Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers, Part 4!

Check out Part 1Part 2, and Part 3.

This one’s a little short at just shy of 800 words, but there’s so many jokes it’s almost unreadable! <-That’s a good thing! Hope you enjoy!

A plucky PI users her unconventional methods to find out the truth after an army private gets caught under the influence of marijuana but claims she never smoked.

If you’d like a copy of my Star Wars parody, Scrote One, sign up for my email list (just click here). If you read it and enjoy it, I’d love a review on Amazon.

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At the morgue, the mortician told me there was no body there with the name Jessica. I had her check for Jess’, Jessies, and Archibalds, because I really wanted to see a dead guy named Archibald.

I told her a little bit about my case and she said she’d heard about it on the news. I was surprised when she told me Jessica wasn’t dead. It felt like people kept telling me that. Talk about déjà vu.

Luckily it checked out with the story Belda had fed me, so I was onto something, even if it was something everyone else seemed to know already. At least I was earning my paycheck. After all, I’d already spent my pay on a dead body I bought from the mortician.

“I told you, I’m not selling you a body! Get out of here!,” the mortician yelled as she chased me out. Whatever. It saved me five grand.

I was glad to leave. None of the bodies in the morgue could tell me where Jessica was anyway, not even when I moved their mouths with my hand. I thought Ditch could help, but I hadn’t heard from him. Not since his frantic phone message asking about a wallet. If he was speaking in code, I didn’t know what it meant.

I bought a soda with a dollar from Ditch’s wallet and called Belda.

“She’s at the park. I told you that,” Belda said through the speaker, sounding annoyed for some reason. By Belda’s tone, I was glad Jessica wasn’t dead, because it sounded like a bad time to break the news. I hung up on her and headed straight for the park, only getting in two accidents on the way.

Once I was done washing the shrapnel and blood off the side of my car, I pulled into the parking lot of the park.

The park buzzed with typical activity: couples walking together, children playing, and film students making a terrible movie. There was one unusual thing in the park, however: Patrick Poogal, proprietor of Patrick Poogal’s Private Investigation Company LLC. My greatest rival.

He was making his way towards me, eating an onion like an apple because he always does. He’s the type of guy you’d fuck more for his confidence than his looks, then you’d fuck him for his looks.

He asked me what I was doing, as if I wasn’t obviously slashing his tires. Turns out it wasn’t even his car so I went to another car and started slashing those tires. He told me that wasn’t his car either. I should have known. It had some stupid window decal of a stick-figure husband, wife, kid, and a dog in a wheelchair.

“I’ll slash every tire here until I find yours,” I warned him.

He took a big bite of his onion and asked “what’s got you in such a huff?” blowing his breath sexily with the word huff.

“Because you didn’t take the case to help this girl. You took it because you’re trying to get under my skin. You wouldn’t help a woman if she was on fire screaming, ‘help me’.”

He said I was being ridiculous, so I grabbed a can of gasoline and poured it all over myself and struck a match to prove a point. He wrestled the match from me in a panic before I burned alive.

Damn. Patrick, 1. Riz, 0.

He stomped out the match and plugged his nose, “Jesus Christ, there’s something wrong with that gasoline, it smells like skunk.”

The joke was on him. I already smelled like skunk before the gasoline spilled on me.

Needing to get on with the show, I told him he needed to get off my turf, calling him a couple of choice four letter words, including some that weren’t even real words.

“I didn’t think you knew those words,” he said with a wink.

“I know a lot of words. Like dog, marshmallow, cerebral palsy, penis, vagina, penis-vagina, and um, a bunch of other ones,” I told him, brilliantly.

“Do you know ‘date’?” he said, as if he was all smooth or something, and not totally making me wet.

I told him I was seeing someone, plus, he was a total jerk, so I’d answer him in the only way I knew how…

“No, thank you.”

I marched away, sidestepping ghosts, because I see them, remember? I hoped Jessica had some answers for me, and that there weren’t any skunks in this park. I’d been sprayed enough that day


Let me know what you think in the comments! And make sure to check out my books on Amazon. 🙂

Best Superbowl Joke Wins a Copy of Scrote One

The person who writes the best Superbowl Joke (in my opinion) will get a paperback copy of Scrote One: A Star Wars Parody (or just buy it for as low as $1.99 on kindle).

scroteonerevised-1

Also check out my new series, Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers

Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers, Part 3

Check out Part 1, and Part 2.

A plucky PI users her unconventional methods to find out the truth after an army private gets caught under the influence of marijuana but claims she never smoked.

If you’d like a copy of my Star Wars parody, Scrote One, sign up for my email list (just click here). If you read it and enjoy it, I’d love a review on Amazon.

scroteonerevised-1

 


Part 3

I knew it was important that I talk to Jessica immediately, so I only spent three days in Vegas instead of four, and then it was off to her home.

