Rico Slade Will Fucking Kill You Read online

  Fuck The Studio’s preference. Chip Johnson will never work for them again. Rico Slade will never punch another actor in a turban again.

  Chip Johnson needs a new cell phone.

  He parks his car in front of Super Saver Electronics, gets out, doesn’t feed the meter. Now dressed for comfort, he enters the store wearing sweatpants, a windbreaker, and flip flops. The shelves are crammed with Blu-ray players. There are no other products in sight.

  Chip approaches a surly-looking clerk at the customer service desk and says, “Yes, hi. Can you tell me where the cell phones are?”

  The clerk looks annoyed, as if she doesn’t take kindly to customers interrupting her while she’s staring up at the store’s mirrored, kaleidoscopic ceiling. “Yeah, we’ve got one of those.”

  “Excuse me? Did you just say you only have one cell phone?”

  “Yeah, are you deaf or some shit?”

  “No, young lady, my hearing is perfectly fine.”

  The clerk’s eyes widen. “Hey, you look just like that Rico Slade guy, except you’re bald. Bald and UGLY!” She has a giggle attack.

  Used to hearing this, Chip replies with his stock phrase: “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He would rather rip the clerk’s head from her torso, but he really needs a new cell phone. The stock phrase is necessary for his consumer desires. Hates being bald, but it has its perks when you’re an action star known for your outlandishly-full head of hair. No one recognizes him in public and he has never experienced the thrill of the chase between himself and the paparazzi, leaving him free to have scandalous fun without the media-wide consequences.

  “So do you want that cell phone or not?”

  The vein throbs in his neck, “Yes, please.”

  “OK, I need to go in the back. I’ll be a few minutes.” Under her breath, she adds, “You fucking asshole.”

  She is not back in a few minutes. Chip waits and waits. The vein in his neck throbs faster with each passing minute. He considers going to another store, but that would mean the surly customer service representative has defeated him. Chip Johnson never says surrender. Half an hour later he achieves ultimate victory when the clerk slaps a puke green-colored cell phone into his palm. He says, “Thank you very much,” carries his item to the checkout desk, and waits behind a line of beautiful people holding Blu-ray players.

  His turn comes and a cashier wearing a red sweater with the picture of a teddy bear says, “That’ll be $89.99,” as flakes of dandruff sprinkle down on his shoulders.

  Chip searches through his pocket, comes up empty. “Sorry, I left my wallet in my trailer. Can I leave you an IOU?”

  “I’m sorry, you piece of trailer trash garbage, but Super Saver Electronics doesn’t accept IOUs.” He removes the phone from the counter and places it on a shelf behind him.

  “Hah. What a funny mistake. I don’t live in a trailer.” He poses for the cashier as if this were a Maximum Action Magazine cover shoot. “Don’t you recognize me?”

  “Nope.” The cashier makes a gesture with his hand as if shooing away a mosquito. “Next please.”

  Chip Johnson does a backflip onto the counter, unleashes a series of roundhouse kicks, and flashes the cashier a confident smile. “How about now?

  “Listen, asshole. Get down from there or I’m calling the police.”

  Male pattern baldness also has its disadvantages.

  Chip complies with the cashier’s request and returns to his Ferrari Testarossa to find an albino parking enforcement agent writing him a ticket. She looks like a zebra without its stripes. Chip realizes he forgot to pay for parking and smacks himself in the head.

  Regaining his composure, he says, “Good morning, officer. Sorry about forgetting, but it’s been one of those days, you know? I was about to leave. Can’t you give me a break this one time?”

  The albino’s lips form a smile of pure evil. “I’m sorry, sir, but I already wrote the ticket. Here you go, and have a nice day!”

  “My day would be a lot nicer if I didn’t have to pay this ticket. C’mon. I’m the guy from the Rico Slade movies. You know, Rico Slade? Want to visit the set of my newest movie? An autograph? My soiled underoos? Tear up the ticket and I’ll make all your dreams come true.”

  “I knew it was you from the moment I ran your plates, Mr. Johnson.” She laughs deeply and gutturally, sounding like Baron Mayhem after explaining his evil plan to Rico Slade.

