For the last year, I have watched in wonder from my office window, Compton Company erect their ode to gaudy construction as they build what appears to be a monstrosity of a 'state of the art' fitness facility. Or at least that's what the signs say to the public. Liberace would be proud. I think they took it a step too far when they placed a statue of owner Bill Compton in the middle of the colossal fountain out front. That sure isn't no Superman. Picture if Las Vegas procreated with Athens, Greece, while heavily drugged and slightly schizophrenic, this building would be their spawn. To think a deranged and partially-blind architect, an easily-influenced contractor and Compton met one day and thought, "This is genius. If we build it they will come. They will love me!" Regardless of whom the 'they' are – which is seriously up for debate – it looks for the makings of a very entertaining start.
I had no idea Bill Compton even had a desire to open a gym. I knew of him in high school, and from what I gathered, exercising was not his forte. He had an obsession, borderline addiction, to Krispy Crème donuts and My Little Pony. Last I heard, he wanted to join the police force…on horseback with chaps. Well, at least that was the rumor.
However for me? Fitness has always been important. I opened my gym, my dream since high school, 4 years ago. I had a 10 year plan. I needed a solid education because having my business fail was not an option. This was my dream, and I was going to do all that I could to succeed. So I busted my ass and headed to Harvard – yeah, I know, for a gym? What can I say, I like numbers, I like to make money, but I don't like suits. I have a head for business but Wall Street was not a plausible scenario.
Harvard opened my eyes to a multitude of experiences, business strategies, investment plans, personal confidence, and best of all…Sookie Stackhouse. She was fucking perfection. A goddess. She was sweet, shy, caring, brilliant, focused, and beautiful – but she didn't know it – and funny. Somehow we managed to have the vast majority of our classes with one another. It's crazy, right? Every class. Or it could have had something to do with me accidently on purpose getting her class schedules ahead of time and hacking the administration office…semantics. I'm her stalker, I know it, I own it and I'm fucking good at it. She's my Sookie. My best friend.
We both graduated with our business degrees. She went to Harvard Law, and I headed back home to Shreveport. My grandfather had left me a sizable trust fund upon his passing the year I graduated from college, so I finally had the financial means to start my dream.
Sookie and I continued our communication via email, phone, Skype – you name it, we used it. I was bound and determined to keep our friendship alive even a thousand miles apart. Thankfully, Sookie felt the same way.
After graduation, when it came time for Sookie to find a firm, she decided to head to Louisiana. To me.
Thank fuck.
So it happens, two years ago, I hired Sookie's firm as counsel. And we've been working on our relationship/friendship/flirt fest ever since. I think Sookie is finally ready to take our friendship to the next level. Shit, at the rate we were going, I was going to be 80 years old before we had our first real date.
With a couple of days until Bill's grand opening, my gym was still going strong. Membership was on the rise. You see, with a fitness club name like Bill's House of Pleasure, I'm thinking our clientele may differ slightly. I could be wrong on that, but I'll take my chances.
Strangely enough, I received a personal invitation from Bill yesterday, for a tour of his completed facility. Why the fuck he would think I cared, much less want to take a tour makes me fear for my sanity. But I'm curious; it's worth at least a quick tour. I've got some time to spare. Maybe he'll tell me the secret behind the name. I'm still shaking my head at that bang of brilliance.
I take the 100 foot walk across the busy intersection to my tour of pain. I still can't believe I'm willing venturing into this shit. I mean, who puts a fucking statue, of themselves, in the middle of a fountain in Shreveport, Louisiana? NOBODY. With good reason, it's ridiculous. Twenty bucks a large reptile makes it its home.
The silver metallic double-wide automatic front doors open…and what I see has rendered me immobile. WTF. This is not the same kid from high school. It's White Goodman! Bill is White Goodman? Do I hear "Apache" by Sugar Hill Gang playing? Is that a phony tattoo on his arm? Don't get me wrong. I love the movie, Dodgeball. It's what comedy should be, it's pure entertainment. But the scene before me is horrific. Disturbing. It's giving me the heebie jeebies. I feel like I'm stuck in a horror fic. You know the kind of scene when you come face to face with the psychopath, your eyes darting from side to side looking for an escape. Should I make a run for it? Would I make it to the door? Should I attempt to talk my way out of death? Should a do a dramatic fake fall? Or should I just impale myself on psycho's machete, and get it over with?