She lived with her mother in a house I remembered from egging it way back five minutes before I knocked on the door. Her mother, Belda, answered. She looked like a Belda. You know, old and boring. She didn’t like when I said that. I told her I was just kidding. She said she didn’t find it very funny so I explained to her that it was funny because it was true. She didn’t like that either. Finally, I decided to shut up and urged her to let me in. She was starting to ask about the eggs and I had a feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer.

She left me alone in the living room while she finished something up in the kitchen. It gave me time to case the joint. I examined the knick-knacks on the mantle, pocketing a few. Nothing too valuable or incriminating. Just some elephant statues and an urn. The urn didn’t fit in my pocket so I put it back and just took the ashes.

Several pictures of Jessica were proudly on display, including some from her recent graduation from the military academy. It felt nostalgic for me. It reminded me of the time I thought about joining the military. You never forget about the times like that.

Belda came back in the room with a tray of drinks.

“What is that? Tea or something?” I said jokingly. She said it was. Neither of us found the situation very funny.

“You don’t understand how important this is to me and Jessica. Without her military salary, we can’t afford to keep this house. Not to mention our family name, tarnished,” said Belda, nibbling on a biscuit.

“Your family name?” I asked.

“Yes. The Rios family- “

“Rios?!” I interrupted, “that’s the name of the murdered girl I’m looking for!”

It took her seven minutes to explain to me that Jessica hadn’t been murdered, and that she was baffled why I was there if I hadn’t already known Jessica was her daughter. What she was saying made too much sense for me to doubt. Once I understood most of it, and could pretend that I understood the rest, I told her she had my full vote of confidence.

Once we were back on track she offered me some of the tea. I refused since it could have easily been weed tea. She told me it wasn’t, but I couldn’t be so sure. Her daughter had mysteriously gotten high without smoking, after all. She said that made sense, so I told her she owed me a dollar. It took me seven minutes to explain to her why she owed me a dollar before she finally gave in, or just got tired of guarding her purse so tightly.

To kill the whole tea issue, I knocked the teapot to the ground. You could tell she knew I meant business because she asked me to leave. This wasn’t going well, but it was going better than it usually does.

Belda continued to give me whatever information she had. “All she ever wanted was to be in the military. Like her father. She’s never smoked anything in her life. Drugs or otherwise.”

“So, you’re saying your daughter has never smoked anything? No joints, cigarettes… meats?”

She didn’t follow, so I slid her the smoking gun, pun intended: a folder with pictures of Jessica at a BBQ, smoking meats.

I put my hand on Belda’s shoulder to comfort her, and to discreetly wipe some gunk off on her blouse.

“Looks like your daughter hasn’t told you everything. The first thing you need to do is accept your daughter is a liar. I suggest we turn her in, or drown her to save face.”

She told me that it was just barbecue and that can’t possibly be what I meant. I told her she was right, but in court that wouldn’t matter.

“No offense, Ms. Raru, but you certainly don’t seem like you’re suited for this type of work. You hardly seem like you take investigating seriously, and you certainly don’t seem mentally equipped to carry a gun.”

I would have shot her face off right then and there for insulting me like that, but I’d forgotten all my bullets. She was right though. I told her that I’d never held a gun without fatally shooting someone.

She said, “accidents happen.” Yeah… accidents.

I knew she needed some assurance. I usually charge more for that, but she really needed it. “Don’t worry. I’m going to make sure I put every ounce of my being into this case. Except for poopoo and cah-cah because that would be gross.”

I got up to leave, but stopped to take note of a decrepit old ghost that had appeared behind Belda. Remember how I can see those?

“I think your house might be haunted?” I said.

“Why do you say that?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but there’s a ghost right next to you.”

She looked at the ghost.

“That’s my brother, William. And he’s not a ghost,” she said. William just shrugged. He must have felt dead, or something.

It was time to get serious and find out who murdered Jessica.


Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments!

Don’t forget to sign up for my mailing list so you can get your copy of Scrote One! (just click here)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Case of the Sticky Fingers, Part 2!

Read Part 1 Here (it’s very funny!)

If you’d like a copy of my Star Wars parody, Scrote One, sign up for my email list (just click here). If you read it and enjoy it, I’d love a review on Amazon.

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And now… here’s part two of Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers


It was my 20th time visiting the cemetery that month. You could say I go a lot. Go ahead. Say it.

Mom, dad. I still haven’t found out who killed you, or how you died, or who framed Roger Rabbit since I never saw that movie, but I promise I will. If you could just help me find the answers. I see so many ghosts, but I never see you… I miss you so much.

“Excuse me.” A man stood behind me with his young daughter beside him. She was cute. Cute enough to grow up to be a high-priced call-girl, or at the very least, a girl who drives a Jetta.

