It was the second time in as many days that I felt the weighted gaze of Madeline, Zach’s bosomy new fiance. The first time occurred over drinks at le lac d’alcool, a jazzy place in Paris’ Le Quartier Latin that caters specifically to snooty American expatriates who use words like expatriate.
We sat in the sock-smelling section of the club, Zach and Madeline in front of me, my accountant Krandal to my right. Zach had ordered two pairs of steaming argyle socks for the table, but not to share. When the socks arrived, Zach snatched them up greedily with both hands and forced them into every orifice of his face. “They’re best when they come warm, straight from the feet.” Zach said, between deep inhalations. I heard a sigh faintly escape Madeline’s cranberry shaded lips, and I turned to find her emerald eyes locked on me, searching for something. She batted her thick lashes once, and the corner of her mouth flicked upwards into a smile. She quickly broke the gaze and turned to her fiance. Zach had finished one of the socks, leaving only small strips of plaid thread around his mouth and bib. As he started on the 2nd he said, “Aaron, I think you and Madeline should sit together during my speech tomorrow.”
"Oh, I don’t know about that, Zach. The seat should be for you when you finish," I said hesitantly. "Nonsense!" Zach said forcefully, emitting a small powdery cloud of odor-eaters. "You and Madeline will sit at the front table so you can have a good view of me."
"Zach, I’m not sure…" Suddenly, Madeline cut me off.
"Please, Aaron? I hate going to those bidet conferences without a person to accompany me. I promise I’ll be a good date."
I looked back to Zach, but he had already fallen asleep. One of his hands clutched Madeline’s breast tightly as he rhythmically breathed in and out.
"Alright, I’ll go," I said.
So, there I sat, for the second time taking in Madeline’s perfect features…her auburn hair, slightly curled; her gleaming teeth, like baby corn, except white, not yellow. She smiled again. Over her right shoulder, I could see Zach at the podium on the stage. “Bidets can shave two hours of shitting from your day.” I heard his voice echo off of the marble columns in the banquet hall of the Econo-Lodge in Malden, Massachusetts.
Madeline leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “Do you want to get out of here?” The velvet, moist skin of her lips grazed my lobe as she pulled away. That voice, like Mandy Moore’s but with a hint of Horse Whisperer, lingered in my head.
"Maybe I shouldn’t, Madeline." I said looking up at Zach, now flailing and spitting into his microphone.
Madeline placed her purse on the table and unzipped it. Inside was a rubber glove, olive oil and a crab hammer. She looked at me and bit her lip.
"Let’s shit out of here," I said, grabbing her arm and rising from the table.
The only thing maiden Anne Hathaway seemed to like these days were her huge, heaving breasts. She had two of them, and this particular spring morning she was staring at their reflection in a bathing basin. Anne Hathaway pulled her right bosom far out to the right and released it, and it’s momentum sent it slapping hard into the left one, which in turn flung out to the left and then sling-shotted back into the right one, and this continued for several hours, like one of those desk ornaments with the hanging metal balls, and she eventually stopped it, sad and sweaty and bored.
"Is this all that I am?" whispered Anne Hathaway to herself, tears now streaming down her face and eventually dripping down onto her breasts, which were really sweaty by now if you recall, so by this point you couldn’t tell what were tears and what was booby sweat.
Make no mistake—Anne Hathaway was a strong woman. She was independent and successful and sensitive but a little insecure and that’s okay and it’s also okay to worry.
No, the problem was, it was the second century A.D., and both the Roman Empire and Anne Hathaway’s sex drive were peaking simultaneously. And the only man who could satisfy both was the great gladiator Toddicus Spoonicus. How her loins burned for him, though sometimes they burned because Roman hygiene wasn’t the best, but usuallythey burned for him. Toddicus Spoonicus, who had battled boars and bears and beasts, was now in for the fight of his life against the birds and bees of Anne Hathaway. Also—her vagina.
Gary the gurnard laid silently in the basket, in the darkness, wrapped up in paper surrounded by squid and shrimp and other dead sea animals. Playing dead had fooled the people at the fishmarket, but the act would prove useless if he couldn’t find his way out of this goddamn little basket. No trickery keeps a fish alive in a kitchen.
Light. And then a hand grasping for keys came into view. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw flags and rigging and masts. He wasn’t far from the water! He could smell the sea air, he could hear the ringing of bouys, the squawking of gulls and bare feet hitting splintery old docks.
This was his chance, and he took it.
Gary wriggled out of the paper and leapt onto the sidewalk, much to the shock of the woman holding the basket. Her name was Cheryl and she was very average in length and with and tits. A blonde, but not a real one and on days she went to the market she wore the worst clothes she could find in the darkest dampest corner of her closet.
Today was different however. Her trash outfits were in the wash so she was in fact wearing the most expensive evening gown she’d ever had the nerve to purchase. She’d been careful to keep it clean in the market by stealing a clean apron from one of the vendors. But having long since discarded it, now had no protection from the fishy mess that bombarded her after jerking her hand out of the basket.
Cheryl, now quite pissed, lept onto the gurnard and smacked it’s head on the ground, breaking his neck. And as the light faded from Gary’s eyes he heard a ringing.