I MUST. KEEP. CONTROL. Holy shit, my eye is starting to twitch.
DO NOT LAUGH . Thor – give me strength!
"Hello Mr. Compton. That's an interesting statute you have out front." Pointing to the monolithic structure in the fountain.
"Isn't it amazing what can be done with a little dirt and water? Please come in, Eric. Welcome to my creation, my state of the art fitness land. And Eric…please call me Bill." Bill? Not the name that springs to mind.
"Let me introduce you to, Sigebert, my consigliore." This 7ft mute beast is his consigliore? Who needs a consigliore? Why?
I give Sigebert a nod, squirt some hand sanitizer on the soles of my shoes and proceed to enter at my own risk. The interior is a sea of white walls and silver fixtures. Is that a bull? A massive statue of a bull is in the middle of the fucking lobby. Why? Five minutes into this hell, and I'm ready to run. No, I can do this, I just need a distraction.
"Interesting hairstyle Goodman, I mean Bill. You just don't see feathers in male hairstyles any more. Very original. Almost reminiscent of the Farrah Fawcett days."
"I know! My hairstylist, Mr. Jizz, and I have been working on making the perfect feather to hair length proportions for the last year. I have my photo diary if you'd like to see it." Is he serious? He is! Shit, I'm drawing blood from my lip.
"It's been a long process but it's so worth it. When I run, it's beautiful. It has perfect bounce. Would you like to see the video? You can touch it. Go ahead. It's so soft."
"Uh…no thank you. I didn't wash my hands in the last 5 seconds." I'm not going to make it through the whole tour.
"Oh my God! You're right. The grease from your hands would end up weighing my hair down. Grease is bad boy. Good thinking, Eric."
"I'm curious, Bill. How did you decide on your club name? I admit it's a little misleading?"
More like fucked up.
"Research has shown that endorphins are released while exercising. Endless amounts of pleasure can be attained by working out. Exercising can give people the pleasure they so deserve." I don't think that's the 'exercise' researchers had in mind but whatever, I'm going to go with it. He's insane and absolutely serious. God help us.
"Thus, Bill's House of Pleasure. Let me show you our merchandise store. We developed a water bottle specifically designed for the active gym member. Our scientific research showed that the shape of this water bottle enabled the user to have a better grip. With strategically placed ridges, the user was less likely to drop the bottle mid-exercise. It flexes, too."
Is he serious? It's a dick! He's fucking holding and drinking water from a penis shaped water bottle. Every member receives a dick bottle? I'm in an adult megaplex camouflaged as a fitness center.
"Does the bottle vibrate?"
"It's a water bottle. See? You hold it, squeeze and drink." Too easy.
"Are you sure there are no batteries required?"
"Are you questioning my research?"
"Only your mental faculties. You're sucking water from a dick."
"It's not a penis. It's a specially designed grip water bottle! These are ridges! If you stimulate the top you don't have to suck. See?" Oh, sweet Jesus.
"A dick is a dick. Why do you have Darth Vader on it?"
"It's not Darth Vader. We couldn't get the necessary licensing. It's mushroom-shaped to prevent slipping."
"I rest my case."
"You think you're clever, Northman? With your little gym across the street? With your boring equipment? And your boxed-shaped, fountainless building?"
Boxed-shaped? There's a different kind of building?
"I will have you out of business by next month. You will never be able to compete against my greatness. I have the market research to prove it. No one can stop me. You can bounce a quarter off my backside! My buns are steel."
"Excuse me, sir? Do you own this pleasure palace?" Who's this little bald guy? Did he just walk in off the street?
"Yes, I own the House of Pleasure."
"Where is your DVD collection?"
"We have various yoga DVDs. What level of fitness are you currently exercising? We have several beginner DVDs."
"Actually I'm looking for your gay porn section. I'll even take 2 guys and a girl. But no animals."
"We don't sell porn videos!" Gay porn? My side is cramping, I can't breathe…laughing too hard. Oh God.
"What size batteries to your vibrators take?"
"That's not a vibrator! It's a water bottle!"
"It looks like a penis." Thank you!
"It's a specially designed grip water bottle. This is a fitness center, not an adult megaplex."
"Okay. How much for the mushroom dick bottle?" See!
"Unless you wish to become a member of this exercise facility, I suggest you vacate the premises."
"Do you have a leather section?"
