So I was talking with Fisher the Agent the other day, and he asked me a philosophical question: Why do writers write?
I thought about this for quite some time, and eventually arrived at a clever, Edmund Hillary-esque explanation for the craft. Why do writers write? Because it’s NOT there.
When I relayed this perspicacious nugget to Fisher, he surprised the hell out of me with some heretofore undetected drollery.
“Oh, there’s something THERE, all right,” Fisher quipped. “It’s the writer’s elephantine EGO telling him the world needs to hear what he has to say.”
I made a note to add that line to the “Fun Things To Do With Mud” script, and then hung up on Fisher. Hell, I couldn’t be bothered with his exasperating “How’s the script coming along?” routine … not with Tommy’s bachelor party just a few short hours away.
A FEW SHORT HOURS LATER … “You sure this place is safe, ‘Hog?’” Tommy asked nervously, as we made our way to the secret back room at Fonzo’s Knuckle Lounge and Strip-A-Torium. “A lot of these people look like they should be in prison.”
It was just like Tommy to be afraid of a few hookers and recently paroled hit men. From the moment I met the guy in Kent’s Pub outside of London, I knew he was what the British refer to as a “poofter.” Hell, even Darby the heavily tattooed and pierced barkeep at Kent’s agreed with me. And if the wimpy Brits think you’re soft, you’ve got an Osama’s chance in New York of surviving the secret back room at Fonzo’s Knuckle Lounge and Strip-A-Torium in El Segundo.
Hell, if it hadn’t a’been for me and my AK-47, Tommy the Poofter would have never even made it out of that Indonesian brothel, and it’s for damn sure he never would have gotten an honorable discharge from the Merchant Marines. But, hell, those are other stories for other times. Especially with Glenda the Dirty Ho scheduled to arrive in just a few short minutes.
A FEW SHORT MINUTES LATER … It’s one thing to have people refer to you as a Dirty Ho; it’s quite another to introduce yourself thusly. And then it’s another thing altogether to have the unsavory moniker stitched on the lapel of your motorcycle gang jacket.
“Tommy, I’d like you to meet …” “Glenda the Dirty Ho?!!” He seemed to be a bit, um, surprised. “So you can read, congratulations!” Glenda spat, as Tommy stared incredulously at the dangerously chaotic voluptuousness that is the most infamous call girl in all of Southern California. “But can you work the thrill drill, Sparky?”
Then, before he could utter a word, she dragged him into the back room. “Have fun, Tommy!” I yelled after them. “She’s my bachelor party present to you!”
I figured there was no point in mentioning that I’d paid Glenda the Dirty Ho to kill my former best friend Tommy … he’d find out in a few seconds.
A FEW SECONDS LATER … Glenda the Dirty Ho emerged from the back room, covered in sweat and breathing heavy. Despite his Poofter-nicity, Tommy must have been a tough kill.
“Whatcha do with the body, Glenda?” “Well, first I put his thing in my …” “Wait, wait, wait … you didn’t have to fool around with him before you killed ‘em. I’m not paying extra for that!”
“I didn’t kill him,” Glenda said, in a gentle, womanly tone I never imagined I’d hear coming from the harsh likes of a grizzled biker ho. “We fell in love. He’s out back on my Harley waitin’ for me. He wanted me to tell you thanks and good-bye.” (Next week: The poop hits the fan … and it’s more fun than even a FunHog deserves!) (Dan Dunn is a Santa Monica writer. For more FunHog fun, log onto thefun-hog.com).
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on July 8, 2002. Read the original PDF.