Finally! Everybody had left for the big Klitzkrieg show tonight. Tommy could finally let loose. He'd stayed behind, telling the others that he had to work on his film, "Pancake." Really, he'd finished "Pancake" days ago. It was a brilliant piece of art, to be sure. The film opens with a shot of a young man standing in front of a stove, his back to the camera, in an old, run-down kitchen. The paint on the walls is chipping. The counters are badly banged-up. The stove itself is ancient and rusty. The entire film is in black and white and is shot with a wide angle lens. A close-up on the young man's face from the side. He looks deep in thought. His thoughts are troubled. Deeply troubled, as is apparent from his furrowed brows and grimacing mouth. A shot of the young man's hands. One hand tightly grasps the handle of a scraped and over-used frying pan, while the other grips a metal spatula. A puddle of unappetizing batter sits in the middle of the pan. The troubled young man scrapes the spatula under the pancake and flips it up into the air. It flips gloriously in slow motion. With each flip, a magnified wooshing sound. As the pancake flips ever so slowly, a voice: "Stu crushes my dreams. Flat. Like a pancake." A blurry extreme close-up of Stu's dead-eyed stare. "Tommy, did you know that—" The pancake hits the pan harshly with a deafening sizzle. The camera cuts to a close-up of the young man's mouth as it opens to let out a gut-wrenching scream and the camera pans out to show his entire face. Cut to black. Thomas smiled, thinking about his film. Truly, it was his magnum opus. It was set to premiere at MoMA in a week. Tommy thought that it was even good enough to be shown at Cannes. Or at the very least, Sundance.
Anyway, Tommy Chong Pickles hadn't stayed behind to work on "Pancake." He'd stayed behind because he desperately needed some alone time and this was the only time in the foreseeable future when the house would be empty. The Tomster loved his friends like a family— especially his ginger Adonis, Chuck. After all, they were the only family he really had anymore; now that Stu was, well, Stu and Boris and Minka were in an assisted living facility, the Home for the Extremely Decrepit. However, he was not confident that they would be so supportive of certain lifestyle choices that he had made. Everybody knew that he wore diapees and even that he managed one of the largest diapee-lover forums in the world. But, there was one aspect of his diapee behavior that he wasn't yet ready to share with the world quite yet. Occasionally, T-Pix shat in his diapee. And sat in it. For a long time. He loved the sloppy feeling of a good, wet one. It would come out burning hot, but the longer he sat in it, the colder it would get. Sure, he sometimes he got diapee rash, but that's what Desitin™ is for, right? Now that he was all alone, with the exception of good ol' Spike, who Tommy knew wouldn't judge him, he stripped down to nothing but his beloved, comforting diapee. He walked up the basement stairs to make sure the door was locked and then descended the staircase. Then he walked over to the circle area where he had smoked so much weed and drank so much PBR with his friends and sat in the middle. He dropped a steaming load and just sat there, enjoying the depravity. He closed his eyes and threw his head back, focusing all his attention on the tactile sensation of his own filth. The chunky brown puddle of muck grew until his ass was just absolutely swimming in it. It slowly made its way up his crack. Earlier that day, he had secretly stopped at Taco Bell on his way to buy Parliament cigarettes for everybody (because he was the only one with a car) and ate 12 Doritos™ Locos Tacos™ to make sure that this shit would be especially large and violent. As the doo-doo cooled, Tommy took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. This was exactly what he needed. A truly therapeutic experience.
He got up and walked into the bathroom. He peeled off his diapee and threw the fermenting mess on top of the overflowing garbage can. Despite the shame he felt about this secret of his, he wasn't super good at covering his tracks.
Now, he stood in front of the shower, trying to gather the courage to enter. You see, he was severely hydrophobic ever cents Grandpa Pickles had mistaken him for a Nazi spy during a war flashback and tried to drown him. No matter how many showers he took, it never got any easier. It was a weekly torture which he had to endure. He remembered what Chuck had told him when he finally confessed his fear to him. "Tommy, you're the braveliest man I know." Even though Chuck wasn't physically near him, Thom knew he was there right now in spirit, just like he always was. Tommy bravely stepped into the shower and let the scary water wash the dookie off his skin. He looked down at the brown clumps slipping down the drain and for the first time in a long time, he felt happy, despite currently being pelted with terrifying molecules made up of 2 hydrogen and one oxygen. (Get it? "Currently?" because it's water!)