  Chip’s pecs tremble. “You look like a deformed zebra and you’re a pimple on the asshole of humanity and no one owns empty space so the Earth should be a paid parking-free zone and you’re a tyrant who’s worse than Hitler and if we absolutely must live in a fascist parking state, superstar actors with their own action movie franchises should be exempt from paying parking fees.”

  The parking enforcement agent sneers. “Well, your movies suck.”

  Chip crumples the parking ticket into a ball, slams it onto the concrete. “My movies freakin’ rock.” He reaches into the back of the albino’s regulation shorts and pulls her underwear towards the sky.

  The parking enforcement agent whimpers. Her face curls into an expression of agony.

  Chip stares down at his fistful of underwear. Grandma panties. He gives them another yank. His victim shrieks.

  Chip lets go of the grandma panties and gets in his Ferrari Testarossa. He starts the car and feels fantastic. Who knew giving an albino a wedgie could be this invigorating? He yearns for more invigoration. But how will he satisfy this craving?

  By driving his Ferrari Testarossa through the front of the electronics store.

  So he revs the gas and releases the brake.

  The red sports car demolishes the store’s windows, and continues its onslaught upon hundreds of Blu-ray players. The screams of consumers fill the air.

  “You!” Chip says, noticing the surly customer service rep quivering behind the desk. But the employee only hears an unintelligible shout. Chip Johnson doesn’t realize that shouting out of a moving car always results in a lack of communication. Too invigorated to care, he grabs his twenty pound Razzie Award from the backseat, drops it on the gas pedal, opens the car door, and jumps out. As Chip Johnson thrusts his finger up the employee’s nose, the Ferrari crashes into a Blu-ray player display with boxes that have been stacked into the shape of a giant robot.

  The actor stops picking a nose that does not belong to him and marches towards the checkout desk. Customers scatter. The cashier in the red teddy bear sweater frowns. Chip Johnson does a backflip onto the counter, tears off the sweater. The cashier wraps his arms around his bare chest, quivering as he tries to hide the shame of his luscious man breasts.

  Chip steps down behind the counter, grabs the cell phone, and calls George. He says, “No one fucks with Rico Slade,” and hangs up. Then he stomps out of the store, leaving his Ferrari Testarossa behind. He stomps slowly and deliberately, as if walking in slow motion.

  After making it to the parking lot, his car explodes, obliterating the store and incinerating its customers and staff. Chip Johnson pauses to watch the flames, puts a cigar in his mouth, and kneels to light it on a burning Blu-ray box. He takes a puff and the wind rustles through his hair.

  8 - Harold Schwartzman Gets No Respect from His Colleagues

  Harold drives back to the office in his ugly station wagon, listening to soft rock on the radio, until it is interrupted by an important news bulletin:

  This just in—A balding, shabbily-dressed Chip Johnson impersonator stole the action star’s car and drove it through the front of the Super Saver Electronics on Hollywood Boulevard. Fortunately, no one was hurt, although the celebrity impersonator subjected two employees to inappropriate touching after he vacated his car. It has been reported that the incident was triggered by the man’s rage upon receiving a parking ticket, which provoked him to sexually assault the parking warden. The celebrity impersonator still remains at large.

  Harold Schwartzman considers the possibility that they have mixed up a celebrity impersonat
or with the real thing. “Nah, couldn’t be,” he says.

  When he returns to the office he shares with a gynecologist, a plastic surgeon, and a pediatrician, he finds them sitting on the office’s leather couch.

  The gynecologist leers at the psychologist’s shredded blazer. “Did you get attacked by a shark on the freeway?” and cracks up. The gynecologist’s laughter surpasses the amount of time appropriate for such a joke.

  “Attacked by a chainsaw-wielding director.”

  The gynecologist, plastic surgeon, and pediatrician nod solemnly, as if Harold’s suit wasn’t bought at a Salvation Army for $4.99 and being attacked by a chainsaw-wielding director is a tragic occurrence that everyone must experience once in their lives.

  “Thank you for your sympathy, my colleagues. Today has been a nightmare. Bobcat Goldthwait left me. And Chip Johnson never showed up for our appointment. I fear the worst.”

