Mojo - 1. Chapter 1: An Asinine Situation

.

A Post-Modern Satire and Sex Comedy

"Talent borrows;

Genius steals.”

- Oscar Wilde

by

AC Benus

for

MIKIESBOY

who was with me every step of the way,

dealing nobly with my daily doubts

and always doing so

with a smile

Contents

Part One – Divorce, L.A. Style

Chapter 1: An Asinine Situation

Chapter 2: In a Brunst

Chapter 3: Wayfarers

 

Part Two – The Laguna Beach (Mis…)Adventures

Chapter 4: Slocked Affections

Chapter 5: I Left My (Dignity) in Avalon

Chapter 6: Alligator Tears and Dollar Signs

Chapter 7a: Hot Heads Explode, Part One

Chapter 7b: Hot Heads Explode, Part Two

 

Part Three – Passion in Pasadena

Chapter 8: Rose Bowl Flea

Chapter 9: Wonderful Vagaries of Fortune

Chapter 10: Sweating it out with a Porn Star

 

Part Four – “Will there be food at this event?”

Chapter 11: Tre-Princely’s Happening

Chapter 12: vivamus, dum licet esse bene

Chapter 13: Escapism

Chapter 14: Chocolate Covered Coins

 

Part Five – ‘The Split,’ Take Two

Chapter 15: Cursed

Chapter 16: Kohl’s Lament

Chapter 17: Teardrops, or Hell-Bound on Venice Beach

 

Part Six – Ostriches in the Sand

Chapter 18: A Tool of a Toady

Chapter 19: Abraca…. Who?

Chapter 20a: Burning Man (and Woman), Part One

Chapter 20b: Burning Man (and Woman), Part Two

Chapter 21: Hollister; Aptos; San Jose

 

Part Seven – (Not So) Sequestered in San Diego

Chapter 22: Facing Facts

Chapter 23: “Ass Cream” – or the Divine Beauty Balm

Chapter 24: The Lamp-Stick Battle

 

Part Eight – Seaborne Venus Priapus

Chapter 25: What Are the Odds

Chapter 26a: “I Got You, Babe," Part One

Chapter 26b: “I Got You, Babe," Part Two

Chapter 27: Pool Party [of the Gods (???)]

Chapter 28: Gordon’s Ultimate Love-Act

 

Part Nine – Temptation in the Desert

Chapter 29: “Fish, Flame or Worm”

Chapter 30: Marigolds

Chapter 31: A Journey Inland

 

Part Ten – Spanish Fly

Chapter 32: High-Life on the Public Peso

Chapter 33: An Abject Low

Chapter 34: da pedicure

Chapter 35: "What about Sadeeq?"

 

Post Scrpitum: A Curtain Call

 

Part One – Divorce, L.A. Style

Chapter 1: An Asinine Situation

“So, in other words, you’re saying belief trumps truth?” I couldn’t help grinning at my own witticism.

Napoleon withdrew a cigarette from his pack and offered it to me. Once I’d taken it, he tapped out another for himself and said, “Ugly reality will rear her lovely head eventually, my boy, but for now, truth is forcibly sequestered at a taxpayer-funded golf outing somewhere.”

That was kind of funny, so I laughed. “As you probably already know, Americans have a strong reputation for being gullible. You are famous around the world for believing the first thing you hear, say about a Nigerian prince who has a fortune waiting for him.”

“Slight correction: not the first thing, but the last thing we hear before we shut the rest out.” He lit up, puffing a little chortle. “However, speaking of princes and kings and foreign potentates, you just said something wise there.” He passed me his cigarette so I could light up too. “I think one of the best analogies to what’s happening these days comes from that old fairytale, The Emperor has no Clothes. Think about it. Of course, the king’s duped by the conman selling him an outfit he said only the pure of heart could see, but this description transfers to everyone. The moral of this tale lives in the pompous belief in one’s own goodness. The confrontation of the naked ruler, i.e. exposed as a highly flawed individual, means the person seeing his nakedness is not as morally innocent as he thought. Thus, the easy way out is belief, with a capital ‘B.’ The people in the story tell themselves ‘I believe I see a suit of clothes, because I believe I’m a good person at heart.”

