A collection of somewhat odd tales from the famed A.A.F Mansion...

Part 4: Back in LA...

(in which MC steps up to the mike)

all Mike's post...

Meanwhile, in Los Angeles ....

"Angel! ANGEL!"

A tiny blonde with outrageous eyelashes came into the office. She wore tight black capris, and a pink tube top that looked suspiciously like a feather boa. Her breasts bounced at the slightest movement.

"Yes, Mr. Springer?" she replied, as cheerily as possible at 8:00 am without coffee.

"Where is my Tape 47? WHERE IS MY TAPE 47?" Jerry Springer practically roared as he swung around in his chair. He was much fatter in person than what viewers saw on the tube, thanks to a restrictive girdle he wore on the air. His desk was strewn with papers, sandwich bits, a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey, and an overflowing ashtray. A bong took up one corner of the desk and a baggie of weed was nearby. In short, Jerry Springer was a disgusting party animal who went through utter hell to get himself ready for his TV show every day. He hated what he'd become, and yet some of the contestants on his show were more than willing to bring him into their empty lives, to taste a bit of the Springer fountain of fame.

The occupants of Tape 47 were his favorite. "Bob doesn't know that girlfriend Sherrie is a MAN!". Jerry thought Sherrie was hot. Didn't care about the gender mixup thing. He'd been down the kink road before – he could handle anything. As he always had to "audition" his guests before they appeared on his show, he had enjoyed a truly wild time with Bob and Sherrie. Ah well ... the time for reminiscing was over. Angel was about to get the reaming of her life if that tape didn't turn up before he warmed up the VCR.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Springer." Angel cowered before him. "Those agents came in and asked for the tape, and I didn't know what to do, and you weren't around, so I ... gave it to them.

"Angel!" he barked. "Those tapes are the property of the Jerry Springer Show! Nobody else is to possess them! Who were they?"

"Well ..." Angel was quaking in her Nikes. This job was the best gig she'd had in years, even if she did have to hit the A/V closet with Jerry once in awhile. If she lost this job, it was back to the phone sex kiosk at LAX. "They said they were federal agents. Their names were ... uh, Paul, uh Duiffin ... yes, Paul Duiffin. And the other one called himself ... Funkrom, Funkrum, something like that."

"SOMETHING LIKE THAT?" Jerry roared. This was turning into a first-class nightmare. First off, his favorite spank-the-monkey tape was gone, now federal agents had been snooping around his office, and they had the tape. He thought about the candy jar of Percocets he had in the drawer ... a couple of them would go nicely with a shot or two of Jack ... maybe even he'd call in the big guns and get the Dilaudid he kept in the A/V closet. Ah, Christ ...

"Well, I couldn't really tell what their names were", Angel mewed. "They had accents, like ... like British accents or something ..." Angel knew she was screwed.

"British accents, did they? And they called themselves federal agents? Angel, Angel ... you are so fired you can't even get your coat. Climb out the window ... RIGHT NOW ... jump, hit the awning, and get the hell out of here. I've got to find those two usurpers and I've got to find them now. You know what those Brits do with porn, don't you? It'll be all over the 'Net - and THAT'S THE TAPE I MADE OF THEM ... I'M IN IT! This could SINK ME!"

As Angel went out the window, Jerry sat down and gulped some Jack, while rummaging through the drawer for his candy jar. The only people he knew in London were the comedian Eddie Izzard, who'd threatened him with a lawsuit the last time they spoke, and a half-black, half Indian hermaphrodite hooker named Sugar, and he'd met her on the street. But wait! There was that scumbag photographer, Ian ... the guy who took under-thecoat photos of normal Britishers. Maybe he'd know who these two clowns were. Jerry swallowed a handful of Percs, and picked up the phone.

TO BE CONTINUED ...