“I fucking hate this town,” Ronald said to himself. “It’s the middle of the fucking day, and there’s bumper to fucking bumper traffic. Don’t you people have fucking jobs, or is your job to drive all fucking day to keep Los Angeles polluted. Shit-stain cocksuckers. Hunter Thompson was right, LA is just one big cemetery, and everyone walking in it are the ones that inspired George Romero to create the Zombie genre. Money-fucking bastards.”
Usually Ronald Mungus was never this angry, it was just that he had arrived into Los Angeles traffic after nearly a fifteen hour drive from Eugene, Oregon. His ass hurt, he was hungry, and it was the first time he was craving a cigarette since he quit smoking three years before.
“This is why I never wanted to visit this fucking city,” he said aloud. “It’s going to take me longer to get to the hotel than it did fucking driving here. Look what this place has done to me, I’m talking to myself in my goddamn pickup truck. Fucking shit. No wonder people in this town are fucking crazy, they all turn into a goddamn schizo.”
When he realized the raging was futile, and it made him tired, he calmed himself, and accepted the stress that the city of Los Angeles brought to the tourists. So he sat back and relaxed, left one hand on the steering wheel, and turned up the stereo.
He noticed his phone light up. Picking it up from the middle seat beside him, he read the text message he received. It said: Where are you?
He replied: I am busy. Leave me alone. I will talk to you when I want to. Bye for now.
He then dropped the cellphone back onto the middle seat, and went back to sitting in LA traffic.
“This city is like high cholesterol,” he said, propping his elbow on the door’s window sill, and cupping a hand under his chin.
He hoped he wouldn’t fall asleep before getting to the hotel, or else it might hurt his chance at achieving his goal — the sole reason for this trip to LA. A Hell hole, as far as he knew.
After parking his truck at the Best Western Hotel, Ronald immediately got out to stretch his stiff legs. He was relieved, and had a small urge to kiss the ground, but obviously he wasn’t going to. He bent down in an attempt to touch his toes, and like always, he couldn’t reach them.
He entered the lobby to check in.
“Hello there, sir,” the female clerk greeted. “How are you today?”
“I’m doing better now that I’m here, thank you very much,” Ronald responded, appearing a bit weary. “I can’t wait to take a nap. How are you doin’?”
“Just fine, sir.”
“Good to hear. I have a reservation. The name’s ‘Ronald Mungus.’”
The clerk giggled as she looked up the reservation on the computer.
She said, “You know, we get a lot of customer’s who check in under alias’, and this is by far the funniest.”
Ronald smiled, shaking his head, and then informed, “No, ma’am. Sorry to tell you, that’s my actual name.”
Her hand covered her mouth in embarrassment.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, her hand still over her mouth. “I just assumed — damn, I’m so dumb.”
“I’m just kidding,” Ronald said, digging into the front pocket of his blue jean shorts for his wallet. “It really is an alias. I work for the FBI. Here’s a credit card, with my Identification.”
He took out his driver’s license, and his MasterCard, putting them on the counter for the clerk.
She picked them up, and read his name to make sure they matched.
“You darn prankster,” she said, looking back at him. “Mungus is your actual name. Why do you got to embarrass me twice?”
“As W. Bush once said,” Ronald began to say, “‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…uh, you get fooled you can’t get fooled again.’” He then cackled for a moment.
The clerk sighed, and shook her head as she continued the check-in process.
“Whoo, that really made my day,” Ronald said, in a better mood than he was before entering the lobby. “The drive was long, and the traffic here just sucks. How could it be this bad in the middle of the day?”
“So it’s your first time in Los Angeles?” the clerk said more than asked, not looking at him.
“Yes, yes indeed,” Ronald said. “It’s only the second time I’ve went on a trip to another state. I’m not really the kind of guy who likes to go on vacations that requires long air or road travel. Maybe one day when my hair turns gray, and my skin starts wrinkling, I’ll get the urge to do such things, but right now I’d prefer to be near home at all costs, if it were possible.”
“What was it that caused you to leave Oregon, and drive all the way down here to sunny LA?” the clerk asked, placing his room key on the counter.