The first tweak of nicotine hit my bloodstream, and I involuntarily relaxed a bit. Handing back his smoke, I said wryly, “Is that related to the dreaded ‘Fake News’ portion of the deception?”

Napoleon Trueblood’s thin, middle-aged lips cracked a smoky grimace of pleasure. It appeared behind the red-berry microphone attached to his face via a headset from his ear. “Exactly, Kohl. Exactly. Sadly, in this country The Truth is dead, or at least hooked up to wires and beep-machines in the ICU. People think and speak in terms of ‘My truth,’ ‘His truth,’ and the like, which is damn stupid. Obviously, there is only The Truth, and it’s not subject to anyone liking it or not; it can’t be shut out big-baby fashion by covering the ears and shouting ‘I won’t listen, because I don’t believe it!’ However, as a self-help guru”—he crossed himself sacrilegiously with his glowing cancer stick—“I have to admit this gullibility is my bread and butter; I exploit it all the time. Think about it. My rich clients, with more funds than brains, pay me big bucks because they are insecure about their own sense of worth. I find their truth for them, or so they believe, and they show gratitude with bank drafts and pricy presents. They treat me like a god for uncovering what should have been all too self-evident in the first place.”

“You ever expose your fat-cat customers to the real facts?”

“Which ones are those?”

“That they are mediocre pieces of shit who won’t help improve this world one—”

“Fuck no! I like my Beemer, thank you very much.”

I slowly shook my head, chuckling softly.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking this whole thing – the lecture series, this convo, your ‘job’ – it’s all so perfectly…California.”

“Damn right it is. And you’re here, aren’t you? Instead of some bum-fucked Hansel-und-Gretel village out in the sticks, right?”

“Yeah.” I cracked up. “We’re here all right.” The fact that life in L.A. was so cult-of-personality-driven made it painfully ironic the organizers of this afternoon’s high-dollar self-help seminar decided to hold it in the region’s oldest church.

Now, with a lecturer droning on and on in the holy sanctuary to our side about ‘Maximizing People Activation,’ whatever the hell that was supposed to mean, me and Napoleon stood in the courtyard of Our Lady Queen of Angels and smoked. We’d slipped out once Trueblood delivered his self-improvement ‘sermon’ in front of the gold altarpiece, and made the crowd salivate with thoughts of how much better they could be – someone like Napoleon. And why not? Audience members had shelled out hundreds of dollars each to be told what ineffectual space-wasters they were, and it made them hellbent on getting their money’s worth of abuse.

Me and Assauer got freebie tickets from Neil Campbell, the self-help guru’s boyfriend, and a guy I occasionally hustle. In truth, Neil’s too thirsty for my taste, but when he coughs up something good, I grudgingly top him. He’s into the ‘grudging’ part of it, lol.

As I took a drag on my cigarette, I looked around. This court was enclosed by tan stucco walls, capped with red roof tiles. The front end of it had wooden gates and an archway out to the street. The arch was pretty, covered with papery bougainvillea in full bloom, and Assauer moved below it with bored listlessness. He’s into camo gear, so now had hands thrust into his blue Navy surplus trousers – the ones that make his ass look like a sailor – and who knows, he might find a real one to service for some cash before the day was through. Atop that blue-on-blue flash, he wore his French Marines tank top, with the horizontal stripes of black and white. He seemed underdressed for this crowd, or maybe I was overdone with my chinos, hoodie and blazer. What does one wear to a pricy self-pity fest anyway…?

In contrast to our best casualwear, the motivational guru had attired himself in a shiny suit of gunmetal fabric, a black shirt and tie, and torturously done up his thinning hair in that most unfortunate of modern trends: the man-bun. It rode the front portion of his skull like an extra ball of dough stuck atop a brioche.

‘They say clothes make the man,’ I thought, suppressing a chuckle and smoking. ‘But I suppose fake it till you make it is what I’m seeing before me.’