He asked me what I was doing. I wanted to respond with “Nunya. Nunya business,” but I’d been using that one too often and couldn’t think of a new one, so I told him the truth: the authorities never found my parent’s bodies, so they were never given a grave, plus graves are really expensive and not worth paying for if you don’t have a body to throw in there. I guess there are rules against digging them up too, which seems stupid if it’s your grave. I told him I’d been using that one as my mother’s. Then I stuck my finger out at him and asked him what are yooooooouuuuuu doing here?

“That’s my wife’s grave,” he said, upset for some reason. I told him it was beautiful, then shoved some old flowers off it and replaced them with my own, along with a note saying “I luv you, mom.” “Luv” was spelled incorrectly on purpose because my mom and I used to have this little inside joke where I didn’t know how to spell, which was also not a joke.

He tried to swat and shoo me away like I was some kind of pestering bee, so I stung him a couple of times and then decided to call it quits after he finally connected with a 911 operator.

I know how hard it can be to lose someone, so before I left I made sure to give him some comforting words:

“I can’t wait until you die, so one day I can put flowers on my father’s grave.” The words must have really touched his daughter, because she started crying instantly. Nothing a good handful of dirt didn’t stop though.

While the dad wrestled me away from putting dirt in his daughter’s mouth, my phone got a text message, which could only mean one thing: my phone service hadn’t been cut off yet.

I’VE GOT A CASE FOR YOU

***

My office is the last one in a long row of businesses.

-Pair-a-Normal Investigators, Rick Normal and Tobey Normal

-Sofia’s Unmeltable Ice-cream (Legal note: the ice-cream is not unmeltable, but is very tasty)

-Patrick Poogal, Private Investigator

And finally, mine: Riz Raru, Preyevit Investalligator. I have a CERTIFICATE OF EXCELLENCE taped to the door to show everyone how excellent I am at the hiding fist holes in the door (The certificate is for a Jiffy Lube somewhere in Sherman Oaks.)

My assistant, Ditch, was already waiting in my office for me. He’s really more of my sidekick, but the rates for sidekicks are much higher than assistants. I’m not made out of money.

He looks like someone plucked right out of a 40s-detective movie. He wears a trench coat and has a really big mustache that I make him wear. He tells me it’s very itchy and uncomfortable, but then I threaten him with violence and that always ends that argument. He’s very easy to get along with.

I sat in my chair looking at a picture he put on my desk. It was of a girl in military fatigues. I studied it for a while as Ditch leaned against my desk reading the accompanying file, then I stole his wallet while he wasn’t looking.

“You’re not going to believe this one, Riz,” he said with a chuckle.

“Hit me.”

He punched me in the face. I told him I meant the news, so he grabbed a rolled newspaper and hit me with that. I thanked him and asked him about the case.

“Her name’s Private First Class Jessica Rios. You may know her as the face of army recruitment.” I nodded, even though I didn’t, nor had I really been listening that well. He could tell I wasn’t listening because I’d been humming loudly, so he taped my mouth shut and explained that there were billboards for military recruitment all over the country with Private Rios’ picture. He told me the army had caught her off base.

I ripped the tape off and saved it for later. “Is there a crime against that?” I asked sassily. Looks like I’d solved the case before it even started.

He told me that yes, it was a major infraction for military personnel, especially the poster-child of the army.

I rhetorically asked him what the mystery was, knowing it must be murder.

He told me it wasn’t murder. “More like murdering brain cells, actually. She was high as a kite when the military police officer found her. As you can imagine, the military frowns on that sort of thing. It’s not like she was a male officer who sexually assaulted a female recruit. They couldn’t just look past this one.”

It sounded like an easy case. Just not for the defense. I told Ditch that I didn’t see anything worth investigating, then started throwing things at him.

He begged for me to stop, which I finally did once I ran out of things to throw. As he pulled my letter opener out of his thigh he told me the kicker; Private Rios swears she didn’t smoke, but refused to give a straight answer on what happened.

“The military wants to clear her name, but she’s stone walling all of their investigator. They think she might open up to an outside party,” he said, wrapping his leg wound in used tissues I told him were gauze.

“So they called the best,” I said proudly.

He said “bingo,” and a man came in, took a Bingo card from ditch and inspected it.

“We have a winner,” said the man, leaving immediately.

I told Ditch I’d think about it. As much as I needed a case, I also didn’t feel like working, so I wasn’t sure of the right thing to do.

“By the way, they’ve also asked Patrick Poogal to take the case,” he said on his way out the door.

My eye twitched at the sound of his name. Patrick Poogal was my biggest competitor and rival. At just shy of 6’5” he towered over all the other private investigators in the area. He also often stole my business.

I told Ditch I’d take the case. After all, it was the perfect case for me. I was used to tracking down and tattling on stoners in high school.

