Disneylodeon

“Good morning, members of the press and those of you watching at home. My name is Albert G. Briscoe and I’m the CEO of Disneylodeon Productions. As many of you have already seen in the mainstream media, certain allegations have been levied against me and my organization. I’m here to tell each and every one of you that these allegations are far from true. Our mission here at Disneylodeon is to provide quality entertainment the whole family can enjoy, none of which includes exploitation of any kind. Our actors and production crew are treated fairly and equally. They are paid livable wages and they work in a comfortable environment.”

“Bullshit!” shouted a Hungarian-accented man before cocking his assault rifle. The journalists in the audience scattered about like cockroaches, screaming and cowering against the wall. “Shut up!” the terrorist shouted. “Shut the fuck up!” No screams, only quivering lips and whiny moans.

The only one who wasn’t screaming or running was Albert Briscoe himself, who remained seated at the stage behind his table and microphone. His middle-aged face told the perfect story of guilt and stoicism. He brushed his silver hair back and said, “I bet the shareholders aren’t going to like this.”

The Hungarian pulled his trench coat hood back and revealed his long bearded, bald headed mug to the CEO of Disneylodeon. “The shareholders aren’t going to like shit. But they’re the least of your worries, Mr. Briscoe. Right now you’re looking down the barrel of an AK-fucking-47. If you don’t give me what I want, you’re not going to be looking at shit with a face full of slugs.”

“Who are you?” asked Albert with his hands folded and his attitude calm.

“Vladek Bathory,” the gunner answered. “That last name should sound very familiar to you, Mr. Briscoe. My daughter was the lead actress on one of your shows. I’ve seen just about all I want to see of her in those slutty outfits and bare fucking feet.”

Holding his hands up defensively, Albert said, “Listen, Mr. Bathory, I don’t have that much control over my own directors. I’m just a corporate guy. If you have any grievances against my directors, you should take it up with them.”

“Such a perfect portrait of leadership, throwing your own guys under the bus like that,” said Vladek as he stalked closer to Albert. His hawkish eyes pinpointed on the CEO’s throat, which just engulfed an eight-ball sized lump of saliva. “You’re not fooling anybody. You can sweet talk these journalists all you want, but I want something a little more.” Vladek edged close enough to point the barrel right against Albert’s nose. “You’d better own up to your sins, boss man.”

“Look, Mr. Bathory, I just told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Albert with progressively fast speech. “This is out of my hands. I just do corporate work, that’s it.”

“So basically what you’re telling me is that you’re about as useful as steak sauce in India?” asked Vladek rhetorically. When Albert’s face became too frozen in fear to speak up, the gunner smashed the barrel across his nose and splattered blood all over the microphone. The CEO screamed and held his jacket sleeve against the wound, drenching it in a flood of violence.

Vladek grabbed Albert’s tie and yanked him by the neck over the table, sending him crashing to the carpeted floor coughing and wheezing. The Hungarian pressed the barrel against Albert’s cheekbone and belted, “If you’re really that fucking useless, I have no reason to keep you alive!”

“No, wait! Wait! Don’t shoot me! Please don’t fucking shoot me!” begged Albert with a nasally voice. “I can get you the producer who was in charge of your daughter’s TV show! I just need to access my phone, that’s all!”

“Bullshit!” snapped Vladek before smashing the butt of his gun against Albert’s cheek, causing even more pathetic screams of pain. “Like I’m going to let you just call the police and have this all be for naught! You think I’m a fucking idiot, Mr. Briscoe?! Huh?! You think you’re going to get off that easily?! Nobody’s coming to save you or your precious journalists! The TV and radio signals are jammed, including the cameras in this fucking studio! You’ve been talking to a brick wall this whole time!”

“Please don’t shoot me! I have a wife and daughter at home! They need me!” pleaded Albert with his hands together prayer style.

“Oh, now wives and daughters are important to you!” yelled Vladek when he pressed the barrel against Albert’s throat. He could feel another lump going down the CEO’s gullet and pressing against the gun. “They weren’t important to you before, but now that they’re yours, they’re suddenly bigger than Jesus fucking Christ himself!” Vladek leaned into Albert’s heavily panting face and whispered throatily, “Let me ask you something: are your wife and daughter into the kind of perverted shit you put on television? Does your wife like bare feet? Does your daughter like showing off her sexy soles to complete strangers on TV?!”

“It’s not like that, Mr. Bathory! You’re blowing this way out of proportion!”

“I’ll blow your head out of proportion if you don’t give me a confession!” To show he wasn’t fucking around, Vladek pulled out his smart phone and mounted it on the end of his AK-47. “Stand up, dickhead! Move!” Albert quickly obliged, allowing his nose to drip slowly and painfully. “Now then…with the whole world watching and not just your fucking shareholders…I want you to look into my phone and confess that Disneylodeon is a pervert’s paradise. You’ve got foot fetishes up to yin-yang, you’ve got naked teenagers parading their bodies around, and you’ve got producers and directors getting their jollies off in the background!”