“As I was saying,” Napoleon continued, after a quick glance at his phone, “yes, it’s true. So, like the emperor’s no-clothes story, even the So-Called’s most rabid supporters hate him, laugh at him, know he’s the worst ever to be appointed by a foreign power over them, but can’t admit it openly. And why? Because that means they’d have to confess they are as deeply flawed as him. I heard Howard Dean say it best: ‘President of the United States; leader of the free world? I don’t think so. The man can’t even govern himself, let alone others.’ But mainly it’s those few asses at the top of his party keeping that constipated, carrot-top piñata in pretend-charge anyway.”

I puffed out a cloud of smoke. “I don’t think you’ll get much disagreement from around the world.”

“Sadly, I know. This tyranny of opinion over fact makes America and Americans seem untrustworthy right now. And the rest of the international community wonders if we’ve lost our damn minds.”

He took a long, whimsical drag on his cigarette again, no doubt expecting me – a foreigner – to have some piquant affirmation for him.

I didn’t disappoint. “Don’t worry about it too much. We’re used to your politics being a Wild West show of some sort or another.”

“Ah,” he exhaled. “As I suspected, you are more than usually bright. Intellectual and engaging, in a way far above the average; I suspect it’s because you’re German.”

‘Gott im Himmel...' I mused. ‘It’s always because we’re Germans. These Americans—’

Trueblood went on, “Kohl, your culture is a thousand years older than ours, so you naturally bring a broad perspective when viewing everything.”

“Several thousand years,” I corrected him, and then joked, “or it could be me and Assauer are smart simply because we have our substitute teaching certificates.”

Napoleon ogled my sun-dappled companion for a moment and then said, “That could be, but you’re the hottest substitute teachers I’ve ever seen.”

I smoked and teased him with my eyes for a moment; he may be fond of me because I’m ‘cultured,’ but I ‘like’ him because he’s an easy mark.

The life coach stamped out his smoke in the gravel. “Yes, I suppose ultimately you are right. Nowadays, belief trumps truth, and what’s real becomes about who can create and maintain the most entertaining screed to shout out electronically. To him goes the spoils of what the public thinks is true or not.”

“Just fearmongering topics, and blowhard prattle,” I said. “I think I’ve heard someone say that before.”

“Yeah, or we could call it ‘spaghetti on the wall’ ism.”

“What?”

“Just create fact-free isms and throw them at the wall to see how many stick. Creationism, Alt-Rightism, Republicanism – all just ways for people to stick fingers in their ears and shut down The Truth by screaming: ‘Na, nan-na boo-boo – I can’t hear you!’” He laughed. “It’s asinine behavior.”

I considered him closely as he shoved hands in his smugly shiny pants, and thought, ‘You would know asinine….’

What I actually said was “Yes. I guess I can’t argue against that.”

“And where is that twink boyfriend of yours today?” Napoleon inquired casually.

“He’s back at the motel.”

Trueblood shot me a dirty look.

“What?!”

“Oh, nothing. Just a coincidence I guess your barely-legal twink, and my feisty, roving-eye boyfriend both couldn’t make it to the seminar.”

My heartrate accelerated.

Napoleon continued, “You don’t think they could be alone, together, do you?”

I knew the guru was tugging my chain; I knew my boy wouldn’t have anything to do with Neil Campbell, even for cash, but that didn’t stop the red heat from rising through me.

He slapped my back, hard. “Gottcha! Neil had to see his parents today. He’d never miss one of my public speaking engagements. It’s because he can’t is why he gave you the tickets, and I ragged you just to see some of that famous jealousy of yours for myself.”

Truth was, Gordon had refused to attend today, saying he hates Trueblood’s fake-ass nature. Come to think of it, Assauer can’t stand him either…but he agreed to come….

Just as I was turning my head towards the bougainvillea again, Napoleon grabbed my shoulder and laughed.

“Heed my warning, Kohl. You are still young, so maybe you don’t know it yet, but overprotectiveness might drive that boy of yours into the arms of another.”

‘Well,’ I realized, ‘maybe he thinks me and Assauer are still ‘young’ at twenty-four, but I feel every one of the six years separating me and Gordon.’

The man chortled again, dipping his bun towards me. “That pithy observation’s a freebie, BTW. Seems I’m so full of life-lessons, I can’t help giving them away for nothing, but don’t tell my Hollywood ceelebs. They’re the ones who pay big bucks for these nuggets of wisdom.”