Ditch chuckled to himself and remarked, “Plucky teen, Riz. I can only imagine how you were in high school.”

“High school?” I asked him, “this was last week. But don’t worry. I’ll get her to open up to me. Even if it costs me her life.

Ditch left, leaving me alone to wonder how I was going to solve this case, and get drunk.


That’s it for now. Later this week I’ll be writing about how I went about writing my Star Wars parodies before the movies came out. If you want to read why I wrote them, check it out here.

Don’t forget to sign up for my mailing list so you can get your copy of Scrote One! (just click here)

Riz Raru in…. the Case of the Sticky Fingers, Part 2 Coming Soon

Read Part 1 Here (it’s very funny!)

I wanted to release another chapter this week, but I’ve had a fever and don’t know what happened in the last 36 hours. Good news is I want to send some of you people my Star Wars Book!

If you’d like a PDF copy of my Star Wars parody, Scrote One, sign up for my email list (just click here). I only ask that you give it a review. Thank you in advance! More writing soon.

A New Star Wars Parody Book!

Hello!

I’m doing pre-orders on my new Star Wars Parody Book, Scrote One: A Star Wars Parody!

Last year in anticipation for The Force Awakens, I wrote The Farts Awakens: A Star Wars Parody, which you can read a sample of here.

SYNOPSIS: The Rebel Assliance makes a risky move to steal the plans to the Death Shart, setting up the epic saga to follow.

Please check out the FUNDING PAGE for more details. If you love Star Wars, and just love silly things too, this is a really fun book (written in screenplay form to capture the cinematic feel of Star Wars)

Chapter 3 – It All Started After a Plane Hijacking with Billy Joel

Read Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2

Everything was on fire.

Lukala frantically slapped at the fire as it crawled into his hut, thinking, “Wow, this material catches fire really easily and we knew that. Why did we construct our homes out of it?” He also thought it was weird that the gods would be cursing their village this early in November. They usually did it quarterly.

A feminine scream snapped Lukala out of his thoughts. It was his father, immobilized in his palace hut. Frank blew rapidly at the flames to keep them at bay, which would have worked if the flames were someone with a sense of smell.

Lukala’s future empire was glowing orange and red, crumbling to the ground piece by piece. His people were doing as instructed and gathering at the ‘safe spot,’ which was also completely engulfed in flames. The roar of the flames muted Lukala yelling at them to stop, so they died. They were brave, loyal idiots until the very end.

A dozen or so villagers ran off into the purple jungle, refusing instructions. This is who Lukala would be left with- the intelligent cowards. It’s kind of similar to how America was formed.

Weyland sat at the jungle’s edge wondering where the fire had come from. What were the chances of another arsonist being on an island with so few people? In the last 48 hours Weyland had been in a village fire, survived a plane crash, and murdered a police officer (that happened before the story began so I didn’t mention it).

From the corner of his eye, Lukala caught his father chin-dragging himself out of the hut, his body engulfed in flames. From the corner of his ear, Weyland could hear American voices deeper in the jungle, but he lost interest when he saw Lukala stomping at the fire engulfing Frank. Weyland assumed Lukala was trying to smash Frank’s skull open, so he ran over to help.

Weyland stomped aggressively, but Frank couldn’t feel it past the fire, though he was assuredly breaking bones. Luckily it made it appear as if Weyland had been helping. Lukala glared at Weyland, which made Weyland immediately blurt out, “Whoa, I’m not like that, buddy.” Lukala thought that Weyland had meant that he wasn’t responsible for the fire, when he was actually implying Lukala was a homosexual.

Weyland didn’t feel like fighting Lukala, plus he still had multiple stab wounds, so he didn’t take a swing. Instead, he followed him.

With Frank hoisted on Lukala’s shoulder, they ran through the jungle towards the cowards. At least they would all be safe together. Little did they know that the cowards were hiding in the bushes from a duo of masked soldiers. As cowards do, they said nothing, and the three men ran right into the masked men.

The masked men aimed their guns at them. Weyland shouted, “Shoot them, not me!” Lukala looked at him with a confused look, to which Weyland whispered, “Don’t worry. I have a plan.” (The plan was for the two men to shoot Lukala and Frank.)

One of the masked men, obviously the leader because of his patch that said “leader” on it, told them to get on their knees. They did what he said as best they could given that between Frank and Weyland they had every injury you could think to have. The leader watched the three of them very closely, and nudged Frank with his gun, “What happened to him?”

Lukala coldly replied, “A misunderstanding.”

The leader turned his gaze to Weyland, “and you?”

Weyland promptly replied, “They did this to me. Kill them.”

Lukala and Frank gave him a “What-the-fuck” look, to which he again whispered, “I have a plan.” The plan was still to have the men shoot Lukala and Frank.

The leader scanned Weyland with a serial killer’s gaze, “Are you American?”

