Cancel Toby Chalmers!: Chapter 11
Well, since my novelette Cancel Toby Chalmers! (copyright me, now) has been sitting around, completed, for nearly 16 months, I’ve decided to share it for free, until it’s later released as part of a Toby Chalmers collection.
Here are Chapters 1-3: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here are Chapters 4 and 5: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 6: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 7: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here are Chapters 8 and 9: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 10: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's the final chapter.
Chapter 11
Just remember, your name is Bon Jippity today, and your literary review blog is called Future Fear Classics, Toby reminded himself two weeks later, hurrying from an Atlanta park’s parking lot toward a half-dozen pavilions, each of which had been draped with plastic sheeting that had been sliced and sewn together to resemble the flying extraterrestrial from the film Nope. Beneath that sheeting, seated at pristine picnic tables, were nearly two hundred out-of-shape people, all dressed in red coveralls, replicating those worn by the Tethered in the film Us.
Toby was running late, having remembered the luncheon’s Jordan Peele theme that morning, in his uncomfortable motel bed, hungover. Locating red coveralls of his own had been more difficult than he’d presumed. He’d driven all over the city until he’d found a too-large pair at a thrift shop. The wig and fake beard that composed his disguise were leftovers from a long-ago Halloween party, one in which he’d masqueraded as Jesus and handed out LSD-laced communion wafers. They itched far more than he remembered.
Seated in the sun a few yards before the nearest pavilion, his pink head slowly crimsoning, a bald, potato-shaped man served as an ersatz gatekeeper. A cash register and clipboard sat atop the small table he occupied. A pair of large, blue coolers sat on the ground aside him.
“Well, a fine hello to you,” the fellow said with an Irish accent. “I’m jovial Jon McLood, Pfeffernüsse of Terror’s big boss man. I’m a real sweetheart, though, trust me. And just who might you be?”
“They call me Bon Jippity,” Toby lied. “I write for Future Fear Classics. This is my first one of these shindigs. I couldn’t be more excited.”
“It’s my third, personally. Three years in a row.” Jon glanced behind him and waved his hand, indicating the faux Tethered. “Where else can one find such a diverse group of freethinkers?”
“You said it, buddy. That’s the most diverse group of Caucasians that I’ve ever seen.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, hey.” Toby pointed. “Is that Joseph McCarthy Jr. himself?”
“Sure is. Joe’s a close personal friend of mine. When he asked me to man this table today, I couldn’t have been more honored.”
“And who’s that guy he’s holdin’ hands with?” Toby asked. “Wait a minute, isn’t he that one actor? The dude who wore a wire mesh trashcan over his head throughout that one slasher flick and never said a word?”
Shit, Toby thought. Joe’s gay or bisexual, or something. If I get caught attacking him, they’ll call it a hate crime.
Begrudgingly, Jon said, “Yeah, it’s him. Trey Geehan, Mr. Bigshot Celebrity. I stopped by Joe’s house this morning for pancakes and that guy was there, too. He wouldn’t say a word to me, though, being too busy shouting at the makeup artist he brought with him, demanding that she make him look like he’s not wearing any makeup. He’s giving a speech at this thing later, as if Joe couldn’t do that better himself.” Jon exhaled and shrugged. “Anyway, fifty bucks please.”
Toby handed over a portrait of Ulysses S. Grant and watched his nom de plume get crossed off of the guest list. “This cooler’s full of sandwiches,” Jon said. “The other’s full of drinks. Grab yourself one of each and get over there. Go mingle. Oh yeah, before I forget, here’s a commemorative lapel pin.”
From his fanny pack, Jon withdrew a TRANSYLVORIA PRIDE pin and handed it over. The man was wearing one, too, Toby realized.
“I’ll come back for the refreshments,” said Toby. “I wanna go shake some hands first.”
“Suit yourself,” said Jon. “Just remember to ask for consent before touchin’ anybody.”
