Three-ring lunch

The tale you are about to read is completely true, except for the parts I blatantly fabricated.

For the entire time I lived in Illinois, Circus Kelli and I had been talking about getting together for lunch sometime, but we hadn't actually done anything about it. Finally, on my last Friday in Illinois, we made plans to meet during her lunch hour. I'd picked the classiest joint the uppercrust had to offer - of course, I mean a Long John Silvers/Taco Bell combination restaurant. Diarrhea on a checkered platter. Well, to be more accurate, diarrhea from a checkered platter. In either case, ain't no better way to get your diarrhea, folks.

Now, you know what people always say about meeting someone you know from the Internet. All that talk of pervert and deviant and serial killer...yes, I'm sure all those things are being said about me. But I'm only copping to the first one. It was with a great sense of trust that I met Kelli in person, because how harmful could someone be when she drives the Blameless Mommy Van? She certainly looked angelic enough:






We had a great time at lunch, being stupid and laughing a lot. But then, after my third shrimp and a quarter of the way into my second slab o' fish, I could sense that something was slightly off. The whole room seemed to tilt and the walls began to breathe, each wall with its own plastery set of lungs. The napkin holders were too busy throwing dice to give a rat's ass, and I had the uneasy feeling that the ketchup dispenser was planning a mutiny, against what is still unclear, but its sense of malevolent discontent cut through the greasy air like a frisbee through whipped poop. About the time I thought to comment on how very odd that was, everything went dark, and I remember wondering who the hell turned off the lights.

When my eyes fluttered open again, I realized that I was in the back of a van with my wrists duct taped so as to extend my arms straight out on either side. There was this noise I kept hearing...ssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhp-click-ssssssssshhhhhhhhp-click...what the fuck?

My head was murky as week-old piss, but it finally dawned on me that Kelli was measuring me.

"Are you measuring me for a coffin?" I asked in a groggy voice that was much calmer than I felt at the moment.

She looked up sharply, obviously not expecting my consciousness quite so soon, and then she burst out in laughter that was rather serial killerish, in my opinion. "So, just because you met me on the Internet and I drive a van, I must be a demented murderer? Is that it?"

"Well, that and the fact that you drugged me and now have me taped up in the back of that very van," I countered as she continued to measure me. "You mind telling me what this is for, then, if it's not for a coffin? Trash bag, maybe? Oriental rug?"

"It's for your costume, " she offered, not looking up from her work.

"My costume? What kind of weird fucker are you?" I tried to pull free of the duct tape but I was still too weak to put forth any kind of tangible effort.

"You fool!" she hissed, letting the tape slam back into the receptacle. "It's the Circus! The Circus needs new blood!"

"Damn, now you want my blood?" Can't say I was too fond of that option, either.

"It's just an expression," she explained patiently, in the kind of voice people normally save for conversations with the severely retarded. "The Circus needs some different performers. We can only trot out Sweet Pea's symphony of farts so many times a night before she needs a nap. And then a burrito. So I've made it my mission to hunt down some new faces that we can put to work."

Oh, no! I was being sold into clown-white slavery! Stalling for time as I formulated a plan, I asked, "So, what is this costume you're fitting me for?"

Kelli smiled in a cheerfully demented way. "Think Penelope Pitstop, climbing out of a very, very tiny car."

"Noooooooooo!" I shrieked like Vader when Padme died. "You can't put me in that much hot pink all at once! It's against the Geneva Convention."

She laughed killerishly again and said, "If you don't like that costume, your other option is that we put you in your chaps, paint a bullseye on each of your ample ass cheeks, and invite members of the audience to throw cactus plants at you."

A mere mortal might have begun to make amends with the Powers That Be at this point. I never got to consider that option, because at that moment, a faint buzzing sound could be heard, an odd sound, like muffled, synthesized flatulence.

"What the hell is that?" Kelli demanded as I began to chuckle. "Are you farting in my van? I just had these seats cleaned, you know!"

Now it was my turn to laugh. The giggle was on the other foot. "Did you really think I'd come to this meeting unprepared, Ringmaster? That I wouldn't have a backup plan?"

"The only backing up you'll be doing is into an elephant's tusk," she snarled, but I could tell I'd put her off balance.

"Homing device," I told her, then elaborated, mostly to hear the sound of my own voice. "I have customized butt plugs, you see, and I maintain a prespecified amount of pressure on my buttplug at all times. Oh, yes - my sphincter is a thing of wonder, like a trained sand worm. So when you drugged me into unconsciousness, and my talented sphincter let slip its magical grip, the trusty butt plug automatically sent an SOS and coordinates to my personal rescue crew, the Eaton Posse. They'll be here shortly, Ringmaster. Best for you to just let me go now."

Kelli was fuming by then, trying to decide whether or not I was bluffing. I was getting warmed up to my own speechifying, so I continued on, "Tell me something - how can you, in good conscience, kidnap Circus slaves in this vehicle and still call it the Blameless Mommy Van?"

She abruptly stopped fuming, whipped out a utility knife, and deftly cut my wrists free of the duct tape. Then, before I could react, she flung open the rear doors of the van and shoved me out onto the ground.

"Oh, my god!" she exclaimed from her perch in the back of the van. "I can't have anyone as stupid as you in my Circus! You're untrainable."

I looked up at her, not comprehending. She threw her hands up in the air, exasperated, and yelled, "It's Flameless Mommy Van, you fucking retard. Flameless! Geeeeez!" With that, she slammed the doors, and a few seconds later, fired up the engine and nearly ran me over in her haste to exit. It was like she couldn't get away from my dumb fast enough, just in case it was contagious.

Sometimes being stupid pays off, because the whole posse thing was bullshit. The only magical qualities my butt plug has are the flashing lights and its ability to play Funkytown.