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Pop Culture Mess: Room 69

SCNN has the pleasure of publishing installments from Fisherking’s memoirs. The elusive writer will be updating us on his quest for the Greatest Story Ever Written. To learn more, visit www.popculturemess.blogspot.com

“Stop here,” I said softly as Danica pulled up in front of a dingy apartment complex. It was the very apartment complex where Bruce Willis’ character lived in Pulp Fiction. My buddy Bill Clinton keeps a secret pad there for his frequent weekend excursions, leased under the name, Ron Mexico. I needed some advice, or maybe just a kindred spirit to help me understand the path I needed to follow to discover the truth behind the Vick scandal. K-Ro slept comfortably in the back of the limo, so I was careful not to wake him, as he disapproved of my relationship with Bill, although, as I’ve often tried to explain to him, we’ve been friends a long time.

“Take the little guy back to the hotel,” I ordered, “I’ll call you later.”

“Yes, sir,” Danica obeyed, struggling to maintain a professional demeanor while ignoring her deep, consuming love for me. We both knew better than to embark on such an affair, due to our working relationship and her dark, thin mustache.

I had to fight to resist the urge to grab a handful of pudgy cheek as I took a last look at K-Ro, peacefully slumbering with a mouthful of thumb and still wearing the “People Don’t Kill Dogs, Mike Vick Does” t-shirt. The little fella’s such a cutie!

As the limo pulled away from the curb, I approached room number 69 (Bill may have been a Rhodes’ Scholar, but his sense of humor is decidedly low-brow) and knocked three times. The moment my fist struck the door the third time, it swung open wildly. Bill stood looking at me wide-eyed, wearing only a pink silken bathrobe over yellowed briefs and black socks. His left nipple was red and swollen and impaled with what appeared to be a comically oversized clothespin. Above the nipple was a tattoo of Tupac Shakur, his face flushed by the infection.

“GK!” he exclaimed. Bill Clinton is the only person I’ve ever met, including my parents, who doesn’t address me as “Sir.” He began calling me GK after a particularly late night in the King’s Cross district of Sydney. The prostitute he had met, a pudgy older girl named Yvette, had passed out cold in the street at the entrance to her building, and Bill talked me into carrying her over my shoulder up the two flights of stairs to her door. Although completely naked, I happily agreed, and as Bill followed us up the steps, he couldn’t help but notice the sinewy musculature and perfect symmetry of my calves. GK stands for “God-like Calves.” Apparently, one doesn’t need to pass a spelling test to become a Rhodes’ Scholar either.

“Billy Boy!” I said.

“Come on in here, bro,” he said, “Have a seat on the couch.” We both made our way to the couch and sat down. A huge bong stood like a monument on the coffee table.

“What’re ya’ll doin here in Angel City?” Bill asked.

“Working, bro,” I said, “What do you make of this Vick story?”

“Yo, yo, that nigga was set up, g!” He sounded agitated. It’s well known that he and Vick are close. Suddenly I saw a figure from the corner of my eye, and was startled briefly before I recognized Whitney Houston emerge from the bathroom, wearing nothing but an Arkansas Razorbacks t-shirt. She walked across the room and sat heavily between us.

“Ya’ll mind if I smoke this crack in here?” she asked without saying hello. I felt a little awkward.

“Where’d you get that crack?” Bill asked.

“I got it from a white guy,” she explained.

“Long as it ain’t none of that ghetto shit,” Bill said, “That shit’s bad for you.”

“Um, so, Billy Boy,” I said, “You guys need your privacy?”

“No, no bro,” he laughed, “It’s just these bitches, yo.”

“What do you mean, Vick was set up?” I asked.

“Yo, check this,” he said, standing, “Remember when that shit went down with that white girl in the White House and all that shit. I dropped a couple bombs on Iraq, g, and that shit, like, went away and shit. Shit.”

I got it. I finally understood. Vick was innocent. He really was being set up. Michael Vick was a decoy, a means to divert the attention of the American public from something more important. But what? What did we need to ignore? I vaguely remembered a conversation K-Ro and I had earlier that day. Something about a war.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, standing.

“I’ll walk you out, GK,” Bill said.

We walked outside and Bill shut the door behind him. He seemed happy.

“Thanks for everything,” I said, “How’s Hillary?”

“She’s great, bro,” he said.

“What’s with the tattoo?” I asked.

“We did peyote last night,” he said, “That’s some wild shit.”

We shook hands and Bill disappeared back into room 69. I sent a telepathic message through my iPhone to Danica. We had work to do.

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Labels: Arkansas Razorbacks, Bill Clinton, Bong, Bruce Willis, Crack, Danica Patrick, Iraq, Karl Rove, Marijuana, Michael Vick, Peyote, Pop Culture Mess, Pulp Fiction, Tupac Shakur, Weed, Whitney Houston