“Yes.”

“Get up.”

The other masked man trudged over to Weyland and hoisted him up. Weyland acted like dead weight, and the man pulled something in his back that would give him problems for the next few days.

“We’ll kill these two,” commanded the leader, nudging towards Lukala and Frank.

Weyland looked at Lukala and Frank, who were all but resigned to their fate. Their entire village was destroyed except for the cowards, who were still watching from 10 feet away in the bushes. The machine gun’s cocking click echoed through the forest, only masked by the dying roar of flames. The gun raised to their heads, as if the soldier had done this a million times before. It was actually his first time and he was very nervous, but he’d always lived by “fake it ’til you make it.”

“Wait,” interrupted Weyland, “I want them for myself.”

The masked men looked at him, giving Lukala the chance to wink at Weyland. It was absolutely true though. Weyland wanted to kill them himself. To finish the job.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” demanded the leader.

“Weyland Grauman, like the theater. I’m a marine for the United States army,” which wasn’t true at all, but he’d used it so many times he wasn’t even sure it wasn’t true anymore. It was surprising how seldom he had been called out on it, although it does help when you’re openly bleeding from wounds that should have killed you, which was surprisingly often for Weyland.

“What do you want from me?” asked Weyland, now feeling like he was in with the group.

The lesser masked man leaned into the leader and whispered something in his ear, to which the leader sharply replied, “I know. Let me handle it,” and he shifted his gaze back to the three men, “You’re all coming with us.”

 

Chapter 1 – It All Started After a Plane Hijacking with Billy Joel

Chapter 1

It was midnight and the Tokyo airlines flight 881 was halfway to Chennai. Taking red eye flights used to be fun until the movie Red Eye came out. Movies have a tendency to ruin things, like how Pretty Woman ruined hookers. Most of them aren’t as nice and charming as Julia Roberts. Some are even guys, which isn’t so bad, but it’s false advertising.

The plane was filled with mostly Americans, other than the few other people who don’t matter to this story. Post 9/11 you really start to notice who’s on the plane with you, and let’s be honest, you’re more comfortable in a plane full of white people, even if you’re on a plane from Japan to India. This, of course, is not true for albinos. If you’re on a plane full of albinos, change your flight.

A lot of people think that planes contain the demographic mixture of the departure city and the destination, but they’re more like bad breath containers. Especially at the butt-crack of dawn, when bad breath is at its most rampant.

The night air was thick with the rubbery smell of people-breath. I bet most of them hadn’t even brushed their teeth in hours. It smelled like they had all chewed on a condom (Not a used one. That would be gross. Not the same condom either).

For every precaution we take here in our US airports, there are a hundred other airports with fewer restrictions. They’re all a lot more fun than our airports, like when you’re taking shots in the cockpit with the pilot, but there are inherent risks with doing that. It’s kind of like being a teacher who has sex with their eighteen-year-old student, which is a total blast but frowned upon in a lot of cultures.

The Tokyo airport must have been really lax, because something bad and completely avoidable was about to happen. Duh. You wouldn’t really want to read this if something bad wasn’t going to happen. It’s the same reason you go to an alcoholic’s wedding.

In the middle of the plane was our hero, Weyland, your typical mid-50s military guy. Also, your typical Weyland. His haircut was exactly what you’d get if you went to a barber and said “give me the Weyland.” Don’t do that though, because it’s an awful haircut.

Weyland kept his eyes on the wing of the plane, expecting to see a creature and do everything that John Lithgow didn’t do to be the hero in that Twilight Zone movie. It’s important to know now that there will be no creatures on the wing, and that Weyland’s disappointment doesn’t subside once throughout this story.

In the deep back row was your typical creepy guy. The kind that masturbates in public places. Not in a perverted way like when people are around, but more like the type of guy who goes to a vacant restroom and rubs one out to make it through the day. We’ve all done that. For his integrity it’s important to note that he wasn’t masturbating at the time. But if anyone had actually chewed on a condom, it was probably him.

Weyland already had his radar on the creepy guy. Every once in a while he would even make light beeping noises with his mouth as if he was running radar.

There was a girl next to the creep, and Weyland wanted to touch her boobies, so he knew the creep did too. She was a Tara Reid type. You know, the type of femme fatale who has way too many daddy issues. If she had two dads it would be a total disaster for her. Just way too many daddies and issues.

Much to Weyland’s delight, sitting in front of him were Billy Joe (Greenday) and Billy Joel (Billy Joel). One of them looked really greasy and old, the other one was Billy Joel.

Rhonda, the flight attendant, walked up and down the aisles. She had a look on her face like she smelled a really bad fart. Or maybe it was just that she was suspicious of this flight. She probably went to a palm reader in Vegas who told her something bad was going to happen. Girls like Rhonda do that a lot. It’s better than horoscopes because sometimes you become close friends and have a drink together. You can’t have a drink with a horoscope. I imagine if you did it would be really awful.