“But of course. I’m no rapist. Not me. Never.”
Passing a trashcan, Toby disposed of his TRANSYLVORIA PRIDE pin. His heart was jackhammering. Spreading a fake smile across his face, locking eyes with Joseph McCarthy Jr., he thought, I’m really goin’ through with it. Soon, this smug prick’ll be sobbing. I’d better feed him his teeth and sprint away quick, before any of these sloppy fatsoes gets ahold of me. Good thing I took the license plates off my car in the parking lot.
“Mr. McCarthy Jr., we meet at last,” he said with false conviviality. Everyone in earshot was watching him now, grinning at their recollections of their first encounters with their hero, he who’d helped to reshape the literary horror landscape more to their likings. “I tell you, good sir, without Transylvoria, Future Fear Classics—that’s my blog—would’ve never been birthed. You’re an inspiration to all of us. Might I please shake your hand?”
Toby paused, just out of reach of his target, thinking, The second that he stands up, he’ll get a faceful of fist. I’ll send him crashing into Mr. Makeup and run away, cackling.
“Of course, of course,” Joe enthused, remaining seated for the moment. “I’m always more than happy to meet a fan. So, what’s your name, anyway?”
Just as Toby was about to answer, a peevish voice rang out behind him. “Don’t touch that man, Joe! He’s a bigot! A monster!”
Oh fuck, I’ve been recognized, Toby thought, revolving on his heels to see Jon McLood waddling toward them. The man’s face was redder than ever. He seemed on the verge of tears.
Outraged voices, demanding explanations, sprayed sandwich shrapnel to all corners. Transylvoria’s staff and supporters climbed to their feet while Toby stood, stunned immobile. Sweaty hands seized him. Rancid breath wilted his neck hairs.
“You’ve got the wrong guy!” he protested. “I love everyone! Every race! Every age! Every viewpoint! Every gender!”
“Oh yeah, then why did you throw this out?!” Jon demanded, thrusting the commemorative lapel pin in Toby’s face.
“It was an accident! My hand slipped! I was plannin’ to fish it out of the trashcan later! I just didn’t wanna get my hands dirty until after I met Mr. McCarthy Jr.!”
Now Joe was squinting at Toby inquisitively. “We’re all wearing our TRANSYLVORIA PRIDE pins,” he said. “Why didn’t you put yours on right away?”
“I was nervous to meet you. I wasn’t thinkin’ clearly.”
“Is that so? And what’s your sexuality?”
“Straight, man…I’m straight. But I’m not judgin’ anyone else’s predilections. Love is love, right?”
“Of course it is. And right now, I’d love to see you explain your bigotry.”
“This is all just a misunderstandin’, Mr. McCarthy Jr. I’m not a bigot.”
“Do you think that assholes are disgusting, and only sickos find them erotic?”
“Hey, man, if a hot chick waxes and bleaches hers, and then washes it thoroughly, I’ll get all up in that thing. Tongue, dick, whatever.”
“Oh, so only high-maintenance, female anuses meet with your approval. I suppose that you’re not including trans women in your assessment.”
“Well, I mean, I’m not here to judge anybody. I’m sure that their assholes are very attractive. They’re just not my type. Why are we talkin’ about assholes, anyway?”
Incensed, Trey Geehan lurched in front of Joe to thrust a forefinger in Toby’s face. “I’ve been in over three dozen films!” he shouted. “You think you’re better than me?!”
“I don’t even know you, man. I’m not making that claim.”
“And now you’re assuming that you know my gender, based on how I look?! He’s a bigot, everybody, some kind of right-wing fiend!”
Desperate to throw a fist at somebody, anybody, Toby thrashed in his restrainers’ grips. His fake beard came loose and was tugged from his face.
“He’s wearing a disguise!” Jon McLood shrieked. “I knew there was somethin’ off about this guy! I mean, who turns down food and drink that they’ve already paid for?!”
