An Evening With Mr. Ka-Ka Pants.

I had been sitting at the center table of Chez Lebelle waiting for Lenny for over 45 minutes before he finally walked in.

"Sorry for the wait, traffic is a nightmare out there", he said with an awkward grin.

"Funny, the roads were clear when I got here", I replied.

"Yeah, that is funny", he shrugged off in a way that I wasn't sure how to take.

Three seconds later, the smell hit my nostrils.



"Christ, what is that SMELL!?", I said, barely containing it as a whisper.

"Oh, that's me", said Lenny with a Cheshire cat grin "I've shit my pants".

Before I could respond, the waiter arrived.

He began to rattle off the specials, but 5 seconds in, the smell hit him.

His pale pointy Frenchman waiter face contorted in disgust, and then rage, then he hissed as if trying to crack a his voice like a sonic whip "you've sheet your pahnts!!".

Some people overheard and looked at us.

Needless to say, I was mortified.

Lenny kept right on grinning, almost defiantly.

3 hours later, we were back at Lenny's house.

Lenny's wife Maggie had him leaned against the bathroom sink, and was wearing dishwashing gloves as she cleaned him off with baby wipes, tears of humiliated rage trickling down her face.
A constant flow of obscenities was pouring out of her directed at both Lenny and I.

Lenny grinned and winked at me via the bathroom mirror.

Every few moments, she'd stop to simply scream in frustration.

Her face was red and swollen from the crying, making the effect all the more upsetting to me.

I was frozen in place by the awkwardness of the situation.

What do you DO when this happens?

Finally, I just decided to zone out, and flash back to how the rest of our dinner had gone.

And so the flashback began.

Yes, it was just 20 minutes after the waiter had arrived, and I was picking myself up from the pavement, and massaging my bruises from having been bodily hurled out of the place.

Why they had hurled me out first, I'll never know.

And why they had seemingly went out of their way to make sure when they hurled Lenny, that he landed on me, I can only guess at as well.

Needless to say, he got a wet stinky spot on my shirt from his ass, forcing me to throw it away in the nearest receptacle.

Goddamned Lenny.

Him and his pants shitting.

This wasn't the first time either.


And so the flashback within a flashback began.

Lenny and I were being chased out of the ninja rink by all the ninjas.

The Japanese apparently are more of a fastidious people than even I ever gave them credit for.

Ninjas even more so.

Because clearly, they weren't going to take Lenny's favorite little running joke for one instant.

I wished I could have understood some of that outraged chop-sockey talk they were hurling behind us along with the shuriken.

Might have made this flashback a little more interesting.

Plus I'd know how to swear in jap.

Ah well.

Anyhoo, ultimately Lenny wasn't the only one with soiled tighty-whiteys after that adventure.

But, Lenny's Lenny, hard as you try, you can't stay mad at the guy.

Ah, now where was I?

Ah, yes, the ninjas.

The ninjas? That happened two years ago.

What was my point in bringing that up?

Oh, right, that Lenny had gotten us in trouble with his pants crapping before.

Now, to get back to how he got us kicked out of the restaurant 3 hours previously.

Now THAT'S a story for the ages.

Lenny had proudly admitted to crapping his pants, the waiter had arrived, and Lenny was shrugging off his barrage of psychological daggers.

I broke it up by ordering my meal.

Scallops in Alfredo sauce over noodles.

Lenny ordered Venutian wafer cubes with dipping gel.

So, that out of the way, I finally found the opportunity to ask him why he had shit himself.

"Funniest thing", he said "had Venution last night, and the leftovers for breakfast, and the stuff seems to burrow right through me. Can't even hold it in. It just pours out of my ass before I can make it to a toilet".

I rolled my eyes and replied "gosh, that's the most interesting thing I've heard all day! What an invigorating life you must lead", I said, saturating my comments with goofy sarcasm to the overflow point.

"Well, you did ask", he chuckled.

"That I did", I sighed.

3 minutes later, in a desperate attempt to make conversation I quiped "y'know, I think I'm starting to get used to the smell".

"What smell?", Lenny said innocently.

We chuckled, and then things became awkward again.