And that’s who was on the plane. Pretty annoying, right?

Suddenly without warning, because there’s no real way to warn anyone about it, the plane had a really bad convulsion, or “turbulence” if you’re a snob. The plane shook so badly that everyone popped up in their seats. It was bad with or without a seatbelt on, but for different reasons. You could spend hours thinking about all the reasons.

Everyone settled back in, until the second convulsion happened. They all popped up in their seats again. Those that had changed their seatbelt arrangement since the first blast felt a whole new type of discomfort.

Weyland decided to be a total Weyland about things and say, “It’s going to be OK. I was in the military,” in a really lame voice (his own). It was one of those moments where everyone thought, “fuck that guy” but they also figured he could dig a pretty good hole if they needed him too, so they didn’t say anything. If the plane went down and they survived, there would probably be a lot of hole-digging for one reason or another (graves, shelter, underground pig cookouts. Mmmm, wild pig).

The crowd definitely needed reassurance. Military guys like to assure everyone that everything’s OK. It usually works too.

It didn’t this time.

*****

In the cockpit the pilot had a gun to his head, because of course he did. The man with the gun was being very forceful. I’d even go as far as to say he was being rude. It just didn’t seem that it was any way to treat a pilot, whether you’re hijacking his plane or not.

“Turn this plane around to Las Vegas.”

“We’re going from Tokyo to Paris. That’s so out of the way,” he was pretty proud of that assessment, but it was only met with a stiff gun jab to his head.

“Shut up and take us there.”

*****

At the control tower, the field monitor, Jared, leaped to his feet, or leapt (again, for snobs)-

“Did you hear that?! He said terrorist.”

Sigh. Oh, Jared.

“You say that every week,” said his co-worker who gets more tail than him.

“You didn’t hear that? The plane is being held hostage!”

Yeah, you can see why he doesn’t get any tail.

Back at the plane the hijacker slapped off the radio. He wasn’t very happy that the pilot had turned the radio on, but there’s nothing he could really do to retaliate since he didn’t know how to fly a plane. Note to all – Travolta learned. You can too.

The guy back at the tower could hear a voice come through the radio, “Everything is fine here. No terrorists.” This was enough to quell the tower’s fears since it was easier to move on than to report it. The last thing you want to do is report something like that. So much paperwork. People like to shoot the messenger, too.

I’m pretty sure that’s how Paul Revere died. Either that or AIDS.

*****

In the aisle, Billy Joel and Billy Joe were singing what could only be described as a great song, that Billy Joe was absolutely ruining. The plane cheered, begging for another song.

“And so it goes, it’s all rock and roll to me, Piano Man,” slurred Billy Joel in one of many glorious puns to come. All the passengers were lost in Billy Joel’s sweet, tangy words, and Billy Joe’s labored singing. They were too lost to smell something fishy.

Dinner was being served.

Weyland started to connect the dots. It was a hippo. He put the Highlights magazine away and started to notice something. This was no normal flight. He surveyed the room like he was taught. One – the pilot hadn’t said anything over the loud speaker following the turbulence. Two – the plane had suddenly shifted direction. 3 – The people.

He stood up, “This plane ride is too perfect. What are the chances we would have two American rock legends and me, an American hero, all in one plane?”

Everyone started to see Weyland’s point, until they remembered how annoying he was. They got easily distracted when the pervert popped up and asked for the Billies to play another song.

Billy Joel replied in song, “You may be right. Just the way you are.”

Weyland made eye contact with Rhonda, who looked like she needed to tell him something. A little bit of blood rushed to his penis, but he realized it wasn’t that she wanted to get it on. She was scared, not horny – emotions he had often confused for each other.

Rhonda chimed, “Could the person who looks like the strongest guy in the room come help me with something?”

Billy Joe knew it wasn’t him but he tried to stand up anyway. His seat belt caught him and he let out a pathetic little fart that no one heard but Billy Joel. Luckily Billy Joel had been farting silently for 45 minutes straight and knew how to keep a secret.

Whether he liked it or not (which he very much did), Weyland had to be the hero again. He got up and escorted Rhonda to the back cabin with the calm of someone who had silently followed women before.

The pervert took this as a chance to get closer to Billy Joel.

***

“I think the plane is being hijacked,” said Rhonda over the clacking of coffee dishes.

Weyland stopped clacking the dishes together. More blood went to his penis.

“I know,” said Weyland, “You chose the right man to help you.”

His brashness and bad haircut made her doubt him, but all of her fears were erased as he reached into his shirt and pulled out the chain around his neck – his dog tags, and by dog tags I mean a necklace that said “WAR” on it, meant to look like dog tags. He also had a glittery necklace that said “slut” in his back pocket. “Now let’s get this plane back.”