“How did you know I’m from Oregon?” Ronald asked with an accusing and curious expression, as if she weren’t suppose to know such a fact.
“You’re driver’s license,” the clerk informed, holding up the license and credit card for him to take back.
“Oh, yeah, duh,” he said, rolling his eyes, and sticking his tongue out to indicate his momentary shortcoming. “But of course you’d know.” He then took the cards out of the clerk’s hand, and put them back into his wallet. He said, “I guess what brought me down to LA from Eugene, Oregon has something to do with business with lots of fun mixed in with it.”
“The best ingredients for a good time in this magnificent city,” the clerk said with a bright smile.
“You never know, I may be convinced to live here for good, but time will tell.” Ronald picked up his room key off the counter.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Mungus?”
“Um,” he uttered, thinking. “Is there a bar around here that is not too bad of a walking distance?”
“There’s a place called ‘The Wellesbourne,’ but it doesn’t open until five.”
“Nah, that’s cool,” Ronald said, turning around to leave, “I’m gonna take a nap for a few hours, then head over there. I’ll use my phone to find the place. Oh—.” He spun around, pointing a finger at her, and asked, “What’s my room number?”
“Sorry I forgot,” she said. “Two-seventeen.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be seeing you.” He opened the glass door, and headed out.
“The name’s ‘Sandra’ if you need anything,” the clerk said as the door slowly closed.
He heard her say something, but didn’t care to find out what it was; he desperately wanted to sleep, just for a while.
After moving his pickup truck to a parking spot closer to where his room was located, he walked up a flight of stairs, quietly cursing to himself with each step he took. As soon as the hotel room door closed, he let go of his suitcase, letting it stand on the carpet, moved to the bed, and fell face first onto it, bouncing a little before laying comfortably on his stomach. He fell asleep.
Almost four hours later he woke up on his back. He saw through the partially opened curtains that dusk was beginning. He took out his cellphone from his pocket to see what time it was, and if he had any missed calls or text messages. There was one missed call from his mother, and text message asking him how he was doing. He wasn’t in the mood to answer her query, nor bother giving her a callback. Other than his mother’s there was another text.
It said: Are you done being busy, ass?
Unlike calling back his mother, Ronald did call back this person.
The line rang two times before being answered.
“Hey, it’s me,” Ronald said into the phone. “No time for conversation. Let’s just keep this short so there’ll be no chance of us getting caught.” A pause as he listen to the person speak. “No fucking duh I’m here in town, dude. I needed some sleep. It was a long goddamn fucking drive, and the traffic in this goddamn city is un-fucking-bearable. Now we’re communicating, but we gotta make things snappy. Where can I make the pickup?” Another pause. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be bossy, dude. I’m just being cautious, just being well prepared, okay.” A long pause. Ronald listened intently. He stood up off the bed, and began pacing around the room as he listened. Finally he said, “So you got it. Good. When and where will the handoff be made?” A pause as his question was answered. “Cool. So let me repeat it so we’re on the same page here, word for word. We’re meeting tomorrow at around six in the morning before you got to work, and the location is a parking garage near where you work. Good. That’s awesome.” Pause. “I can find it. I told you I finally joined the twenty-first century by upgrading my ass to a smartphone, remember?” Pause. “Yeah, I fucking love you too, man.”
He hung up his cellphone, saying to himself, “That fucking dick never changes. Always a fucking asshole.”
He stood in the room for a moment thinking about what to do with the free time available to him until things kicked into high gear, when the reason for him coming the Los Angeles commenced, the project he was going to perform, a mission he felt confident he was going to accomplish. The thought about what he was planning to do in two days after coming to Los Angeles caused him to remember he had not watched Rollie Maze’s Snapchat since the night before. He sat down in the middle of the bed, crossed his legs indian style, and opened the Snapchat app on his phone. There they were in the ‘All Stories’ section, right at the top, all the short vids Rolanda Maze made the last twenty-four hours.