So, the discussion floated around to rehashing the old days, as they usually do.

Mostly, we remembered the time where Lenny got the ninjas chasing after us.

You get chased around by ninjas, you talk about it forever.

I mean, come on, NINJAS.

Right around then, the meal came, and that's when things really became interesting.

The waiter brought our food with a clothespin on his nose.

Which I thought was a bit much.

I mean, yeah, Lenny stunk, but not THAT much.

The poo wasn't even fresh anymore.

Well up to that point.

See, Lenny immediately started tearing into his Venutian wafers, and within 10 minutes, I heard an ugly noise, and then a fresh dose of stench.

Why hadn't I payed attention to his order?
Why didn't I connect the dots with his story?
Why, god, why?

Just when I was about to say something, I heard the dreaded shriek of an infuriated jap!

It was the ninjas! They had found us at last!

There was the red one, and the green one, and the blue one, they all were there!
Even the pink one!

Rumor has it their colors indicate what sex acts they're into.
Y'now, like those bracelets the elementary school kids are into.

Which makes me think, what's red mean, he's into periods?

Agh, ugly thought, shrug it off.

Anyhoo, I bolted up from my seat, and did the first thing I could think of wich was to throw my plate of Alfredo scallops at them like a pie in a Stooges flick.

Coincidentally, the plate clanged the red one right in the head, and sent him reeling.

Christ, now I can't remember him without picturing him eating period.

I hate my fucking brain sometimes.

I then turned my head to shout at Lenny to get the hell out of there, but as I did, I heard the electrical buzz of a martian raygun warming up over my shoulder.

That's when things got really hairy.


Now, let me stop to explain a little something here.

When that raygun was pulled, I didn't fear for a moment, in fact, things suddenly made sense to me for the first time that day.

It's only in moments like that that things do make sense to me.

The world of sublimated desires, polite lies of omission, dressing up in yuppie suits, shaking hands with people you don't care to know, pretending to laugh at the boss's jokes, all that garbage doesn't make sense to me.

Never could tune my brainwaves into it.

But life or death struggle I understand.

That's a situation I can control on it's own terms with no false bullshit.

That's a situation that all the phony smiles and lies in the world can't muddle away with bureaucratic fudging.

That's a situation where you truly make things happen.

Where you're truly in control of your destiny.

The only time I feel truly alive.

And yes, at the risk of bragging, it's my one true talent.
Defending myself with lethal force that is.

Yes society may frown apon my possessing this skill, but why should I be ashamed?

In the times of the Roman empire, or of Ghengis Khan, I would have been a great soldier or assassin.

Why should it bother me that I don't conform to the pseudo-safe little world of unarmed little squishy pudgy Dilbert creatures?

That's the society they created, I have no use for it, as much as I have no place in it.
Wich might explain why my only human relationship is a semi-retarded maniac with bowel control problems.
But on that point, I digress.

Just ask yourself, what did the people with a natural aptitude for computer programming do before the computers were invented?

Now extend this forward, and ask yourself, what are the people with natural aptitudes for operating and fixing teleporters, or piloting starships doing now?

Probably being very unhappy.

Just like all those computer geeks born in the wild west.

And likewise, what are all the people with natural aptitudes for dumping boiling oil on invaders, or operating catapults doing today in this horrible dishonest obfuscative yuppie land?

Being as bored and unfullfilled with their existence as a computer geek filling laudanum prescriptions to V.D. ridden cowboys.

As bored and unfullfilled as a virtuoso of murder in a dead end cubicle monkey job.

Oh, and I am a virtuoso.

Mozart didn't have to bother with practicing scales and shit, he just sat down and played.

I don't have to practice at a range, or muck about with learning fencing, I just pick up a weapon and kill.

I take to it like a fish to water.
Or like the asshole drivers run right to the little red sedans at the car dealers.

And like those little red car driving pricks, I'm not ashamed a bit.
I refuse to be.

In a world that not only fails to punish, but actually rewards indolence and fatal incompetence, I quite simply refuse to be ashamed that I'm a natural killer.

I just thought I should explain all this, so that what I'm about to do in the next bit doesn't come as a shock.

Mmmkay?

Mmmkay.