He fell asleep at a decent hour for the first time since before The Fire. When he awoke, Chuck was peacefully snoring next to him. (Chuck had a terribly deviated septum that made nocturnal breathing difficult.) The T-man decided that today was going to be a good day as he pecked his freckled lover on the cheek. He put on clothes that didn't have any holes or stains and brushed his teeth and hair—this time with separate brushes. His celly rang. It was a number that he didn't recognize. He became nervous because the last time an unknown number came up on his screen was the Day of The Fire (or in Spanish, Dia de los Fuegos.) However, Tammy convinced himself that it was one of his clients calling on a new phone who wanted to buy some of his choice pot. (Did I not mention that he slung mad weed?) He braveliestly answered the phone. "Hello?"
"Thomas Pickles?" said an authoritative voice.
"This is he."
"Mr. Pickles, this is the Town Police Department (again, I don't know where they live). We have a man here, one Stuart Escobar Pickles, who claims to be your father and legal charge. Does this individual speak the truth?"
Tommy did a facepalm. "Fuck me," he mumbled. "Yes, he is."
"Well, he was arrested early this morning for public exposure as well as many other violations of the law. You may come here to bail him out."
"Maybe I'll just let him stay there for a while. You know, teach him a lesson. Lord knows nothing else has worked yet."
"Son, if you are this man's legal guardian, you must come bail him out immediately, for unclaimed mentally ill people will be euthanized. It is the law."
Tommy groaned frustratedly. "OK. I'm on my way."
"You have 15 minutes." Replied the police guy.
As Tommy drove to the police station without a license, he contemplated just letting the cops youthinize Stu. Things would be so much easier without Stu in his life. He kept him around because, due to a clerical error that nobody ever bothered to report, Stu received 10 disability checks a month, which paid for food and electricity, but more importantly, paid for weed, PBR, cigarettes, and occasionally 'shrooms. But now, with the way things were going for Tommy, he was on the fast track to becoming independently wealthy. Eggo, he didn't actually need Stu anymore. He could purposefully blow a tire and claimed that he tried as hard as he could to get to the station on time but couldn't. This was his ticket out of this living hell!
A memory popped into Tom's head. He was 6 years old and visiting the neighborhood pool with Stu and Grandfather Louis. Suddenly, fireworks went off. Stu took Tommy up on his shoulders to give him a better view. Tommy was in awe of the spectacular show. He sat upon his father's robust shoulders and was mesmerized.
Then he felt a violent tugging on his shoulders. It was Grandpa Lou shouting "Blitzkrieg! Everybody duck and cover!" Then, as he snagged Tommy off his father's shoulders, he shouted "I've got you now, Otto Von Bolschwing!" He ran over to the pool and threw Tommy in and held his head under the water. Tommy tried with all his might to free himself, but his grandfather was surprisingly strong for someone who did nothing but sleep all day. It seemed like The Younger Mr. Pickles was beneath the water's surface for hours when his father finally pulled him out. Stu's words echoed in Tommy's mind: "It's gonna be ok, champ."
Back to the present: "It's gonna be ok, Stu!" said Tommy out loud, even though nobody was there with him. He stomped on the gas pedal.
Tommy arrived at the station in the nickel time.
Stu peeked out of the mail slot-sized hole in his cell door. "Hi, Tommy!" he said in an Australian accent.
"Let's go home, Stu." Tommy said as he placed his hand on Stu's shoulder.
Stu began to walk with his son. "Tommy, did you know, that Barack Obama was born in Kenya and is therefore ineligible to be President?"
"Stu," Tommy was annoyed, but his voice lacked the venom usually present when addressing his father. "It's 2006. Who the hell is Barack Obama?"
