How Ya Like Me Now?

offensiveTom Turner checked the ammo in his trusty Glock and stared hard at the door across the alley. He was set to meet his contact in the seedy bar, and Morocco was no place to get careless. He turned to his sidekick.

“Careful, Sanjib,” he said, “This might get messy.”

“Do you think they will need technical support?”

“I doubt it, little buddy.”

Sanjib was Asian. He was from India, and was thus predisposed to answering customer calls in barely intelligible English and asking if the caller had tried restarting his computer. He was nervous now, so he scratched at the red dot on his forehead and wondered if he might have been safer at the call center in New Delhi. Before he could get cold feet, Tom waved him forward.

“Now or never, old chum,” and the two walked across the alley and pushed open the door.

The bar was full of smoke, as Moroccan bars always are, and packed with people of every race and creed. Tom even spotted the retarded janitor from the public toilet up the street. He was wearing a rubber helmet and sitting in a corner, muttering to his mop and drinking out of a sippy cup.

“Let’s go, Sanjib,” said Tom, and pushed his way past the French woman standing at the door. She was topless and obviously promiscuous.

“Do you work here?” Tom asked the woman.

“Merde,” she replied. “I am French. I do not work.”

Tom shook his head. “Shameless hussy. Sanjib, we’ll have to talk to the barkeep.”

The bartender turned around at Tom’s approach. He ran a hand through his red hair and hiccuped.

“What can I do fer ye laddies?”

“I’m looking for an American,” replied Tom. “Should be wearing a t-shirt with a picture of a marijuana leaf.”

“Aye, boyo,” said the bartender, weaving slightly on his feet. “He’s at the booth there in the back.” With that he passed out, dead drunk.

Tom and Sanjib walked through the crowded bar to meet their contact. The American was sitting alone, puffing on a hooka pipe and writing a manifesto demanding the immediate forgiveness of all student loans.

“Are you Jerry?” asked Tom. The man looked up at him with a glazed expression.

“Yup. You must be Tom. Want a hit?”

Tom and Sanjib slid into the booth. “Never touch the stuff. Drugs are for hippies. Except cocaine.”

“Whatever, dude,” said Jerry. “Do you have the pictures?”

“I do,” said Tom, but did not get to finish his sentence, because he was interrupted by a loud battle scream. To his right, an enormous black man leapt from the floor and jumped farther than any white man ever could, landing on a table with his pants around his knees, showing off a clean pair of white boxer shorts.

“Yoman wuzzup beeotch!” yelled the man, and chucked a spear right at Tom. Only his quick reflexes saved him as he dove to the floor, and the spear hit Sanjib instead, impaling the sidekick to the booth wall.

Tom whipped out his Glock and spat hot lead at the black man, killing him instantly but blasting his boxers loose. The attacker fell to the ground and Tom had half a second to marvel at the size of the killer’s manhood.

“Be brave, Sanjib,” said Tom. “Looks like you’re a goner.”

“W-Will I go to heaven?” asked Sanjib.

“Nope,” said Tom. “You’re a heathen. Sorry, you’re going to Hell.”

With that, Sanjib died. And went to Hell.

“Bummer, man,” said Jerry. “We should have hugged it out.”

Tom was up now, a Glock in each hand, scanning the room for other enemies. The door to the kitchen burst open and a man rushed at him with a machete.

“I salami makeum!” yelled the man as he rushed at Tom.

“I prefer pastrami!” answered Tom, and shot the man before he could reach him. The attacker fell to the ground and the towel fell right off his head. Tom approached, ready to shoot his mysterious attacker.

“Please,” plead the man. “Not to be killing me. I promise to do no more violence, and will simply retire to run a convenience store and overcharge for beef jerky and Kit-Kat bars.”

“Fine,” said Tom. “Maybe now I can finish this exchange and get back to my blonde wife and two-point-five children.”