Smirking so sharply that it seemed as if his head might bisect itself, Joseph McCarthy Jr. tore away Toby’s wig. “Phony hair, too. It seems that we have a Republican in disguise here. What’s his real name, I wonder. Somebody grab this guy’s wallet and find his license.”
Furious, Toby asked, “You don’t recognize me? You helped erase my fiction from the world and I’m unknown to you now?”
“Well, you do look vaguely familiar, now that you mention it.”
“You claimed that I kidnapped your nephew, you fat lump of cock mold. Do you even have a nephew, or did you make him up just to ruin me?”
“He took Shadrach!” Joe announced to every ear at the luncheon. Straining his mind for a recollected name, he arrived at, “This man is Toby Chalmers, the guy who hates black people! He’s out to abduct me now, too, because I stand up for diversity!”
“He’s lyin’!” shouted Toby. “I grew up listening to hip-hop! I’m a fan of lots of African Americans! Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle are two of my favorite comedians!”
“Dave Chappelle’s a transphobe!” Trey Geehan countered. “Diversity hates him now!”
“So…you hate a black man?!” asked Toby.
“Shut up! Shut up!”
A fist met Toby’s gut. A boot toe met his ankle. Soon he was lying prone, beneath a sweaty, reeking dogpile.
“Let’s teach this bigot a lesson!” declared Joe, now tumescent.
“Tell us what to do, wondrous leader!” Jon exclaimed. “We’ll do anything for you!”
“Pull down some of this plastic sheeting and roll Toby Chalmers onto it. Does anybody have any sharp tools?”
“I’m a tree trimmer by trade,” one neck-bearded fellow attested. “I’ve got saws, pruners, and axes in my truck.”
“Bring ’em all,” said Joe. “We’ll show this bigot that everyone’s beautiful inside…even him.”
* * *
Later, the coolers were loaded back into Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s Prius. He’d be feasting on leftover peanut butter and jelly sandwiches later, with plenty of juice to wash ’em down with. The tree trimmer’s tools returned to his truck bed. The plastic sheeting was torn down from the pavilions for disposal, with that which had been bloodied buried amidst the cleaner pieces. Aside from that gore, no trace of Toby Chalmers could be sighted.
Their postures now clenched, their faces exultant, Transylvoria’s staff and well-wishers headed toward their vehicles. They’d never forget this great day. If it escaped their minds for so much as a millisecond in the future, their much-treasured keepsakes would bring everything rushing back: recollections of Toby’s defiance, then begging, the coppery scent of fresh blood, and the exhilaration of helping to bring justice to an oft lawless planet.
Some cracked jokes as they reached the parking lot: “You know, deep down, Toby Chalmers wasn’t so bad, after all.” “I’ve never felt closer to Toby Chalmers than I do at this moment.” “Who knew that fighting bigotry could feel this darn good?”
Soon, they’d all driven away, save for Joseph McCarthy Jr., Jon McLood, and Trey Geehan.
“So, you’ll stop by for breakfast tomorrow, before you fly back to Ireland, right?” Joe asked Jon, as Trey climbed into the Prius’ passenger seat, sighed emphatically, and closed his eyes.
“Miss a moment with my absolute-doot-doot-doodely favorite person on Earth? Never! I’ll be there bright and early, with bells on. I’ll bring croissants, donuts, and cronuts…all you can eat.”
“Yummy, yummy, yummy. I’m salivating already. Ya know, you’re my top pal-o-roony, Jon. I wish that you lived here, in this city, so we could hang out every day.”
Overcome with emotion, Jon slapped Joe on the back, murmured, “Thank you,” and hurried over to his rented Nissan Rogue. Joyful tears careened down his face as he sped into the evening.
“Finally,” Joe muttered, releasing the fart that he’d been holding in for hours, which bugled for perhaps twenty seconds before sputtering out. “No twenty-one-gun salute for you, Toby Chalmers.”
