Just in-Hale.....

 

David Hale courtly apologizes to Tim as he hands over the dappled blue flowered cotton panties like a white flag, stating that it was never his intent to serve as anyone’s personal entertainment system, he just sort of falls into these positions if you know what I mean, my dear friend, as he slightly elbows Tim in the ribcage.

 

         Before Hale can reach into his shirt pocket and offer Tim a cigar and complimentary slap on the back, informing Tim that it not only looks like the better man has won, it also looks like the better man had several orgasms during the post-game victory celebration, hinting that Holly Turner truly loves the natural protein rich flavor of cum since she kept on insisting that Hale perform his trick and blow his wad on her hair even more frequently to bring out the natural auburn beauty in her bangs. Before Hale has a chance to tell Flanagan all of this, realizing, mid-way through the whole cum conditioner bit that Hale’s own fly is unzipped and that his Holly Turnerized doused wang is in jeopardy of hanging out of his trousers like a clamp in a bell, Hale props up his pointer finger, offering his nearest and dearest a “hold-on-a-second” reeling the teethy strands of his zipper into one connected band.

 

 Tim Branagan explodes.

 

         He calls Hale Satan’s obese Sibling. He says that he has never met anyone bearing an IQ the size of his own testicle before, which, in Hale’s case, is zippo.

 

         As Hale politely recants the testicle analogy, claiming that Holly had a hard enough time getting just one of them between her lips while she was giving him another handjob, insisting that this time he aim where her split-ends cluster near the mole in her neck, Tim rashly overturns his DC briefcase while abruptly beginning to rip Hale’s non-piece-o-shit Orgon cross-over into paper triangles before lighting the pieces with his purple chrome lighter, tossing them inside his velour Deceptecon trashcan left over from his dog years at Washington gifted.

 

         Hale seems rather unparsed by Tim’s response, turns to each of his school friends politely inquiring what sort of animal it was that crawled up Tim’s ass and died.

 

         “FUCK!!!!” Tim screams. Hale is a tub of lard. Hale is so fat the circus could use his shit-stained drawers for their tent. Tim brandishes his forefinger, ordering Hale to exit his house once again. Before one final scream Tracy enters the room holding the cordless in her paw, handing it to Tim, saying that she’s been shouting at him from upstairs for the past five minutes—telephone.

 

         “Hello,” Tim’s voice drops while he answers, irked veins branching across his rhubarb-colored brow. Hale craftily blows smoke over the lit end of his stogie, careful to get the blazed tip just right.

 

         “What!!!!”  Tim’s Adam’s apple morphs into an exclamatory mark. He drops the phone, configures the tips of his fingers in spiny lighting slashes. Paralyzed, Tim begins to titter, looks into the placid lids of a cigar puffing Hale who is licking his lips, telling Von B just how much better these things tastes after a ill’ hoochie-woochie if you know what I mean. The phone from the stationed on the other side of Tim’s bedroom begins to ring.

 

Patrick rushes over to the phone and immediately picks it up.

 

         “Hello?” Patrick inquires. Hoping that maybe it’s Tim’s hot cousin whose name he’s not allowed to overtly pronounce aloud in this household.

 

“Yes,” Patrick says, his eyes still pointed in the upper-right hand corner of both sockets. Patrick nods exactly once before his face loses all color.

 

         “It’s for you,” Patrick says, facing Hale. “It’s Holly Turner.”

 

Before Hale can grab the phone out of Patrick’s extending grip, Tim swats the cordless out of Pat’s hand and continues to jounce up and down on the phone, as if the cordless were on fire.

 

         “NO!!!!” Tim continues, flailing up and down, “She can’t like you. You’re the fucking fattest excuse for a human being I have ever seen!!!”

        

Von Behren strongly lasso’s both of his limbs around Tim who is now trying to maul Hale who is seated near Patrick, casually puffing. Hale has placed both of his steel-toe work boots on the on the top of Tim’s role-playing desk. He has also picked up Tim’s purple neon-laced sunglasses, placing them around his eyes. As Von Behren struggles to keep a fire jolting Tim in check, Hale relights the tip of his cigar with Tim’s own purple lighter, humming out a happy hour variation of HAPPY BIRTHDAY MR. PRESIDENT to himself.    

        

“Dude,” Patrick turns to Tim. “When I picked up the phone, she asked if her own personal entertainment system was around and by that I don’t think she meant tiny Tim and his Sega Genesis.”