Cheryl pulled her phone out of her fish stained gown and answered. “Hi, this is Becky?”
“Becky?” said the British walrus on the other line. “I was trying to get through to Cheryl, Cheryl Henny? Is she in?”
“This is a cell phone”
“Oh.” said the confused marine mammal, twisting his bushy mustache with a flipper.
“So there’s like, nobody gonna be here, but the person who owns the phone.”
“I see” he said, licking a tusk before putting a cigar in his mouth. “Well, if you hear from Cheryl, do be sure to tell her that her father will most likely die in the matter of a couple days or maybe less.”
“WHAT? What happened?” said Cheryl, nervously biting the gurnard’s face.
“Oh, I don’t know, but it’s probably pretty bad.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the woods behind his home they found an awful lot of blood belonging to your father. And a few organs, most of them the useful kind that one would require to make living possible. They are still good however, but they won’t be much use to him if he’s dead. So if he’s not found in 48 hours we’re going to have to give them to someone else. ”
“Oh, alright, I’ll give Cheryl the message.” screamed Cheryl as she rubbed fish guts onto her face, letting the juices drip down onto her normal-looking boobs.
Later that evening Cheryl packed up her clothing and toilet items in a bag of yellow ostritch leather adorned with peacock feathers and polished turquoise snaps; a gift from an American Indian sex wizard who’s life she’d saved years ago. She thought of him and the many adventures they went on as she placed her travel-tomohawk in the bag; another gift, but not from him…
Mention his name to anyone on the street and the reaction would be unanimous: he was universally recognized around the world for being the greatest man known to man. Words like “perfect” didn’t do him justice and “better than perfect” did a shit job too. He was an Olympian at heart. The first man to win a gold medal in every sport in both the summer and the winter games in one day. He was named by people magazine as “The Sexiest Man to Have Ever Lived” beating out Adam (of Adam and Eve) Craigfar the caveman, Cassanova and Jonathan Taylor Thomas. The overwhelming victory had caused an unfortunate side effect and as of the last census 97% of married women had divorced their husbands in the hopes that he would marry them. The remaining 3% were dead.
A lesser person met with such adoration, love and respect would certainly develop an ego, but Zach Anner was a humble man. He paid no attention to the press or his innumerable personal successes. The only tokens he kept as a reminder of his achievements were his 387 Olympic gold medals that he wore around his neck at all times. He had no desire to bask in the joy of himself and were it not for the specially crafted Super Olympics in which he was competing in 6 months he wouldn’t be able to muster the will to live. For Zach had lost his only love. It was by all accounts a fairy tale with a happily ever after stolen from him before he could say “hey. wait. cut that out.” like an awesome sandwich dropped on the floor and every expectation of a loving and prosperous lifetime, now just a dirty slice of ham. His everything was gone.
Kelly Clarkson was a Moroccan waitress he had met while stopping an earthquake at an Applebee’s. Their connection was almost instantaneous, it wasn’t love at first site, but it took like 5 minutes to know they were meant for each other. They liked all the same things: hats, meals, stuff and long walks across the street in a golden sunset while listening to Ke$ha’s stirring rendition of “Old Man River” from Showboat on their 32gb Microsoft Zune players. And then after one particularly passionate evening of making love at each other on a bed in the nude he proposed that they be married at once. “Why not make it at twice?”, she hilarioused. And they laughed for hours.
And then they were married at once, not twice as previously had been joked. But then on their honeymoon in Blacksburg Virginia something tragical happened. While Zach was getting dressed Kelly had gone to the bathroom to look at the new earrings he had boughten her. And what happened next neither of them could have predicted unless they were psychic, which they were not. Zach smelled smoke and assumed that Kelly had gone into the bathroom to secretly smoke a pipe. He called to her and asked if everything was alright, but in a panic, the Moroccan beauty forgot the English word for help (help) and instead called out “no I’m fine dear, nothing at all is wrong”. And so Zach unassumingly continued watch his “how to tie a windsor knot” tutorial on youtube while his wife, Kelly Clarkson burned alive in a toilet fire.
Zach and the gang sneak onto the Dirty Dancing set and seduce your ears with sexy prose. Full stories up shortly!
Shirtless hunk Zach Anner gives you the hullabaloo from Boston and Baltimore, all while modeling in front of a sexy waterfall. Pinch yourself!
It’s not too late to submit your videos. If you live in/near/beneath any of our remaining cities, we want to hang out with you! We’re still taking submissions from:
NEW ORLEANS, LA
VANCOUVER, BC, CANADA
Make a video telling us about your perfect day in town, and submit it as a video response to any of our Riding Shotgun videos… Like this one, where Montrealer Jean-Philippe throws down the gauntlet.
For dates on each city, check out our upcoming schedule.
Wanna see how Baaawston went? Got cool suggestions for Baltimore? Jump online at 8:30EST tonight and chat with Zach on the interweb. We’ll tweet the link out tonight.
Life on the Road- Episode 1: Introductions
The guys scrutinize each other and discuss their expectations for the journey.