Albert stared down on the floor and took a huge breath, slowly bringing his bloodshot eyes to Vladek’s phone to make the announcement the whole world has been waiting for. “My name is Albert Briscoe…I am the CEO of Disneylodeon…our directors and producers…are a bunch…are a bunch of….I can’t do this…no, wait, wait, wait!...Our directors and producers are foot fetishists and pedophiles. It’s plain to see in the TV-G shows we air on our network…But even more apparent than that…is the raging bulge in Vladek Bathory’s pants!”

“What the?!” shouted Vladek as he looked down at his crotch to see there was indeed a large mass forming.

The lengthy tube steak snapped in half upon contact with Albert’s swift loafer-wearing foot. The Hungarian dropped his assault rifle and doubled over in pain while screaming like his daughter would have in the same situation. Albert rushed to grab the assault rifle and pointed it at the wounded terrorist. “You see that, everyone?!” Mr. Briscoe shouted. “That was an example of the many feet we like to put on the air! And now for the first time in the history of this company, Disneylodeon’s programming will be rated TV-MA for violence! Lots and lots of VIOLENCE!”

That last word was punctuated with Albert unleashing a barrage of bullets into the now bloody and splattered body of Vladek Bathory. The life juices splashed all over Albert’s Armani suit, but the bulging rage in his eyes suggested that was the last thing in the world he was angry over. Journalists stormed out of the building screaming and crying while a familiar face came running inside to kneel by her fallen father.

“Daddy!” the teenaged actress shouted. “Daddy! What happened?!” She cradled her father’s shattered skull in her arms and rocked back and forth while bawling like a baby.

“Who do you think you’re calling daddy, young lady?!” shouted Albert as he pointed the assault rifle at the actress, who gazed up at him with flooding eyes and quivering lips. “From now on, baby girl, you’re going to be calling ME daddy! And if you think your hypocrite ex-father was good with a gun…you should know…I don’t shoot blanks either!” Albert winked at the end of that last sentence before chuckling evilly at the sorrowful girl on the ground.

“You’re a monster, Albert!” sobbed the girl as she wiped her tears and snot away with her bare arm. “You’re a goddamn monster!”

“Monster? Really?” said Albert. “This isn’t about being a monster, honey. This is about business. This is about the American way. And right now…business is booming! When you see your father in hell, be sure to tell him I said thanks for making my shareholders happy!”

Putting the Ass in Assault Rifle

Flipping hamburgers and cooking French fries at Monster Burger wasn’t doing much for Nikita Croft’s college dreams. She was only nineteen years old and was already feeling the stresses of someone four times her age. Her posture was hunched over, her eyes were baggy, and any smile she gave her customers was forced with all of her strength. Cooking unhealthy food wasn’t the bad part. Dealing with angry customers who didn’t get exactly what they wanted made Nikita wish she had a gun to put to her own head. She could picture her brains, skull, and short black hair splattering all over the restaurant walls to create her own version of modern art.

When the well-known Easton family came strutting through the glass doors, Nikita’s suicidal fantasies of using a gun on herself were replaced with eye-widening, posture-straightening fear. The chubby, buzz-cut having Luke Easton and his long blond haired wife Rachel each came in with assault rifles strapped to their backs. Their baby son Brian was being pushed in a stroller by Rachel.

The Easton family’s presence caused various patrons to slowly cower away in fear, hide behind their booths, and hide underneath their tables. Some of the clerks behind the counter had their wide eyes locked on the family while other clerks had them locked on Nikita wondering what she was going to do. She was in charge of the register at the moment, so it would only make sense that this responsibility would fall on her, weak voiced and trembling through she was.

Luke Easton squinted his eyes as he surveyed the patrons backing away from them in pants-wetting fear. “What? What the hell’s your guys’ problem? You don’t like these rifles we’ve got strapped to our backs? Tough shit! This is America! Get used to it!”

“Uh, actually, sir…” said Nikita in a shy voice before tenderly clearing her throat. “Weapons are not allowed in Monster Burger. If you want service, you’ll have to go back to your vehicle and…put them away.”

Some of the patrons were sneaking their way around on the floor and bolting out of the front doors. Others stayed in their crouched positions and whimpered helplessly. Nobody even thought about calling the cops on their smart phones due to the fear of incurring Luke and Rachel’s wrath.

“You listen here, little lady,” snapped Luke as he marched toward the counter. “Me and my family came here for some burgers and fries! We’re hungry as hell! Now you can either make them or we’re going to have a problem!”

“Sir, we will make whatever you want if you’d just…put your guns back in your vehicle,” said Nikita without even looking Luke in the eyes.

Rachel pushed baby Brian’s stroller up to the counter and got involved in the heated debate. “I don’t know what your problem is, lady, but we’re not leaving until we get our food! We’re standing up for our second amendment rights! If you don’t like what we’re doing, then we can get your ass deported back to Canada!”