“I think not, Mithter Turner.” The voice came from a darkened corner of the bar, and a man stepped out wearing bright red shoes, yellow pants, a baby-blue smoking jacket and a brilliant purple hat.

“Gay,” said Tom.

“Thurrender, Mithter Turner,” said the colorful man. “Or my athothiatth will have to ditharm you.”

Two men stepped out from behind their leader. One was wearing a satin track suit and eating a loose-meat sandwich. Grease dripped from his hair.

“Thatsa spicy-a meatball,” said the man. “Now droppa yo weapon, or find out why theya calla me Nicky Knucklebones.”

The other man had dark brown skin and black hair, and wore dirty clothes. Tom gasped in recognition.

“Pedro!” he cried. “You’re here illegally!”

“Si,” said Pedro. “I’m here to steal your job, drive without insurance and send my children to public school, all without ever paying a dime in taxes.”

“Over my dead body!” shouted Tom. The only thing Tom hated more than homosexuals was illegal immigrants, except maybe gun laws. He dove behind a table and emptied his guns at the three goons. They all fell to the ground, dead.

He felt a painful blow to his legs. He cried out and turned to see a woman swinging a crutch at him. “Take that!” said the woman.

Tom caught the crutch with one hand and pushed the woman backward. She fell over, and her other crutch went flying. It hit a Japanese man in the crotch.

“Ooh,” said the Japanese man. “Rucky ting I have tiny penis!”

The woman struggled to stand, but Tom punched her in the boob and she fell back down.

“How dare you hit me!” yelled the woman. “I’m crippled and a woman!”

“You’re a piss-poor assassin,” said Tom. “How did you get this job?”

The woman shrugged. “Quota.”

“Looks like it’s all over for you, ey,” said a voice behind Tom. He rose slowly and turned to see a hulking man in a flannel shirt and bushy beard. The man was pointing a shotgun at him.

“You put that gun down,” said Tom, “or I will knock out all your teeth.”

“What do I care?” said the man. “I have free healthcare, ey.”

Tom looked around, desperate. He was out of ammo and the cripple had crawled away with her crutches. The Canadian sneered at him and his hand tightened on the trigger.

“Wait!” said Tom.

“What, ey?”

“Trailer Park Boys is lame TV!”

It worked. The man’s head exploded.

“Screw this bar,” said Tom, and walked out. He went immediately to his hotel, where he spent the evening reading his Bible and writing out complicated arguments explaining how cavemen rode dinosaurs.

12 Responses to “How Ya Like Me Now?”

  1. Matt Drake says:

    The writer of this blog would like to apologize. I tried to wedge in a joke about Catholic priests, but it would have completely destroyed the narrative.

  2. Anonymous says:

    That was funny. I’m guessing someone complained about your “Japanese people are weird” shtick from the last review? The same guy that complained on SUaSD about “gay”?

  3. Nathan Woll says:

    Oops, that was me . . . didn’t mean to be anonymous.

  4. Bouncergriim says:

    The comment thread is awfully quiet on this one… Apparently satire/farce is lost on trolls?

  5. Matt Drake says:

    Yeah, maybe I should just start screaming ‘gay!’ at things. That seems to get them riled up.

  6. MLDSC says:

    Need to write in Polacks, Jews, Mormons, fit in the Catholics…shit, you missed a ton. Great read, though. My wife would be angry at me for laughing at it.

  7. Adam says:

    I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t bash the left-handed. I can’t stand those self-righteous pricks and how they use up all your elbow room at the dinner table.

  8. Ivan says:

    This is the most racist writing i’ve ever read, Brilliant! i love it! :D :D

  9. MLDSC says:

    There is a reason sinister is a bad name.

  10. Dan says:

    Well that was the longest example of someone spitting their dummy out of the pram I’ve ever read.

  11. Matt Drake says:

    I have no idea what that means. Is it Canadian? I’ll bet it’s Canadian.

  12. Lee M says:

    You crack me up, cracker!


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