‘Gott im Himmel. He’s full of something—’

Suddenly he pushed me away. The So-Cal guru took a couple steps back, crouched, and bent his creaky middle-aged elbows into a rapper pose.

“Lemme lay down the kind of rhyme my bigwigs flip for.

“Yey-ya, yey-ya

It’s true, I’m True –

My peeps know me

As Trueblood,

But Napoleon to you!

 

Prez said it best

‘Fool me once,’ pest

‘And shame on you’ – yey-ah,

‘Fool me twice, and I’ll pop you in the chest.’

 

Politics today is all a test,

Fall in line like all the rest,

You a fool or one that got schooled?

Let ‘em see the cards at your chest.

Improve yourself and leave the nest,

Take flight and find your own quest,

But let no fools be the boss of you,

Cuz they’ll lie to you with zest.

 

Shrub said it best

‘Fool me once,’ pest

‘And shame on you’ – yey-ah,

‘Fool me twice, and I’ll pop you in the chest.’”

Just as I was wondering if he should change his rap name to Wondra Bread, a loud cheer went up from within the church. The conference was ending, and almost instantly, people streamed out to schmooze with Napoleon.

While he was crushed with requests for autographs and praise of his ‘lifestyle,’ I knew it was a chance to make my getaway.

I walked to the gate, and then stopped.

Assauer was gone.

I moved to the sidewalk in front of the church and looked around. Across the quiet road was a plaza of tall eucalyptus trees. A cast iron bandstand, surrounded by low brick walls for flower planters, resided in the center of the public space.

I thought I caught a streak of blue-black-and-white move left from the edge of the plaza into the next street.

“Assauer?” I muttered, crossing over and pulling out my phone. I sent him a text: “Wo bist du, du Arsch!”

By the time I pressed ‘Send,’ I was in the middle of the plaza, right where I had seen the shadow dart. In front of me was not what I expected to see at all. It was a wide pedestrian way: a brick-paved street with color, vitality, noise from music and people, and good smells from food.

It was nearing twilight, but the blue of the sky framed the fancy street sign perfectly: “Olvera.”

‘Hmm, I’ve never been to this part of Los Angeles.’

I started walking it. Shops on both sides nestled beneath arching shade trees, while down the middle stood open market booths with glass lanterns hanging from the eaves on graceful metal hoops. These kiosks brimmed with merchandise, so much so, colorful knickknacks spilled onto the walkway in baskets.

Families were strolling, some eating Mexican ice cream sold to them from men pushing carts with bells strung between the handles.

Troupes of Mariachi glided along while they played. One, always the youngest and cutest, trailed behind with his sombrero held upside down for cash and coins; his smile richly rewarding all contributors.

Shops in the main buildings – which were a combination of brick and adobe – lured shoppers inside with rows of lucha libre wrestling masks for the boys, and frilly sweet-sixteen dresses for the girls.

As for the restaurants, one in particular had appropriated space on the sidewalk for diners to sit al fresco. This eatery also featured a pair of curved staircases going up half a level to where happy bar sounds emanated. Potted flowers graced the handrail-end of every step.

I kept scanning the crowd as I went along, looking for more flashes of blue camo. At one point I thought I saw a glimpse of it duck into a gift shop selling glassware.

I followed, and the lady behind the counter smiled at me, asking something warm in Spanish.

“I don’t speak—”

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked again.

“Um…” I was looking around the aisles of the shop. “Did you see a guy come in here? About my age and height, but hair a little darker than mine?”

“A gringo?”

“Yes.”

“No, señor. No one.”

I thanked her and left, pausing by the steps of the monumental stone cross in the middle of the pedestrian intersection.

I pulled out my phone; there were no texts from Assauer.

I got up on tiptoes and glanced over the heads of the crowds once more. Seeing nothing, I shrugged and decided to move back towards the plaza.