Inside the cockpit the pilot nervously gripped the controls, even though it was on autopilot. The pilot was a little stressed because the hijacker was one of those guys that talks at you, not with you, so the conversation sucked. Some people, right?

Weyland burst through the door and kicked the hijacker in the back of the head.

Then kept doing it because one kick wasn’t enough. The hijacker looked like he was tumbling down stairs in place. It was actually pretty incredible and everyone there could have watched it for hours. Too bad the hijacker was killed on the 9th kick.

Weyland kicked 43 times.

In the cabin, no one could hear a thing over Billy Joel’s blather-singing. He was acting drunk even though everyone saw that he only had two drinks. Then they all remembered that 15% of Billy Joel’s blood is ethanol.

The pilot was pretty beaten up after Weyland had started kicking him too.

“Jesus, why did you do that?” asked the Captain, massaging his head wound.

“It’s something I learned in training. In the military.”

The pilot shook off the stupid answer, “There’s another hijacker. I don’t know who it is, but they must be in the cabin.”

Weyland assured them, “Just keep this plane in the air.”

Ugh, does he ever just turn it off?

*****

The airplane cabin turned into a full-on concert and demonstration of Billy Joe’s inadequacies. It was like a circus but with Billy Joel music, no animals, magic, tricks, or ring. At this point Billy Joel was completely drunk, and pulling puns out faster than he could let out gas, which was VERY fast.

Everyone was having a good time, except for the pervert, who was frequently checking his watch. He seemed to cringe with every syllable sung, unable to take much more. Oh, yeah. Did I mention he was the other hijacker?

The creep leapt up with a gun, “Everybody shut up! This plane is getting hijacked!”

“I knew it!” shouted Billy Joe. He didn’t.

The hijacker smacked Billy Joe across the face with his gun and everyone gasped. They were sad he didn’t shoot him.

“No more singing!” shouted the hijacker.

Billy Joel, a poet as always point out, “we didn’t start the fire.”

Everyone cheered except for the pervert.

“Shut up, you hack!” He slowly peeled away the skin mask he was wearing to reveal that he was none other than Jerik Waters, a man no one knew or had ever heard of.

“I’m taking this plane down because of these two arseholes!” pointing at the Billies.

“This doesn’t make any sense!” shouted Billy Joe, which is true about everything until it gets explained.

He continued, “I’ve wanted to be a star for as long as I can remember. A large, gaseous being in the sky. Then I realized that’s impossible so I decided I wanted to be a singer. I sang every day. I loved it so much it’s all I could ever think about. Day and night, without rest, I would practice.”

They were already bored out of their wits. Billy Joel was buying things out of Skymall and Rochelle, the slut, was eating her hair – with a knife and fork.

“Listen to me!” his voice boomed through the plane.

Billy Joel put the Skymall away to reveal his erection, and Rochelle stopped eating her hair, which would do nothing to stop the now deadly bezoar from growing inside of her.

“Like I said, I sang every day. Day and night, without rest, I would practice-“

“I like Daughtry,” chimed Rochelle, cross-eyed to the verge of aneurism.

“Me too!” Billy Joel added.

“For Christ’s sake, shut the fuck up!”

He raised the gun in the air and “Bang!” he said with his mouth. It still got the point across. The plane hushed themselves, letting Jerik proceed. It was his villain’s right to give a speech.

“I sang every day. I wanted so badly to be like Billy Joel. I spent every waking hour practicing, performing, and sacrificing everything just to be a shred as good as him. He was my hero. I even had a Billy Joel action figure, which turned out to be a Tim Curry action figure, but I loved it just the same. That all came crashing down when I met him outside of a concert at the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk. I had spent my last dollar just to get there. But when I met him he reeked of alcohol and called me a ‘piglet dyke.’ That day I vowed that I’d get revenge on him.”

Suddenly someone shouted, “Can’t we just kill Billy Joe?” It was Billy Joe.

Jerik erupted, “You’re all dead anyway!”

*****

After sneaking into the plane cargo hold, Weyland was starting to feel really light-headed because of all the blood in his penis. Rhonda was pacing back and forth.

“Did you hear everyone scream up there? What are we going to do?”

“I know what we have to do. We have to kill everyone on this plane.”

As expected, she didn’t understand.

“It’s the only way to know for sure.”

“Know what?”

“That we got the bad guy.”

“There’s only one of them and we know it’s not Billy Joe or Billy Joel.”

“You’re right. We can’t let Billy Joel die,” he lamented, “but we have to make sure Billy Joe does die.”

She nodded in agreement.

Weyland scanned the room, “It looks like we have a food cart, some inflatable vests, luggage, and a coffee pot…”

It looked like nothing to her, but to Weyland-

“We’re going to make a drone.”

