‘Twas another shameful night at work for Jonathan, who was the resident beertender at Thor’s Hammer – a male review and bottle shop in Portland, Oregon. Jonathan had spent the last two hours prancing around on the bar, wearing tan chinos, no shirt, a plaid bow tie and a stovepipe hat. He had a contraption the he himself had invented strapped to the inside of his leg which consisted of a plastic bag filled with fake semen, a hand pump, and a plastic nozzle that threaded onto the huge rubber penis that protruded from his pants. He was tasked with running up and down the line and indiscriminately grabbing the back of patrons heads and dousing them in the face with loads pumped from the bag while yelling, “Hoo-Ha-Hoo-Ha!” The tips were good and the crowd loved it, but Jonny-boy had other, more important things on his mind. He needed to get to the latrine immediately, and there was nothing that was going to get in his way. He ripped off the huge rubber schlong and tossed it in a garbage can, unstrapped his goo-machine and raced for the can yelling, “Get the hell out of the way, this is an emergency!” He walked into the bathroom and, of course, all of the stalls were filled with groups of men. The floor was covered in paper towels, toilet paper, condom wrappers, spent travel sized bottles of astroglide, pictures of Doogie Howser and a shirtless Mario Lopez, peanut shells and baskets of hand towels. “Jesus” said Jonny, “I can’t wait to wipe my ass.” The only sounds from inside of the stalls were shrill moans and the sound of liquid splattering onto the walls. In a near panic, Jonathan went to the stall on the end and kicked in the door. What he saw startled him, but he’d seen many strange things at work before and this was a genuine emergency. There was a man lying on top of the bowl with a stag handled knife sticking out of his back and behind him was Troy, one of the dancers from the club. He was standing there with his pants around his ankles, his massive crooked boner coated in what appeared to be mustard. Jonathan kicked him as hard as he could in the balls, which sent Troy sprawling on top of the dead man, and then pulled a Smith & Wesson 500 out of his pocket and blew his brains out. The stall and Jonathan were now completely covered in gore, so Jonny turned around and walked out, bumping into screaming patrons who were heading for the bathroom exit like rats from a sinking ship. “Well, that problem’s solved!” said Jonny. He went into the adjacent, just vacated stall and sat down to finally go doo-doo. He put his head in his hands and started straining, the effort monstrous. Capillaries in his forehead and nose started to rupture, and his grunting intensified into a heaving wail. “HHHHGGGGGGGGHHHH!” At last, the first product of his effort came forth in the form of a chainsaw-like fart. “Oh god. At least I finally have the dump all lined up. Come on, baby, let’s rock!” said Jonathan. The excrement came out with such force that Jonny was rocketed into the wall, thrown like a scarecrow. He climbed back aboard and grabbed a wad of toilet paper, douched his butt-hole and didn’t bother to flush. He pulled up his chinos and walked back out into the bar to have a little chat with Smitty, the owner of the place. Smitty was in his office getting blown by Stuart, who was the beer rep from Barley’s Chubb Soda. Un-fucking-real, thought Jonathan, who had only last week stuffed his bloated crank into Stu’s bung-hole. It hadn’t been just another tryst for Jonny, not this one. This time he was in it for the long haul, and he was prepared to do whatever necessary to defend his honor, consequences be damned. He ran into the room and pulled Stu off of Smitty’s fat cock and pulled the gun back out and fired a bullet into Smittys forehead, which, you can well imagine, blew his brains out all over a poster of Sylvester Stallone as Cobra that he had thumb tacked to the wall. Stu got up and wiped off his face with a napkin that Jonathan handed him. “Thanks, man. That poor bastard had it coming. Fuck, he hasn’t paid a bill in over three months!” said Stu. “I hear you. By the way, WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING?!!!!!” screamed Jonny. “What the hell did it look like I was doing, dumbass? I was sucking on his immense pipe with the full intent of gobbling his load! You’re awful touchy tonight. What gives, amigo?” asked a concerned Stu. Jonathan, who at this point was weeping openly, looked up in the air and shook his head and then started laughing hysterically. “Why me? Why the fuck does this shit always happen to me? I’m a good guy and yet I always seem to get the shaft!” cried Jonny. Stu laughed and said, “You sure do, you homo, but isn’t that the point?” Jonny laughed too and then quickly grabbed a baseball bat that Smitty had in the corner and proceeded to bash Stu’s skull into a mashed pulp while yelling, “YAAAAAAA!!!!” Bruce, the appetizer cook, ran in and said, “What the hell is going on in here? Jesus, Jonathan, what’s this?” Jonathan turned around and said, “Nothing Bruce, I was just tidying up. I’ll be out in a moment. Hey, by the way, can you start me an order of taquitos? I’m famished.” “Sure thing, J-dog! Sorry for the interruption, but I heard the screaming and now, you know, there are two dead bodies lying in front of you, so I thought