[I am considering writing a mystery novel in short pieces on this blog for people to read. If people enjoy this story, then I will try to post a new section weekly. Please let me know if this is intriguing! It will be titled Bare Snow. This is the first Episode, The Wrong Side of the Bed.]
I have just finished pissing in this guy’s bed. That may not be the best place to start the story, and I could probably have skipped ahead a twenty minutes. But, then there would have been moaning and wailing, and that just seemed too cliché. Besides, it is important that you understand the type of guy that I am, or was.
I know it seems a bit reckless to pee where a man sleeps, but trust me, the guy deserved it.
Before continuing, I suppose I should introduce myself as your narrator. There honestly isn’t anyone else that can tell this story. My name is Willie Bacon and I am the ‘less than fashionable’ guy standing over the party host’s bed in this luxurious, Los Angeles home. The jamboree of the uppity ups on the ground floor has become increasingly raucous in the past hour, which has assured me of their fakeness. This is only one of several reasons why I have sought out this bedroom as an escape and a place to empty my bladder.
It is Saturday, June 11th, 2011, and I have been invited to Davin Broder’s home for this social get together where people pretend to socialize. Davin is a Jewish American filmmaker, which probably should have never happened. The man’s wife slept with the right guy though, which gave him a shot at placing his half-brained script in the right jerkoff’s lap. As usual, the American public loved it and he hit fame nearly overnight. I thought he would do better as a wedding planner or a public health employee, but it isn’t 1984, so I guess a fucker can do what he wants.
Sorry for cursing, but the guy is a real loser. I’ll tell you more about him later.
I zip up the fly on my denims and toss the comforter back over the top of the yellow puddle that is slowly soaking into the silk sheets. I grin thinking of Davin slipping beneath the covers for a rude, wet awakening. I hope it takes him days to wash out the smell of alcohol-induced piss.
The bedroom door banged open behind me like a gunshot with the golden knob slamming against a poorly placed accent table. It was dark mahogany like the rest of the furniture, except this now had a glorified scuff mark and dent on the surface. I fell to the floor in a heap on the opposite side of the bed, peering carefully towards the light that flooded the room.
“You get out of those panties and I’ll lock the door,” a guy chuckled, unbuttoning his sports coat. He entered the room backwards, his eyes fastened on the blonde bombshell that led him with two outstretched fingers against his chest.
“I am not wearing any, Mr. Cussold,” her voice was honeyed and slurred. It was a prominent theme in the southern hills of California. If the women weren’t drunk, they were high on Mary Jane. And, if they weren’t either of those, they were simply deranged.
“Your husband must have been thrilled to have you, Miranda. Too bad he is six feet under.”
“He was when he had the chance, but you took care of that didn’t you, baby,” she grabbed him by his undershirt, nearly tearing the buttons as she pulled him forward. Her lips were redder than cherries, wrapped around his fully.
That was the moment that I realized that this was not your typical love affair between two drunken perverts of Hollywood. What I was about to witness would change the course of events for the next several weeks. If I had been smart, I might have ran from the room screaming like that blonde kid from Home Alone.
Instead, I dived under the urine-soaked bed.