For those of you who've been following this blog, as an experiment I've decided to turn the reigns over this week to my former band mate Kirk Moufe, who acts as somewhat of a miscellaneous functionary for me in between gigs. So far it has not been going very well. When I had originally asked him what he'd intended to write about he said he was going to probably do a movie review or something, which seemed reasonable enough.
That was sometime this past Tuesday. The following afternoon I received a series of phone calls, each of them more distressing than the last. The first was from his current, and probably soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend Tammy, who asked if I knew where, in her words: That fucking loser and his asshole friend had taken her car to?
When I replied that I hadn't, I listened to about five minutes of... Well, I wouldn't call it cursing so much as a screeching cacophony of oaths, or maybe a spell perhaps, cooked up by a modern day sorceress with the intent of castrating large mammals via wireless communication devices. When she finished venting, I told her I'd send her a text if I heard from him and then headed straight to the bathroom to clean up the massive nosebleed I'd suffered while in the middle of listening to her profane invective. The next call came from Phoenix PD, asking if I knew the whereabouts of either Kirk Moufe, his girlfriend's car, or an unidentified man that went by the alias "Buzzard". I assured them that I certainly did not, but would call right away if I heard anything at all.
The last call came from a payphone with an address located not far from my house, at a crumbling lot that had once upon a time been a Circle K, and was now a combination Pay-day Loan Mart and Carneceria. It was Buzzard on the line, and he had a stack of papers he needed to hand off to me.
"It was Moufe's final request that I get these to you," he panted into the receiver. "I'm leaving them in one of the newspaper bins, at the bottom of the stack. Grab a couple of quarters and if you hurry you can pick them up before the queens come along and clear out the box."
"Wait, what the fuck are you talking about, man?" I shouted. "Where's Kirk, and what happened to the car?"
I could hear Buzzard's head thump against the filthy plexiglas that surrounded the phone booth. "The car, man... I forgot all about that fucking car. Look, Will, it all got too fucked up for any of us to handle. I'm sorry, but Kirk's gone. And the car..." Buzzard laughed, ruefully. "Man, I forgot all about that fucking car."
He hung up.
I ran upstairs and grabbed a handful of quarters out of the candy dish on my nightstand. The Payday-Meat Market was less than a block away. It was just past four-thirty and a lot of the day-laborers were lined up just outside the double glass doors, drinking tall cans of Modelo and Bud Light sleeved in thin brown bags. For no other reason than to be a total dick, Buzzard went and stashed Kirk's papers at the base of the OUT THERE PHOENIX!!! bin; a weekly publication that's kind of like the Village Voice, only instead of insightful, albeit liberal-biased investigative journalism, OTP is jammed cover to cover with ads for male prostitutes that specialize in "Rough Trade".
So, I heard my fair share of catcalls and wolf whistles from the day-laborers as I rummaged through stacks of glossy photos of leather-clad bears with come-hither grins until I found what I was looking for, all the way at the bottom. Kirk had filled out about 3/4ths of a composition notebook with a single word embossed across the front cover:
I spent most of yesterday transcribing the events that led up to Kirk's decision to build what he had dubbed the Sharktopusatron. As you may have guessed, by the time he finished assembling this wall of very expensive, high definition televisions, his mind had devolved somewhat, no doubt due to the unholy mixture of prescription ADHD pills and highly potent, medical grade marijuana Kirk and Buzzard had ingested. I have taken great pains to put together the series of events that followed the assembly of the Sharktopusatron.
It should go without saying that I hope at this moment that Kirk is doing alright, that Tammy manages to find her car, and that all of these issues can be resolved without anybody being needlessly incarcerated. Please stay tuned tomorrow for the final episode of Kirk's guest-blog, in which (assuming he manages to turn up) I beat him to within an inch of his life with a sack of Russet potatoes.