The same color and life occupied the street as when I came up it, but this time I noticed more details, like the ceramic jugs for sale in brilliant colors, the various piñatas hanging like massive marionettes from the branches of trees, and I especially took note of all the semi-tropical flowers in bloom. Such sights never failed to impress, and remind me I’m not in Kansas anymore – or, Landschaftsschutzgebiet Harz und südliches Harzvorland, in my case. I didn’t grow up with this amount of color and California sun, so I’m sometimes reminded to slow down and appreciate it.

Back in the public square, I climbed the steps of the bandstand to get a better view. Unfortunately, because of the amount of leaves and limbs, I couldn’t see very far.

I sent a second text, one simply saying Assauer…? and waited.

Ten minutes went by while I watched the light in the sky fade a notch.

A bit tired and frustrated, I descended the steps again and discovered an old lady had set up shop at the bottom.

“¿Tamale, señor?” she asked, hefting a sort of space-blanket-covered box on a shoulder strap.

“No,” I said, starting to walk past her. But then a funny notion born of fatigue popped into my head. I went back and asked her, “Do you know where I’m supposed to be?”

She didn’t snicker. In fact, I wondered if she had any idea what I’d just said, but she smiled and took my hand.“Sí."

Going along with the conceit, and half-wanting to laugh about it, I held onto her pudgy-but-hard fingers as she led me out of the plaza and across the street. In an indescribable way, I felt like she was a dollar-store Divine, but one who had behexen me.

Ahead of us was a different kind of building, a Victorian one I suppose – three stories tall with white-painted arches and fancy iron work. “Pico House,” the monument said on a giant sign above the cornice.

As she began taking me around to the back side of an alley, I suddenly thought better of allowing some old crone to lead me astray.

I tugged on her hand. “Here?”

“Sí, aquí.”

She let go of me, but moved farther on and gestured for me to follow. At a little stairwell into the cellar of the old building, she held out her palm and I greased it with a dollar.

She gave me a gentle push, and I started down the steps, catching one last glimpse of her wrinkled face, which appeared anything but benign.

Getting to the bottom, I saw a door; a sign on the wall to the right said Carmina Club. I raised my hood and slipped in.

Quietly, I entered an empty lobby. The lights were on, but there was no one in sight, so I closed the door and nosed around a bit. The walls were mostly exposed brick, which contrasted sharply with the chrome and glass reception desk. Above black leather sofas and armchairs to my right, a plastered wall held little shelves – about a hundred of them.

Walking up to it, I saw each little wooden platform supported a handheld appliance from days gone by. I leaned in and got close to one painted yellow. Suddenly, the fact that a ‘wand’ lay neatly tucked under the machine, and words “Acme Sure-Fire Autostimulator” were embossed on the chrome number plate, made me realize it was a vibrator. I stepped back in something like awe. These were antique sex toys; each and every one a separate model. All of them!

I went back to the desk and picked up a card.

Carmina

L.A.’s Most Selective

and Secretive Sex Club

phone number: “private”

‘What was that…?’ I pocketed the card after hearing an oddly muffled noise. It came from somewhere beyond the interior archway.

I passed underneath it, wondering where everybody was, and what would happen if I was discovered snooping. But I admitted how undeniably curious I was too.

Walking slowly along the darkened corridor, I heard the same sound again. This time it seemed oddly animalistic.

I crept up to an open doorway at the end of the hall. Facing it, I leaned my shoulder against the frame to partially hide myself, and just as I was about to peek into a light court, I felt my phone vibrate.

My heartrate instantly shot through the roof. I lifted the screen to my face. Assauer’s message simply read: “I’m here.”

“But where, you ass?” I mumbled.

“Right behind you, numb-nuts,” I heard out loud.

I started and jumped around. My ex was equally startled by my action. “How did you—”

He shushed me, so I started again in a hoarse whisper: “How did you get here?”

“You’ll never believe it.”

“Try me,” I said without amusement.

“I couldn’t stand being in earshot of that egomaniac anymore, so I started exploring, you know, checkin’ the area out. I got lost after a while, and my phone said I had no service. I couldn’t tell one street from the next, one Mexican souvenir stall from another, so I wandered around asking if anyone knew where the church was. Eventually this elderly guy took my hand and talked Spanish at me, but I felt he was all right somehow. Anyway, he brought me here, led me to a room and said he wanted a BJ. I told him $50 and he could blow me, but when I unzipped, he said ‘Sorry, man. I’m not a pencil sharpener’ – the deadbeat prick. He strolled out and left me with my pants down. When I came out, I got lost again in the maze of corridors until I saw you standing by this door. Now, what are you doing here?”

