!” Logan rallies his last two men. “Let’s grab the money and split.”

Three men enter the vault. Six shots from a single gun. There is no return fire.

* * *

BIG CITY HERALD
Nov. 1, 1997

HERO IS NO-SHOW AT OWN AWARD CEREMONY!
CITY INSULTED!! MAYOR OUTRAGED!!!

BIG CITY--The last surviving member of super group Ménage à Trois failed to show for his own award ceremony at Mayor Rupert’s mansion today. Anonymo, former member of the now defunct Ménage à Trois, was being honored for his role in preventing a robbery of Big City Bank. Though the bank was consumed by fire amidst a pitched gun battle, millions of dollars were saved when Anonymo sealed the fireproof vault before evacuating the building.

All six bank robbers were killed in the heist, including crime boss Lazy Chins Logan, terror of Big City for decades. Also killed were Ménage à Trois heroes Torchy Pete and Two Second Sam. The only other casualty was a bank manager who, as a result of shock, is in critical condition with what doctors can only describe as “terminal shits”. The man is not expected to live.

For his courage and civic duty, Anonymo was set to receive a certificate of appreciation from Mayor Rupert on the lawn of his elegant mansion. Rupert was expected to announce the approval of new funds for Ménage à Trois, and a commitment to finance the replacement of lost members. Twenty thousand residents of Big City turned out for the affair. The guest of honor, however, did not.

“This is disgraceful,” said Rupert of the incident. “It’s disgusting. Anonymo has insulted Big City, and frankly, embarrassed himself.”

In light of the event, Rupert has rescinded all support for the super group. In a fiery speech, he promised to enact legislation which would make Ménage à Trois illegal within city limits. Furthermore, Rupert called on law enforcement authorities to do everything in their power to arrest Anonymo on charges of “suspicious activities”.

“We’ll work out the details of his crime after we get this joker in custody,” said the Mayor.

Numerous eyewitnesses claim to have seen Anonymo at the ceremony, but their statements could not be independently verified. One witness told reporters she saw Anonymo right beside the Mayor. Rupert dismissed this claim as “pure horseshit”.

The current whereabouts of Anonymo are unknown. Police agencies have offered a reward for any information leading to his arrest.