Okay, so someone pulls a martian raygun on me.

Immediately, I grab my fork, instinctively calculate where my attacker's gun hand is, and from there extrapolate where his head is, then I throw my fork over my shoulder, right into his eyeball popping it like a zit, and making the yolk come all out.

This gives me the precious milliseconds I need to turn around, and grab his arm, and aim it at the ninjas just as he fires the gun on shocked pain reflex.

As the whole herd of multi-colored ninjas went up like ash snakes, the all too familiar smell of roasting japs filled the air.

Or was that Lenny's pants?
Hard telling.

Anyhow, it was just then when I finally noticed who the gun wielder was.

It was the waiter!
I should have known, there's almost always a frog at the bottom of these things.
If it's anything I hate more than roasted japs, it's sneaky frogs in the food service business.

Just when I was about to pull the fork out of his eye socket to start furiously stabbing him all over, I got hit in the back in the head with a blunt heavy object and blacked out.

Next thing I know, I'm landing on the pavement of the parking lot, and having Lenny thrown at me.

Safe to say we're both banned from Chez Labelle.

Stupid restraunt with a stupid name, I think I'll burn it down tomorrow.

Anyhoo, to top off the evening, Lenny's car had been stolen, so I had to drive his nasty ass home in my car.
Naturally, I made him sit on some newspapers.
And then we got stuck in a traffic jam for 2 and a half hours.

But, that story isn't was interesting as ninjas, raygun wielding waiters, and a guy who persists in eating food from Venus even though it doesn't agree with him, so I'll skip ahead back to the part where Lenny's wife is cleaning his ass and yelling at me.

So, there's Maggie sitting in the kitchen sobbing and drinking shots of scotch, and I have to stifle my human impulse to comfort her, cuz that's a slippery slope to adultery, and I just don't do that.

In the meantime, Lenny has gone into the den and is playing with his Tonka trucks or whatever the hell it is he does in there.

So, I try to at least awkwardly excuse myself, but my throat has dried shut, and I can't even croak, so I just run for the door, and get the hell out of there.

The traffic jam had broken up, so I made good time back home.

Back home to my nothing, and my nobody.

So, I try to will myself to sleep, hoping tomorow will be less disagreeable, but just as my eyelids start to droop, the phone rings and scares the shit out me.
I hate my phone's ring.
Damned thing always sounds so urgent, and then you find out every time it's a fuckin' telemarketer.

It's Maggie, and she's sobbing even harder than when I left her, and in between hysterics, I barely make out in bits and pieces something about Lenny being kidnapped by Scotsmen.

Then, my blood runs cold, and I remember the time after Lenny pissed off the ninjas, that he pissed off some Scotsmen.
Which is odd, considering what naturally filthy people they are.
One would think that pants pooping would be part of their usual routine from the smell of them.
And as I recall, I had frankly told them so.
Which didn't seem to help the situation.
I just don't understand people.
Their reactions have never made logical sense to me.

Anyhoo, I assure Maggie that I'll deal with the problem, and that Lenny would be safe at home before the night was through, even though I wasn't sure how to make good on that promise, and then to avoid the awkwardness of further human conversation, I immediately hang up.

Friggin Scotsmen.
It's always something.


And so that basically brings you all up to the present.

Now, I'm laying here slowly bleeding to death, and paralyzed from the waist down, impaled by a scimitar.

Damned Scotsmen.

I suppose you'd probably like me to describe the final fight with them, and whether or not Lenny made it.

....no, sorry, I'd like to, but there's not much time left for me.
Vision blurring, all tingly and light headed, y'know, the whole dying thing.

Use your imagination, you know how these grimly heroic suicide missions play out.

Matrix flips, bullet dodges, airborne karate kicks, y'know, all the trimmings.

And oh yeah, Lenny got away.
From the whiff of him, I could tell all the excitement had made him shit himself.

Man, that sly bugger, he's really got life all figured out.
We could all learn a thing or two from him.
Maybe it's the massive blood loss making me say that, but I hope not.

I hear that when you die, you shit yourself.

Heh, wouldn't that be fitting?

Ooooh, bright light.

Heh. Wow.

That's great.


The End.