“It’s kind of similar, but I asked an old woman if she knew where I was supposed to be, and she brought me to this club.”

As Assauer was about to pipe up again, that weird noise sounded once more from across the court, this time more muffled.

“Hear that?” he asked.

“Yeah. What do you think it could be?”

“Who knows, but in this place, I wanna find out.”

He slipped past me into the central courtyard of the building. I reluctantly followed.

This open-air space was definitely creepy. Slender black columns held up two stories of walkways above us on every side. No lights were on, so everything was cast into deep shadow by the setting sun.

More noise followed, and we slinked our way under a brooding archway. Over it was a red panel bearing a rearing animal of some sort.

We crept along a dark corridor and realized we were in among the ropes and pulleys of a backstage area. Muffled chanting could be heard from somewhere deep in front of us now; it sounded like Latin.

Splitting up our single file line, we both ducked behind black curtains and stood like rigid poles. We knew on the other side of these panels of fabric was the stage, with people in the auditorium in front of it doing the chanting.

We held up fingers to our lips and inched back our respective pieces of material.

A beautiful woman with dark, waist-length hair, stood on the stage and led the assembled in their droning on and on. She had a silver cup in her hand, and garlands of flowers encircled her head and shoulders.

“What the…ficken…?” I murmured.

Assauer violently hush-fingered me.

The woman wrapped up the reciting, and I dared to peek out at the audience. Men and women stood there wearing the same loose-fitting robes and toting the same flower swags. In truth, they looked provocatively high as kites on meth and ED medicine. They suddenly cried out together: “Parthia, our great leader, the God’s blessing be upon you.”

“As it may be with you,” the woman on stage replied placidly. “Now is the time, as He is pleased, and all preparations have been properly made to host him. Thus, let us begin.”

Four men from the ‘congregation’ came up and assembled something like a cot, or maybe, more like a swing set…? It was odd.

Her helpers left, and as Parthia sat on the contraption, my gut told me whatever was about to go down was not supposed to be seen by me and Assauer.

I tried to get his attention with exaggerated facial gestures, but he only seemed more and more engrossed by the unfolding scene.

I sneaked a peek out front again, and gulped. Clippity-clop sounds preceded the appearance of a hooded young man leading a donkey on stage.

The animal had a two-toned face, and likewise wore a crown and sash of blossoms.

“Assauer!” I hissed, getting frightened.

He waved to silence me with lackluster energy, his eyes never leaving the spectacle.

“We better go…” I mumbled, not fighting the urge to watch myself. It was then I noticed how unusual the animal seemed – self-aware, or intelligent, if you will. Some keen spark of acknowledgement resided in the doughy, appreciative gazes he spread about the room and audience. Or at least I thought so for a moment or two. But of course, that was impossible, right...?

As the creature was led towards the waiting lady, that’s when panic struck.

I accidentally let the curtain go to raise my hood, and was exposed.

Standing there like a deer in headlamps, it was the donkey who spotted me first.

Brays of bloody murder violently rent the air as the quadruped’s possessed eyes locked onto mine.

Women screamed.

A second later, Assauer’s hand encircled my wrist – thereby breaking my enchantment – and we ran for our lives.

_

I’ve been working on this novel for a solid year now. I have many people to thank and praise: @aditus for very early input on how my characters might act, for helping me settle on character names, and for reading the initial chapters and encouraging me; @Lisa for editing chapter 1 and making valuable suggestions (as she always does ); @Lyssa for reading and editing both my German and Latin, and for her enthusiasm concerning the entire project; @Timothy M. for editing the complete book patiently and with a great deal of sympathy for the hole I was digging myself in, lol; @knotme for his beta-reading expertise and carefully considered commentary; and @Mikiesboy, whom I’ve mentioned already, for being with me every step of the way. Couldn’t have done it without you guys.