Ronald would watch them with a certain kind of reverence as if it were the only ritual with which he’d adhere to without restraint. Rolanda Maze was the only Social Media celeb he enjoyed, and the only one to really have any real, actual talent, who deserved more praise and attention from the world than she was currently receiving — and, of course, he had a crush on her. It wasn’t the kind of lustful crush the usual horny pig-man had on a woman with a perfect body, it was more like he had a certain kind of respect for her because she respected her own integrity. To him, she didn’t seem the type to end up shaking her ass in front of a crowd while wearing a thong just so she could sell soda to kids.
The only criticism Ronald had toward Rolanda was her stage name: Rollie. He didn’t like it. She was a big weed smoker, and the way she identified herself by using the term ‘Rollie’ simply made her popular with the millennial crowd. Ronald was not against weed, but he didn’t like the fact she’d use such a lifestyle to her advantage, she didn’t need to; her music could do that on it’s own. But he learned to accept it, and saw the marijuana scene permissible since the shit would be legalized in all fifty states by the mid twenty-twenties. Rolanda(Rollie) Maze may be a major advocate for the legalization of pot, which would really impress Ronald even more. She was the sassy type, after all.
He tapped the phone’s screen to play Rollie’s Snapchat vids.
Her beautiful face appeared on his phone’s screen. She was riding her bicycle with no hands on the handlebars down a busy street in Los Angeles, she said:
1) Hey, guys, Rollie here. I had a good day at the UFC gym today. It was tough, but altogether good. Endlessly punched the bag in the beginning after warmup. Then the trainer showed me how to do some submission moves on an opponent.
2) You know, the thing about submission moves is they remind about the time I was once a submissive. Get it? S n’ M. I wonder if any of my followers read books. I bet you guys just saw the movie: ‘Should’ve Been Fifty Lashings on her Ass.’ That bitch was a pussy. That movie sucked, don’t watch it.
3) After I get home, and take a shower, I’m gonna get picked up by Cal, and we’re gonna go to his house and have a jam session after we all smoke a bluuuunt. Good times, and good music.
As Ronald watched the Snapchat vids, he said, over and over again as if it were a mantra, “Rollie Rolanda, I’m gonna get ye.” He stopped saying the phrase when there were no more Snapchat vids at that moment.
Before heading to the bar the clerk suggestion, he took a shower, and masturbated as the water rained down on him, fantasizing about being with Rolanda in her bedroom — slash — amateur music studio, her sitting on his lap as she played a song on her electric keyboard, a nice, calm, soothing, and sensual tune.
When he was all done and clean, he got dressed and walked to The Wellesbourne. On his way to the bar he watched a couple more Snapchats Rolanda had posted while he showered.
In one she was leaving Cal’s house after a jam session. She said something about a song they performed for fun by a band called Electric Wizard. In the second Snap she was at her apartment with a few of her friends, wearing a different set of cloths, and had makeup on her face, pregaming before heading to a bar where Zilla, her friend, and fellow YouTuber, was performing at with her band. Zilla was on lead guitar.
Ronald put his phone back into his pocket as he arrived to the bar. His legs felt normal again after walking those long LA blocks, and couldn’t wait to get an IPA beer in his belly. Soon as he passed the threshold of the entrance to The Wellesbourne he was shocked to see how it was more luxurious than he expected. The decor made him feel comfortable, and cozy. There were couches, and even a real fireplace. In the corner, a jazz band played soothing music.
He moved to the bar, still looking around at the place, fascinated, and feeling lucky to be in such a place — not some rundown, old hole in the wall.
“What can I get you, sir?” the bartender asked.
Ronald turned his head to see a man with a beard that covered his neck, and a handlebar mustache.
“Hello there,” Ronald said. “You know, this place is really nice. Has a nice homey feel to it.”
“Yeah, thanks, man,” the bartender responded. “Now, what can I get you, friend?”
“I’d love a shot of Patron. What IPA’s do you have?”
“Lagunitas, Racer Five, Eye of the Hawk, and we got a special one this week, Raging Bitch.”
Ronald pointed right at the bartender, a grin on his face. He said, “Now because of those last two words, not only do I love this bar, I love you as well. A Raging Bitch, please.”
“Raging Bitch it is with a shot of Patron,” the bartender said, knocking on the bar once, then moved to get Ronald his drinks.
Ronald said quietly to himself, “Raging Bitch. How appropriate.”
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