“A drone?” thought Rhonda. She had never seen a drone let alone seen one made. She felt like more had happened to her that day than in the whole year. It made her think about the ballroom dancing class she’d always been meaning to take. This was going to be the day she took her life back, but first they had to create a drone.

Weyland got to work and started assembling the drone. He was using more than what he listed, which Rhonda thought was pretty unfair. She would bring it up to him later, but wanted to pick the right time. It was all coming together quite brilliantly. Too bad it was Weyland doing it so it still totally sucked.

He started sweating and getting that same feeling he’d had when he used to handle bombs.

It’s important to now note that Weyland has NEVER served in the military and he HAS sexually assaulted someone.

*****

Like all villains, or the really good ones at least, Jerik revealed his backstory to the frightened passengers while he stroked a white cat that was there for some reason. He went on and on, and Billy Joel could barely concentrate over thinking about the perfect time to say “at least somebody’s getting a little pussy.” If Billy Joel had been listening, he’d have heard your typical “boo hoo, why doesn’t anybody like me” kind of thing. He wanted to kill Billy Joel because he had felt spurned by his hero, and he wanted to kill Billy Joe just because. That made them all feel sympathetic towards him.

“I’m crashing this plane into Joel’s house! And killing Billy Joe and Billy Joel in the process.” His fist came down on the nearest tray like a gavel to an empty courtroom. No one was paying attention.

Billy Joel was back to buying Skymall items, and Billy Joe was playing a PSP because he sucks and has one. It was time for Jerik to make a statement (kill someone).

“Teng!” he called out to the pilot’s cabin, “I’m going to take one of them out.” The response was silence. Teng was dead. Remember?

“Teng?”

Jerik immediately thought the worst – was he lowering his voice subconsciously because he lacked confidence? Then he thought the next worst thing – something happened. He started to edge towards the cockpit.

Rhonda walked in right at that moment, pushing a large food cart meant for Billy Joel.

Weyland crouched under the cart to secure the drone, but also because his penis was completely filled with blood and he couldn’t stand. He was waiting for the perfect moment.

“What the hell is going on here?” hissed Jerik. Wasn’t it more fun when we could just call him “the creep”?

The Creep slithered his finger along the trigger, ready to say “bang,” but this time with the gun. Suddenly, back at the cockpit, the pilot was using Teng’s body like a puppet to wave he was OK. It was tasteless at the time, but looking back it was pretty funny.

Weyland could feel the tension ease, so he continued to wait for his perfect moment, his legs coiled like springs ready to explode.

“Only the good die young,’ quipped Billy Joel.

The Pervert growled, “Fuck this,” and blasted Billy Joel in the head. Everyone racked their brain thinking of a Billy Joel song to make a pun of the situation, then they started screaming.

Weyland came tumbling out of the food cart (not tumbling like cartwheels and twirls, though to this day he wishes he would have). He was pretty upset, especially since he didn’t even get to see the Billy Joel shooting. He knew it must have been pretty cool.

He hit the button on the drone, and sure enough, it started flying, spewing steam and hot coffee out of it, disfiguring nearby passengers.

Jerik looked out to the screaming crowd and imagined himself on a stage in front of millions of adoring fans. The vision he had in his mind slowly transformed from hot cheering girls to wailing ugly people. To his left he saw Billy Joel’s lifeless body, looking like a child, mostly because he had defecated himself when he died.

Realizing what he had done, Jerik immediately fell to his knees in tears, which was pretty lucky because the drone immediately stopped working.

Weyland quickly snatched the gun away and pulled it apart. It took him about three minutes, but nothing much happened in that time. People like to take a breather after witnessing a murder.

“Looks like I’m a hero again,” proclaimed Weyland, which everyone immediately regretted him saying, including himself.

They sat in silence for a while as Jerik whimpered on the ground. He was no threat to anyone anymore. Weyland’s job was done.

Rochelle suggested to Jerik, “If you don’t kill us I’ll let you have sex with me.”

Everyone murmured disagreement.

“And let everyone watch.”

Everyone knew it was unnecessary but they obliged her regardless.

Rhonda, “She bangs. She bangs.”

The passengers laughed at her decades old reference and curled into their seats.

They all enjoyed the rest of the flight while watching Rochelle and Jerik, the pervert, have sex. Eventually they ran out of fuel over the Pacific Ocean and crashed, killing everyone on board.

All except one.

Releasing my book “It All Started After a Plane Hijacking with Billy Joel” on my Blog

Two years ago I quit my full time job to write a book. It literally all started with a short story called “A Plane Hijacking Story with Billy Joel” and I loved the main character so much (not Billy Joel) that I kept writing for 37k more words.

Being my first book, it has its issues, and I never fully edited it, so week by week I’ll release a chapter that I’ve edited enough that its readable.

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