  The gynecologist says, “Not Bobcat Goldthwait!”

  The plastic surgeon slaps his cheeks and yells, “Noooo!”

  The pediatrician says, “And you always had the funniest stories to tell about him. Remember the time he suffocated a midget stripper with his dick, dressed her like a lawn gnome, and left her in his front yard until his neighbors complained about the smell?”

  A tear drips down Harold’s cheek. “I’ll miss him. Bobcat was such a cad!”

  The plastic surgeon grins. “I wonder why your patients are always leaving you. I mean…”

  The three doctors speak simultaneously: “You’re such a grrreat psychologist.”

  Failing to recognize their sarcasm, Harold says, “Thanks, guys.”

  The plastic surgeon’s lips are so artificial they gleam. “No other psychologist in Hollywood has had so many patients go on killing sprees after a session. That’s something to be proud of. You have a talent for helping people externalize their emotions instead of keeping them bottled up inside.”

  “Thanks again, but I don’t really think killing sprees are a good thing.”

  The pediatrician stretches and the couch makes a farting sound. The gynecologist and the plastic surgeon look disgusted.

  “Wasn’t me, guys. It was the couch.” He shifts his body around, trying to repeat the sound, but is unsuccessful. “I swear to God this is the truth. Can’t we forget about it?” An uncomfortable silence passes. “Great. Now we have that settled, anyone want to get some lunch later at The Universal?”

  “I’m in,” Harold says.

  Still disgusted by the farting sound, the gynecologist and plastic surgeon stare into space, pretending they haven’t heard the pediatrician’s question.

  “Come on, guys! Anyone else?”

  The gynecologist and plastic surgeon jog towards their offices and slam their doors. The pediatrician calls after them, “C’mon, guys! Don’t make me go alone with this quack! Guys? Guys?”

  9 - Rico Slade XXIII: Boulevard of Blood

  Rico Slade struts down Hollywood Boulevard. Rico Slade is not Rico Slade—Chip Johnson believes he is Rico Slade. The passersby believe he is some bald guy in frumpy clothes, with a strut to his walk that his lowly status doesn’t deserve. As he stomps on Neil Hamburger’s star on the Walk of Fame, he uses his new cell phone to call Baron Mayhem, but the line is busy.

  The line is busy because George is trying to lower the interest rate on his credit card. George and Baron Mayhem are as different as a hamster and a saber-toothed tiger.

  Disappointment upsets Rico Slade’s stomach. How can he talk Baron Mayhem out of dropping a neutron bomb on the Earth if the line is busy?

  He turns the corner, followed by a middle-aged couple from the Midwest. They think he may be Chip Johnson, but are unsure due to his male pattern hair loss and sloppy fashion sense. They intend to investigate further and, if their suspicions are correct, ask for an autograph.

  10 - Harold Schwartzman Gets His Back Waxed

  Harold Schwartzman is afraid of his body hair. He is in a beauty salon, dealing with this issue, which he does three times a week. If he did not spend fifty percent of his waking hours eliminating all the hair from his body, he would be an extremely hairy individual. Harold blames Judaism.

  His wife calls him as Tiffany spreads hot wax over his fuzzy back. “Hello, moron. Have you found a real job yet?” Her voice sounds like a rusted blade skinning a feral cat.

  “Honey, psychology is a very noble profession.”

  “Listen to me, twat fart. Psychofuckery is a bunch of bullshit. It’s all an act and you’re as real as a magician at a kindergartner’s birthday party. Only fatter and uglier. I should have married a shoe salesman.”

  “I don’t know why you’re bringing up my weight. I could stand to lose a few pounds, but I’m not so bad. At least I’m not 400 pounds like you.”

  “That’s it! I’m going down to Dot’s Diner and offering my body to every trucker who’s eating scrambled eggs. And they have really good scrambled eggs.”

  “Don’t joke about that, honey. You know I like a woman with girth. That’s why I married you.”

  “That’s the only reason why you married me?” She lets out an angry burp. “After I’m done cleaning the gallons of semen out of my vagina, I’m gonna sign the divorce papers that I’ve been carrying around in my purse since our honeymoon at the Motel 6.”