Stuart said nothing, instead he smiled—mouth agape and eyes half-lidded—at a butterfly gently flitting about.
Tommy "The Elevator Man" Pickles placed Stu in the passenger seat of his automobile and, unlike every other time Stu was in his car, made sure that he was buckled in securely. Stu stared dead-eyed and silent out the window the entire way home. Chuck was right. Like it or not, Stu was his father and it was time Tommy started acting like it. The man that Stu used to be was still somewhere inside this shell. Maybe if the Tomiester got him the right kind of help, he could become that man again. Right then and there, Tommy decided to stop picking mental health professionals based solely on which ones had the wackiest late-night commercials.
When they got home, Tommy walked Stu over to the couch. "Maybe you should get some sleep. You've had a long night."
"You're right, giant, inflatable used car lot gorilla. A girl needs her beauty sleep if she is to attract proper gentleman callers." He laid down and instantly fell asleep.
Tommy went downstairs and found Chuck, eagerly typing away on his MacBook. The sexy ginger boy turned around. "Well, hey stranger," he said "You're lookin' pretty good today. Where you been?"
Tommy sighed as he placed a hand on Chuck's freckled shoulder. "Stu got into legal trouble again. I just don't know what to do about him."
"Well, you're a smart guy. You'll figure something out. And I'm always hear to bounce ideas off of."
And then some slash happened again. And again, when they were in the throes of love-making, Stu barged in. "Tommy," he began. "Why did you voice Helen Keller in an episode of 'Animated Hero Classics'?"
"Because my friend asked me to, Stu." Tommaaay said with bit of frustration in his voice.
"Well, Tommy, it's fucking weird, Tommy. You're a 16-year-old male. You're not supposed to be able to sound like a 7-year-old girl." Then, he said some terrible thing about the Jews and said: "Tommy, did you know anything about this?"
Tommy tried to calm himself down by reminding himself that Stu was mentally ill. "No, Stu." He said calmly.
"Did Boris and Minka know anything about this?"
"No, Stu." He said harshly through gritted teeth.
"Tommy. Did your mother know anything about this?"
Tommy pulled out of Chuck and lunged at Stu. He grabbed his shirt by the collar and slammed his head against the wall. "DON'T YOU FUCKING BRING MY MOTHER INTO THIS, STU!" In the heat of the moment, Tommy had forgotten all about his internal speech he'd given himself. He'd forgotten all about the wonderful things his dad had done before The Fire made him unrecognizable. All he knew now was rage. Rage against this… this thing that inhabited his father's body. This thing that had insulted him. His mother. His brother. His friends. And his lover.
Stu, unaware of what was going on said "Tommy, I was the one who called Chuck a fag."
"Stu, I'll fucking kill you!"
"Tommy, I was the Dependable Guy."
"You mother fucker! You ruined my forum!"
"Tommy, you seem upset." Stu was not being condescending. He simply could not see why his son was not happy that he was taking an interest in his life by participating in his forum.
Tommy proceeded to beat the piss out of Stew.
"Tommy, what are you doing!?" cried Chuck, terrified. He ran over to him and tried to pull him away. But Tommy, in his blind fury, hit Chuck hard on the cheek. He realized with horror what he'd done. Stu lay limp against the wall, more battered than fried chicken. Chunk stood in front of Tommy, with his hand on his reddened cheek. The two lovers stared at each other, in wide-eyed disbelief.
"Chuck, I—"
"Tommy, you struck me." Both were silent for a long time. "I… I have to go, uh, help Phil with his garden." His voice cracked and he swiftly left the Sexitorium.
Tommy stared down at his shaking hands, his palms facing up. "WHAT HAVE I DONE!?"
And the rest… is hipstery.
A/N: I'm so sorry about this chapter. It seemed really funny in theory. You know, "Oh, wouldn't it be funny if Tommy still wore a diaper? And it would be even funnier if he actually dumped in them!" But then, I wrote it down and, I just… I—WHAT HAVE I DONE!?
Also, stay tuned for a special bonus chapter! It'll be up soon, promise!