A chopped-up author’s severed big toe rolled out of the leg of Joe’s coveralls.
Here are Chapters 1-3: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here are Chapters 4 and 5: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 6: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 7: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here are Chapters 8 and 9: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's Chapter 10: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...
Here's the final chapter.
Chapter 11
Just remember, your name is Bon Jippity today, and your literary review blog is called Future Fear Classics, Toby reminded himself two weeks later, hurrying from an Atlanta park’s parking lot toward a half-dozen pavilions, each of which had been draped with plastic sheeting that had been sliced and sewn together to resemble the flying extraterrestrial from the film Nope. Beneath that sheeting, seated at pristine picnic tables, were nearly two hundred out-of-shape people, all dressed in red coveralls, replicating those worn by the Tethered in the film Us.
Toby was running late, having remembered the luncheon’s Jordan Peele theme that morning, in his uncomfortable motel bed, hungover. Locating red coveralls of his own had been more difficult than he’d presumed. He’d driven all over the city until he’d found a too-large pair at a thrift shop. The wig and fake beard that composed his disguise were leftovers from a long-ago Halloween party, one in which he’d masqueraded as Jesus and handed out LSD-laced communion wafers. They itched far more than he remembered.
Seated in the sun a few yards before the nearest pavilion, his pink head slowly crimsoning, a bald, potato-shaped man served as an ersatz gatekeeper. A cash register and clipboard sat atop the small table he occupied. A pair of large, blue coolers sat on the ground aside him.
“Well, a fine hello to you,” the fellow said with an Irish accent. “I’m jovial Jon McLood, Pfeffernüsse of Terror’s big boss man. I’m a real sweetheart, though, trust me. And just who might you be?”
“They call me Bon Jippity,” Toby lied. “I write for Future Fear Classics. This is my first one of these shindigs. I couldn’t be more excited.”
“It’s my third, personally. Three years in a row.” Jon glanced behind him and waved his hand, indicating the faux Tethered. “Where else can one find such a diverse group of freethinkers?”
“You said it, buddy. That’s the most diverse group of Caucasians that I’ve ever seen.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, hey.” Toby pointed. “Is that Joseph McCarthy Jr. himself?”
“Sure is. Joe’s a close personal friend of mine. When he asked me to man this table today, I couldn’t have been more honored.”
“And who’s that guy he’s holdin’ hands with?” Toby asked. “Wait a minute, isn’t he that one actor? The dude who wore a wire mesh trashcan over his head throughout that one slasher flick and never said a word?”
Shit, Toby thought. Joe’s gay or bisexual, or something. If I get caught attacking him, they’ll call it a hate crime.
Begrudgingly, Jon said, “Yeah, it’s him. Trey Geehan, Mr. Bigshot Celebrity. I stopped by Joe’s house this morning for pancakes and that guy was there, too. He wouldn’t say a word to me, though, being too busy shouting at the makeup artist he brought with him, demanding that she make him look like he’s not wearing any makeup. He’s giving a speech at this thing later, as if Joe couldn’t do that better himself.” Jon exhaled and shrugged. “Anyway, fifty bucks please.”
Toby handed over a portrait of Ulysses S. Grant and watched his nom de plume get crossed off of the guest list. “This cooler’s full of sandwiches,” Jon said. “The other’s full of drinks. Grab yourself one of each and get over there. Go mingle. Oh yeah, before I forget, here’s a commemorative lapel pin.”
From his fanny pack, Jon withdrew a TRANSYLVORIA PRIDE pin and handed it over. The man was wearing one, too, Toby realized.
“I’ll come back for the refreshments,” said Toby. “I wanna go shake some hands first.”
“Suit yourself,” said Jon. “Just remember to ask for consent before touchin’ anybody.”
“But of course. I’m no rapist. Not me. Never.”