 

         Hale still hums, his legs unadjusted as he turns to a thrashing Branagan, asking him why, underneath all the skin deep subterfuge, why do you think it is that people really refer to you as Tiny Tim, holding out his pinkie finger and then making it slightly curve into the calloused surface of his own thick palm.

 

         “Tim, Tim.” Patrick says, as if rubbing his fingers together in shame before realizing just how serious the situation is at hand

 

 “Remember the eternal McReynolds’ hospitality mandate—Guest’ First, Fuckers.” Patrick offers a little marketable smile after quoting Warren’s newly enforced slogan.     

              

 

Von Behren hands are now manacled around Tim’s ankles. Tim kicks, stomps several time’s on Von Behren’s hands before freeing himself completely of his grasp, rushing over to Hale, screaming, as he would say, in an entirely different context, Bloody Murder while Hale tells Tim to bring it on, not altering his executive corporate slouch in the slightest.

 

With a feral leap Tim launches on top of Hale, pummeling him several times before the desk breaks, scattering paper slips and dice in every which way direction but. Patrick holds Von Behren back, warning him not to get involved, claiming that any interference and Tim is sure to take it out on both Patrick’s and Von B’s character creations later on.

 

         Tim is shrilling, striking Hale. Patrick swears he sees foam stirring in the corner of Tim’s lip as he endeavors to place the Saturday Night Special on Hale, the move Tim apparently popped a boner on while mauling Eliot Floyd in the rubber gym during pee-wee wrestling practice. Tim is about ready to ask Hale how-he-likes-them-apples-now and who his daddy is, bitch when Hale twists him around, puncturing the butt-end of his cigar in the center of Tim’s rather saltine forehead. Hale then continues to hoist the G.M. over his head, slicing his meatloaf thick hand over Tim’s lanky frame, before pinning both of Hale’s wrist in fingery bow behind Tim’s own back. There is something about Hale’s adept wrestling skills that imminently remind both VonB and Patrick about the adroitness of his RPG doppleganger. Using his left hand Hale continues to pinch the delicate conniving wrists of the GM into a corsage several inches above Tim’s butt crack, while, simultaneously Hale’s right hand undulates and snaps before Tim’s Adam’s apple and eventually his entire face surrenders to the thick aching fingertips of Hale’s entire palms hoisting the Game Master’s lank frame three feet above the basement ground like some sort of victory torch.

 

“Now listen,” Hale barks into Tim’s muffled face. “The four of us seated in this room are supposed to be friends.” Tim continues to squirm. Hale spits out the remainder of his cigar, tightens his grasp around Tim.

 

“What I mean by that is that friends are supposed to treat each other like friends.” Hale says, slamming Tim’s head against the wall where a bikini-clad mural of Rogue sun bathing in the painted center. Both Von Behren and McReynolds’ realize something that has been hinted to Hale his entire life. That Hale the Big friendly warm and fuzzy like-a-man-with-a lil-meat-on-his-bones giant simply does not know the size of his own strength.

 

Tim squirms again. Hale tells him to listen up, whipping his fingers across Tim’s nostrils as well, obstructing all passages of air.

 

         “By friendship I expect you to treat all of us as your equal.”  Hale slams Tim’s head into the wall. Patrick notices that Tim’s face is turning colors—transitioning from the burgundy rash of red into the bluish tint of windshield wiper fluid. Hale slams Tim’s head into the wall again.

 

         “By equal I would appreciate it that every time you game with my two very dear friends seated to your imminent left—I would appreciate it if you would treat them with the utmost respective and deference and that you refrain from incessantly slaughtering their characters so that you can make your own characters stronger.”

 

         Hale butts Tim’s head into the wall once again. Tim’s face is now the color of Marcellus Buck’s deep blue Versace etched warm up jersey.

 

“Fourthly,” Hale adds, miscounting, “ If I ever so much as hear that you have purposefully sliced up my friends’ characters for your own personal gain, If I ever so much as hear a whisper of that your characters game out victoriously while you discreetly drop dice in behind their back—in your own fucking gay-ass closet; if I ever hear that you so much as treat a firkin’ flea unfairly—we won’t have this sort of last-digit confession next time. I’ll just fuckin’ kill you.”

 

If Tim’s face were any more bluer he could pass for cosmic atmosphere. Von Behren tries to convince Patrick that Tim does too sorta look like Vanity smurf. The bickering continues. Hale tightens his grip.

 

         “Now inhale.”