  “Of course that’s not the only reason. I also married you for your great personality.”

  “We are so finished, Harry. That is, unless you buy me the hundred thousand dollar gold necklace I saw downtown today. It was the cutest. Tupac Shakur’s face shaped like a dollar sign.”

  “You know I can’t afford that, Miriam. Business has been lousy lately and Bobcat Goldthwait left me this morning.”

  “Bobcat Goldthwait won’t be the only one if you don’t buy my necklace.”

  Harold remembers Chip Johnson hasn’t settled his bill in years. And it is a lot of money. If he tracks him down, he may be able to save his marriage.

  Tiffany rips the paper strip off his back and he yelps in agony. Three waxes a week for three decades and he still isn’t used to the pain.

  11- Rico Slade XXIV: Restroom Bloodbath

  Rico Slade is urinating. This confuses him. He never urinates. Never feels the urgency. The only people who feel the urgency are evildoers. And this is when he takes advantage of them, breaking their noses when they least expect it. But now it is Rico Slade’s turn to stand defenseless in front of a urinal, giving evildoers the opportunity to shoot him in the back of the head while his pants are down.

  Evildoers like the middle-aged couple from the Midwest. And the husband has just entered the restroom.

  He approaches Rico Slade’s urinal. “Excuse me, but aren’t you Chip Johnson?” He stares down at Rico Slade’s enormous penis and his eyes bulge out of their sockets. “Honey, it’s him! It’s really him!”

  Rico Slade feels like he’s been pissing for ten minutes. Is it supposed to take this long? He probably stored up a lot of urine these past ten years.

  The wife runs inside the bathroom and addresses Rico Slade’s enormous penis: “Mr. Johnson, it’s an honor. Can I have your autograph?” She pulls down her blouse, flashing her breasts. “Will you sign them?”

  He snaps her neck in one motion.

  She falls on the urine-stained floor. Topless. Dead.

  The husband hugs his dead wife. “Why? Why did you do it? We’re your biggest fans.”

  Rico Slade squirts the dead woman in the face with the last of his urine. “I did it for the love, baby.”

  The husband runs away, leaving behind droplets of whiny girl tears and a dead corpse.

  That’s what the evildoers get for trying to seduce Rico Slade while he’s taking a leak. That’s what they get for trying to take advantage of a man when he’s at his most defenseless.

  Rico Slade pumps his fist, whoops, and puts his enormous penis back into his leather bondage pants.

  12 - Harold Schwartzman Gets the Best Shave in the World
r />   Hassidic barbers give the best shaves in the world. Harold’s Uncle Saul is a Hassidic Jew. He is also a barber. This is how Harold can afford his daily best-shave-in-the-world habit. The psychologist may shave himself in the morning, but his Hypno Shave 3000 razor doesn’t get as close a shave as the best shave in the world.

  Harold reads the newspaper while his uncle shaves his head with a straight razor. He notices an article about a psychologist who was disbarred for using hypnosis to turn his patients into prostitutes. He wishes all his patients hadn’t left him. He wishes he knew hypnosis. But prostituting the biggest action star in Hollywood would make him an extremely wealthy man. He would have enough money to buy his wife many gold necklaces with Tupac Shakur’s face shaped like a dollar sign.

  “You could have such a gorgeous head of hair, boychick. Why shave it?”

  A look of disgust spreads across the psychologist’s face. “Hair. Dirty.”

  Chip Johnson has it so easy. If Harold had his wondrous lack of hair, he would see a significant improvement in his quality of life.

  As his Uncle Saul finishes the best shave in the world, Harold dreams of a wonderful genetic condition that would prevent him from growing hair.

  13- Revenge of the Midwestern Tourist

  The middle-aged couple from the Midwest are sitting on a tour bus. They are dissatisfied. The other passengers are disturbed by the wife’s smell. Her clothes and hair are soaked, covered in Chip Johnson’s urine.

  The wife looks at her husband. A man wearing a fanny pack should be smiling and enjoying life, not snarling and punching the seat in front of him. A man wearing a fanny pack should be planning out his sightseeing itinerary for the rest of the day, not plotting to bitch slap the action star who peed on his wife.