Passing a trashcan, Toby disposed of his TRANSYLVORIA PRIDE pin. His heart was jackhammering. Spreading a fake smile across his face, locking eyes with Joseph McCarthy Jr., he thought, I’m really goin’ through with it. Soon, this smug prick’ll be sobbing. I’d better feed him his teeth and sprint away quick, before any of these sloppy fatsoes gets ahold of me. Good thing I took the license plates off my car in the parking lot.
“Mr. McCarthy Jr., we meet at last,” he said with false conviviality. Everyone in earshot was watching him now, grinning at their recollections of their first encounters with their hero, he who’d helped to reshape the literary horror landscape more to their likings. “I tell you, good sir, without Transylvoria, Future Fear Classics—that’s my blog—would’ve never been birthed. You’re an inspiration to all of us. Might I please shake your hand?”
Toby paused, just out of reach of his target, thinking, The second that he stands up, he’ll get a faceful of fist. I’ll send him crashing into Mr. Makeup and run away, cackling.
“Of course, of course,” Joe enthused, remaining seated for the moment. “I’m always more than happy to meet a fan. So, what’s your name, anyway?”
Just as Toby was about to answer, a peevish voice rang out behind him. “Don’t touch that man, Joe! He’s a bigot! A monster!”
Oh fuck, I’ve been recognized, Toby thought, revolving on his heels to see Jon McLood waddling toward them. The man’s face was redder than ever. He seemed on the verge of tears.
Outraged voices, demanding explanations, sprayed sandwich shrapnel to all corners. Transylvoria’s staff and supporters climbed to their feet while Toby stood, stunned immobile. Sweaty hands seized him. Rancid breath wilted his neck hairs.
“You’ve got the wrong guy!” he protested. “I love everyone! Every race! Every age! Every viewpoint! Every gender!”
“Oh yeah, then why did you throw this out?!” Jon demanded, thrusting the commemorative lapel pin in Toby’s face.
“It was an accident! My hand slipped! I was plannin’ to fish it out of the trashcan later! I just didn’t wanna get my hands dirty until after I met Mr. McCarthy Jr.!”
Now Joe was squinting at Toby inquisitively. “We’re all wearing our TRANSYLVORIA PRIDE pins,” he said. “Why didn’t you put yours on right away?”
“I was nervous to meet you. I wasn’t thinkin’ clearly.”
“Is that so? And what’s your sexuality?”
“Straight, man…I’m straight. But I’m not judgin’ anyone else’s predilections. Love is love, right?”
“Of course it is. And right now, I’d love to see you explain your bigotry.”
“This is all just a misunderstandin’, Mr. McCarthy Jr. I’m not a bigot.”
“Do you think that assholes are disgusting, and only sickos find them erotic?”
“Hey, man, if a hot chick waxes and bleaches hers, and then washes it thoroughly, I’ll get all up in that thing. Tongue, dick, whatever.”
“Oh, so only high-maintenance, female anuses meet with your approval. I suppose that you’re not including trans women in your assessment.”
“Well, I mean, I’m not here to judge anybody. I’m sure that their assholes are very attractive. They’re just not my type. Why are we talkin’ about assholes, anyway?”
Incensed, Trey Geehan lurched in front of Joe to thrust a forefinger in Toby’s face. “I’ve been in over three dozen films!” he shouted. “You think you’re better than me?!”
“I don’t even know you, man. I’m not making that claim.”
“And now you’re assuming that you know my gender, based on how I look?! He’s a bigot, everybody, some kind of right-wing fiend!”
Desperate to throw a fist at somebody, anybody, Toby thrashed in his restrainers’ grips. His fake beard came loose and was tugged from his face.
“He’s wearing a disguise!” Jon McLood shrieked. “I knew there was somethin’ off about this guy! I mean, who turns down food and drink that they’ve already paid for?!”