that something might be amiss.” said Bruce. “Haha, nothing is always as it seems, my good man!” said Jonathan, who gave a big horse wink to Bruce. “Got it, muchachbro! You’re the doctor!” said Bruce who winked back. He had every intention of butt-fucking Jonathan later and didn’t want to shit where he eats. Well actually he did, but that’s another story. In any case, he walked out and headed to the kitchen to prepare Jonny’s treat, so Jonathan wiped himself off again and went back out to the bar. The lounge was about half full of mostly older gentlemen. Jonny walked to the front of the room and climbed onto the stage and picked up the microphone. “ARE YOU GUYS READY TO FUCKING PAR-TAY-HAY?! My name’s Jonathan and I’m your beertender. I also, as some of you already know, am the person who mans the bulls-eye glory-hole every Tuesday and Thursday from nine to eleven, so put it on your calendars! Ha, well I’m standing in front of you tonight with a little confession to make.” Cheers from the crowd. “I slept with a woman once…” Boos from the crowd. “Just kidding, you homos, hardy-har-har. But seriously, I apologize to any of you that had the corn chowder this evening because when I came in earlier and it was being prepared, I defecated in the tureen.” said Jonathan. At that point, four people in the crowd started projectile vomiting onto the ground. Jonathan said, “Yep, that’s about right. It usually doesn’t sell too well. AND NOW YOU KNOW THE REASON WHY! WOO-HOO! Come on, come on, you guys need to lighten up. I’m just trying to keep things interesting. Speaking of keeping things interesting…” Jonathan hit a foot switch and a Gatling gun rose from beneath the stage. Jonny grabbed the hand crank and started mowing down the shrieking crowd by maneuvering the gun from side to side. The patrons were literally cut to pieces. Heads were blown off, as were arms and legs, and one gentleman (one of the corn chowder guys) had his entrails come out and land on top of his dinner companion who screamed and, while trying to pull them off, was decapitated by raging gunfire. Jonathan finally stopped cranking the gun and jumped off the stage to survey the damage, which appeared at first glance to be total. He found one victim who’d been cut in half trying to scramble under a table by pulling his upper body forward with a table cloth. Jonny went over to him and crushed his head like a cantaloupe with the heel of his boot. He walked back into the kitchen to check on his taquitos which were sitting in the pass-thru under the heat lamps. Bruce and the head chef, Dominic were busy behind the line preparing a whole laundry list of food for the now deceased patrons. “Hey, y’all! You can cancel all of those orders. I’m afraid to say that the patrons have all crossed the River Styx.” said Jonathan. “If that were actually true, I’d bugger you right now in the walk-in!” said Dominic. “Me too!” chirped Bruce. “Well, it’s your lucky night guys! Take a look out in the dining room and then meet me in the walk-in!” said Jonny. They both went to the window and, sure as shit, everybody was wiped out. “Holy moly! That bastard was telling the truth. Let’s get back there and commence with the gay threesome!” said Dominic. “Sounds about right.” said Bruce. They proceeded to the cooler where they found Jonathan wearing only his g-string, sitting atop a crate of cucumbers. “Am I great or what?” said Jonny. “You are indeed, sir!” said Dominic who was trying to get his belt off. Bruce was already undressed and was grabbing at Jonny’s pecker which was now fully pumped up. “Dinner time, bro!” said Jonny as he shoved his meat stick into Bruce’s grouper like mouth. Dominic got behind Jonathan and began pumping his fist into Jon’s exhaust-chute while fondling his ball-bag. Jonathan turned Bruce over and began reaming out his tail-pipe while Dominic jerked off into a five gallon bucket of chicken stock. Jonathan said, “Hey-Ho-Hey-Ho,” and then, “Hiya-huma-hiya-huma” as he blew a massive load into Bruce’s large intestine. He then grabbed Bruce by the neck and shoved his head into the lobster tank and held him there until he drowned. “That’s some crazy shit, dude!” said Dominic. “Life certainly can surprise you. Hey, Dominic, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think that you give crummy rim-jobs.” said Jonathan. “I do admit that it’s my weakest skill, but I have a rubber molded butt in my apartment that I’ve been practicing on, so with time and effort I’ll be able to get there eventually.” said a shrugging Dominic. “Well, here’s the bad news, you’ll never get the chance because your number just got called.” said Jonny. “That stinks. Can I at least eat first? You know, a last meal type thing? Asked Dominic. “No.” said Jonny who pulled out a Mac-10 that he’d stashed behind a bag of potatoes and fired directly into Dominic’s bloated face which, very quickly, became decidedly un-bloated. You guessed it, his brains were blown out onto a case of smoked oysters. “Well, that’s all she wrote for this shit-heap.” said Jonathan, who put his g-string back on and waltzed out of the club into the crisp night air. He was hoping that the Chinese restaurant was still open so that he could grab some late night crab rangoon and then, with luck, bugger the new busboy that had just arrived from Canton.