"Those are leather workout outfits!"
That's it. My vision is fuzzy, tears streaming down my face. I have to get out of here. These people need medication.
"Sigebert! Why is that man still looking for those foul videos? Get those leather shorts away from him. And get that man out of here. You're going to have to be more diligent and not let these perverts in my club. Do you understand? This will ruin my business."
"Ugh. Ung uh ju ugh."
"Pardon?"
"Ugh ung uh."
"Excuse me?"
"Ugh ung uh ju!"
"What?"
"Ugh ung uh ju!"
"Damn it, man! Write it down. Here!"
"Yes. All that for a 'Yes'?"
"Ugh ung un ju."
"Son of a bitch. That's it. I want you carrying paper and a pen at all times. No more Talking."
"Ugh ung uh."
"What did I just tell you? Go get the moped. The game is afoot. We have to place my plan in motion sooner than expected. Northman will go down. Let's see how he feels about seeing my big red balls!"
"Stan, Laf…this has to be a joke. A Dodgeball tournament? Who challenges someone to a game of Dodgeball nowadays? Bill's threats are ridiculous. I know he got dropped on his head at least once or twenty times as a baby. Who cares about what I said about his dick bottles? He needs to learn to let shit go. Maybe I shouldn't have sent over that case of batteries?"
Deep in thought, Lafayette says, "I don't know Eric. Have you talked to Sookie?"
"About what? Being challenged to a game of Dodgeball? Who consults their attorney about whether or not to play in a Dodgeball tournament? She's a busy woman. She has lawyer things to do and people to yell at every hour. I'm sure she's fantasizing about me right now. "
Stan, ever the opportunist, "It will give you an excuse to talk to her, even just to laugh about it."
"Excellent point, sir."
"Hey Sooks."
"Hi Eric! How are you? I was thinking about you. How can I help you today?" I knew it!
"You remember Bill, right?"
Sookie chuckles, "Farrah? 'Bill's House of Pleasure' Bill? Is he still selling his dick bottles? Did he like the batteries? Did you send over the lube?"
"Well, apparently he wasn't as appreciative as he should have been about my generous gifts. You'll never believe it, but I just received a formal challenge from Bill's gym. He wants us to play in a Dodgeball tournament. Something about the victor basking in the humiliation of the loser and a big glitter ball trophy. I don't need a ball trophy, I have two already. I can show you later."
Silence. Too far?
"Hello? Sookie. Are you still there?"
"Eric…he's talking about Dodgeball…rubber balls thrown at high speeds, diving for your life? Mass hysteria?"
"Yes, I believe there are rubber balls involved. Maybe even some crying or a sprained ankle. Definitely some muscle will be pulled."
"OMG! This is so exciting!"
"What? Woman, I'm not going to play in this tournament. I was just calling to laugh about the stupidity of it."
"Eric, this is amazing. The experience of a lifetime. This will be so much fun! Think of all the new training techniques you could learn."
"No, woman. I can think of other more fulfilling life moments to live. "
"Please, Eric?"
"Absolutely not. Hell no."
"Eric."
"A Dodgeball tournament? That has to be the single most fucked up excuse of adult physical activity known to our species! That douche wants a bunch of people to run around trying to hit one another with a fucking rubber ball. How the fuck is the victor is suppose to come out this with any dignity? I think my balls will crawl back into my body. You can't be serious? This is fucking ridiculous! Absolutely not. Hell will freeze over before I agree. Hell no. Besides, I'm 6'4". How the fuck can you NOT hit me with a fucking ball? I'm like a redwood surrounded by bushes. It's suicide! Even if I bend over, I'm still taller than everyone. No way, Sookie. Not gonna happen. I have self-respect, pride and XY chromosomes. My genetic makeup prohibits my 29 year old body from participating. Just thinking about it makes my muscles cramp. I think I'm having a seizure."
"I'll make you deal, Eric. I will train with you. One of my best friends is actually one the best dodgeballers around here. She was just inducted into the Dodgeball Hall of Fame last year. Her name is Pam O'Houilihan. But they call her Pam "Brass KnuckleBalls", she's pretty tough. She's really sweet but don't ever make fun of her Chanel suits. Coco is her God."
"I hate you…but I still love you. I think you need a spanking. Or maybe you could just spank me? You. Owe. Me."
"Eric."
"Fine. Handcuffs?"