Smirking so sharply that it seemed as if his head might bisect itself, Joseph McCarthy Jr. tore away Toby’s wig. “Phony hair, too. It seems that we have a Republican in disguise here. What’s his real name, I wonder. Somebody grab this guy’s wallet and find his license.”
Furious, Toby asked, “You don’t recognize me? You helped erase my fiction from the world and I’m unknown to you now?”
“Well, you do look vaguely familiar, now that you mention it.”
“You claimed that I kidnapped your nephew, you fat lump of cock mold. Do you even have a nephew, or did you make him up just to ruin me?”
“He took Shadrach!” Joe announced to every ear at the luncheon. Straining his mind for a recollected name, he arrived at, “This man is Toby Chalmers, the guy who hates black people! He’s out to abduct me now, too, because I stand up for diversity!”
“He’s lyin’!” shouted Toby. “I grew up listening to hip-hop! I’m a fan of lots of African Americans! Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle are two of my favorite comedians!”
“Dave Chappelle’s a transphobe!” Trey Geehan countered. “Diversity hates him now!”
“So…you hate a black man?!” asked Toby.
“Shut up! Shut up!”
A fist met Toby’s gut. A boot toe met his ankle. Soon he was lying prone, beneath a sweaty, reeking dogpile.
“Let’s teach this bigot a lesson!” declared Joe, now tumescent.
“Tell us what to do, wondrous leader!” Jon exclaimed. “We’ll do anything for you!”
“Pull down some of this plastic sheeting and roll Toby Chalmers onto it. Does anybody have any sharp tools?”
“I’m a tree trimmer by trade,” one neck-bearded fellow attested. “I’ve got saws, pruners, and axes in my truck.”
“Bring ’em all,” said Joe. “We’ll show this bigot that everyone’s beautiful inside…even him.”
* * *
Later, the coolers were loaded back into Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s Prius. He’d be feasting on leftover peanut butter and jelly sandwiches later, with plenty of juice to wash ’em down with. The tree trimmer’s tools returned to his truck bed. The plastic sheeting was torn down from the pavilions for disposal, with that which had been bloodied buried amidst the cleaner pieces. Aside from that gore, no trace of Toby Chalmers could be sighted.
Their postures now clenched, their faces exultant, Transylvoria’s staff and well-wishers headed toward their vehicles. They’d never forget this great day. If it escaped their minds for so much as a millisecond in the future, their much-treasured keepsakes would bring everything rushing back: recollections of Toby’s defiance, then begging, the coppery scent of fresh blood, and the exhilaration of helping to bring justice to an oft lawless planet.
Some cracked jokes as they reached the parking lot: “You know, deep down, Toby Chalmers wasn’t so bad, after all.” “I’ve never felt closer to Toby Chalmers than I do at this moment.” “Who knew that fighting bigotry could feel this darn good?”
Soon, they’d all driven away, save for Joseph McCarthy Jr., Jon McLood, and Trey Geehan.
“So, you’ll stop by for breakfast tomorrow, before you fly back to Ireland, right?” Joe asked Jon, as Trey climbed into the Prius’ passenger seat, sighed emphatically, and closed his eyes.
“Miss a moment with my absolute-doot-doot-doodely favorite person on Earth? Never! I’ll be there bright and early, with bells on. I’ll bring croissants, donuts, and cronuts…all you can eat.”
“Yummy, yummy, yummy. I’m salivating already. Ya know, you’re my top pal-o-roony, Jon. I wish that you lived here, in this city, so we could hang out every day.”
Overcome with emotion, Jon slapped Joe on the back, murmured, “Thank you,” and hurried over to his rented Nissan Rogue. Joyful tears careened down his face as he sped into the evening.
“Finally,” Joe muttered, releasing the fart that he’d been holding in for hours, which bugled for perhaps twenty seconds before sputtering out. “No twenty-one-gun salute for you, Toby Chalmers.”
A chopped-up author’s severed big toe rolled out of the leg of Joe’s coveralls.
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