Nikita’s dialogue was getting messy as she kneeled to the floor and cried her eyes out. Everybody counted on her to be the brave authoritarian, but nobody counted on the Easton family to bring weapons into the restaurant. She lifted her head up and turned to her fellow clerks before saying, “I’m sorry! I can’t do this anymore!”

“Hold on there, Nikita!” said the dress shirt and tie-wearing manager of Monster Burger, Chance Rivers. Despite the lack of enthusiasm Nikita Croft showed for her job on a regular basis, Chance had always been there for her whether she needed comfort or a short-term loan. Being a good boss to his employees was part of the reason so many would-be college students worked for him. This time was no different.

“Mr. and Mrs. Easton! I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask both of you to leave my restaurant!” said Chance with a gentle hand on Nikita’s shoulder and a firm tone to the rifle-wielding family.

“We’re not doing anything wrong!” complained Rachel. “We have just as much right to be here as all of these people!” Most of those people had cleared out of the restaurant in shirt-sweating and pants-pissing fear.

“The hell you do!” barked Chance as he jumped over the counter and got in Rachel and Luke’s faces. “You’re putting my customers and my employees in huge danger by bringing those things in here! Nobody wants to be around you two right now! I’m losing customers because nobody really wants to get accidentally shot! Or in your case, purposefully!”

Luke grabbed Chance’s shirt and slammed him against the counter while breathing heavily in and out and drooling with anger. The clerks and cooks began to scramble out of the kitchen and bolt towards the front door. Nikita on the other hand was curled up in the fetal position on the floor still shedding tears. Yes, she was suicidal earlier in the day, but that all changed when she started to see what death really looked like up close.

“I’m not going to have this argument with you, Mr. Boss Man!” yelled Luke through gritted teeth. “Either you cook our food or else we’re going to have problems!”

Chance’s frightened expression and shivering body were being beefed up with adrenaline. It was now or never for him, his employees, and his customers. The manager reached behind the corpulent Luke and tried to wrestle the gun away from him. But Luke was too powerful and showed it when he hurled Chance to the ground, causing his ribs to ache and violent coughs to sound off across the restaurant.

“Luke, calm down. It’ll be okay, sweetie,” said a nervous Rachel, who was backing away slowly. She wasn’t changing political alignments, she was a shivering mess.

Luke armed himself with his assault rifle and clicked the pump handle. He looked down at the injured Chance Rivers with disdain and fiery hatred. “I’m getting sick of you Yankee liberal motherfuckers taking my rights away! I never wanted to fire this thing off today, but I’ll be glad to…”

Luke’s raging oratory was disrupted by his gun accidentally going off. Nikita and Chance held their ears and screamed in both pain and terror. Rachel, on the other hand, looked down at her baby stroller and saw the most horrifying thing a mother could imagine. She silently shed tears and dropped to her knees, shaking and cowering over the accidental death of Brian. She slowly unhooked her assault rifle and tossed it to the ground.

Everything had fallen silent with Chance and Nikita looking on in horror. Luke was shaking as he slowly made his way to his kneeling and silently praying wife Rachel. He gently put one of his powerful hands on her shoulder only to have her brush it away and yell, “Don’t touch me!”

As Luke fell to his knees and sobbed as well, Chance grabbed onto the counter and heaved himself to his feet. With his hands on his ribs and a limp in his step, he approached Nikita and told her to use the phone in his office to dial 9-1-1. With a nod of approval and her head hung in sorrow, Nikita did as she was told.

Luke lifted his heavy head and looked at Chance with a face full of tears and a nose full of snot. “Well? Go ahead. Say it, Mr. Boss Man. Say that you were right and we were wrong. Tell me how proud you are of being right.”

“I’m not going to say any of those things,” said Chance. He limped his way over to the sobbing Easton couple and put both of his hands on their shoulders in a comforting way. “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Chance in a genuine tone. “If you want to say a prayer for baby Brian, I’m not going to try and stop you. The police are on their way, though, so if you’re going to do it, use that time wisely.”

Luke and Rachel nodded their approval at Chance before bowing their heads and saying their final prayers.

Meanwhile, Nikita dragged herself to the main dining area and looked at her boss with red, swollen, baggy eyes. “Mr. Rivers? You’ve been an awesome boss to me. You’re an awesome boss now. But I can’t do this anymore. I quit.”

The sullen expression on Chance’s face said it all: “I don’t blame you, Nikita. Nobody blames you at all.” The two of them actually shared a hug before Nikita languidly made her way out of the restaurant for the last time. She thought about all the heartache she had to endure of dealing with customers who were just as bad as the Eastons. Were there better jobs out there? Of course. Were there better bosses than Chance Rivers? Probably not. Nikita Croft wouldn’t spend the rest of the day worrying about college money. It was hard to read bank statements and take them seriously with both eyes full of burning tears.