Warning: This is Fiction.
Forget the US elections for a second. Remember those pleasurable 79 days we spent trying to figure out which dude would be less bad for us? While the media did a decent job keeping tabs on who’d been peeing in a cup and so on, we at Hot Chicken managed to snag our very own election exclusive. Each political candidate was gracious enough to let us into their private homes and report on their morning rituals. On y va, les amis!
Stephen stared up at the white stucco ceiling and counted down.
The alarm clock buzzed and Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s Takin’ Care of Business jangled out of its small speakers.
“Yessss,” he whispered, looking down at his plastic Timex watch that flashed, indicating 5:35 AM.
He sat up and stretched his legs out of bed. “Left leg first, right leg follows!” he sang.
He slipped his feet into his favourite slippers. They bore a plaid print of dark greens and reds and a fuzzy fur trim. “Silly slipper-oonis!” He quipped, kicking his heels together.
Stephen stood up and did his ritual morning jiggy dance, the one his mother had taught him.
Takin’ Care of Business….Everyday!
Meanwhile, Laureen snored loudly in the neighbouring single bed. Large earmuffs kept her from awakening to her husband dancing about. He two-stepped his way to her bed and kissed her sloppily on the cheek, moist lips still dribbling with his morning drool.
She waited for him to shamble out of the bedroom in his flannel PJ set before wiping away the saliva sticking to her face. Laureen heard her husband turn the shower on and took her cue, opening the drawer of her bedside table and taking out a neon pink dildo.
“Good morning, Vladimir!” she purred.
In the shower, Stephen began his hygiene routine, twirling the bottle of Head & Shoulders like a cowboy handling a gun. He lathered himself in dandruff shampoo from head to toe. “It’s all the same!” his mother had told him. He scrubbed every part of his body for 30 seconds before moving on to the next. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you!” Stephen exclaimed, lathering and rinsing his toes.
He turned the shower off and tied a towel tightly around his rotund waist, before stepping out and grabbing his comb. Stephen parted his hair with minute precision, three quarters to one side, combing it aggressively before blow-drying it into his trademark side-swept bob.
“Next stop, Breakfast Town!” he exclaimed to himself, winking at his reflection. “Breakfast Town” was something funny Stephen said sometimes.
After quickly getting dressed into a sharp, navy blue suit, Stephen walked down to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and reached for his box of Quaker Oats. “Oh yeah, oatmeal, baby!” Stephen liked his oatmeal raw, straight from the box.
“Good morning, Dad,” mumbled his teenage son Ben, his tall lanky figure strolling in.
“Welcome to Breakfast Town!” exclaimed Stephen. “Oh, fuck off, Dad!” responded Ben.
Stephen dropped the oatmeal to the ground and turned to face his son, coldly and calmly. His face turned beet red, eyes twitching, small sinewy veins throbbing at his neck. Ben slowly backed away, breaking into a sweat, while his father stood still, shaking slightly, staring straight ahead and mumbling repeatedly: “Nobody fucks with Breakfast Town.”
The alarm rang promptly at 5 AM. His wife, her lush locks still neatly curled from last night’s dinner party, was already awake, refreshing FAIL blogs on her iPad.
She chuckled at a Chinese grandmother falling down stairs, followed by a fat boy tripping on a skateboard, elbowing her husband to share in the LOLs. Justin felt her annoyed gaze upon him and kept his eyes shut tight. She grunted and stomped away, launching the iPad on the soft Persian rug. She’ll be back, he thought, stretching like an elegant lap dog and turning the television on with a handclap and a wink.
His beautiful face frumped up into a frown. “Waaaargh!” he yelled, throwing the remote control at the screen and smashing it to bits.
His wife, who was in the next room drawing dark circles beneath Eugenie Bouchard’s eyes on an autographed poster, ran back in the bedroom, face half made up with colourful and expensive makeup.
“Justin, not again!” she exclaimed, her body imitating the droll stance of an infuriated teapot, her tone exasperated, but amused.
He shrugged his shoulders, lifting his arms up like the character of a funny sitcom, one who’d just been up to no good.
They both erupted in laughter, a cold loud cackle that resonated with wealth.
He bounced out of bed like a seductive gazelle, pulling at his silk boxers. They were sticking to his balls again!
His wife looked down at his glorious morning boner. She’s gagging for it, he thought, shaking it about with a satisfied smirk. He’d make her wait a bit, maybe come home for lunch and give her a good rogering.
He walked over to his mini fridge, which was perfectly stocked with various flavours of Yop: strawberry, banana, pineapple, tropical and cooked ham.
Justin was the type of ill-formed adult who still enjoyed drinking his yogurt, instead of eating it with a spoon, like a reasonable person.
He chugged two bottles and threw them out the window.
“Justin! Stop that!” His wife cried, dropping the darts she’d been aiming at a life-size cardboard cut-out of Kate Middleton.
She stuck her head out the giant bay window; hundreds of Yop bottles littered the green lawn below.
Justin grinned, walked over and poked his head out. He tugged at his left ear and two bright red laser beams shot out of his legendary baby blues, obliterating the bottles below.
They fucked rabidly on the windowsill.
“I’m Trudeau!” he yelled as he came, like one of those stone Cupid fountain sculptures, pissing in the wind.
Tom aka Thomas
Tom watched the clock tick before rolling over and kissing his sleeping wife.
“Buenas mañanas,” he whispered. She smiled: “Caliente, papi,” tickling his beard.
He donned his colourful robe and pranced down to the kitchen.
It was Saturday and Saturdays, Tom treated himself to his favourite breakfast: a good, strong coffee, fresh strawberries and Huevos Rancheros.
The black beans required reminded him of his abuela’s ojos, his grandmother’s eyes.
“Buenas mañanas, abuela,” he rasped to the can of black beans, kissing it with his thin dry lips.
“Un día, I will be king of Canada, he had proclaimed, growing up in a Tijuanan shack.
“Ja, Ja, Ja,” she had laughed, her little black bean eyes shining in the Mexican sun.
Now, abuela was dead, Tomás had become Thomas who became Tom, and there was no king in Canada.
“I am a Canadian from Canada,” he practiced, tenderly chopping an avocado.
He giggled joyfully: oh, how he loved avocado!
“You’re my favourite of Mother Earth’s gifts,” he said, slowly licking the contours of the avocado’s seed.
“Remember to practice!” yelled his wife from upstairs.
“Si, mi corazón!”
He sauntered to the bathroom, sashaying his child-bearing hips.
Tomás examined his reflection in the mirror and smiled.
His was a wild Mexican smile that smelt of tequila and evoked sun-soaked beach days and endless nights sweating salsa at a discotèca. He had tried to camouflage it by growing a beard, a thick brown beard, a Canadian beard. Masculine. Serious. Trust-worthy. But also, down for a good time.
It had proven not good enough, especially when his Mexican fuego made a cameo and his temper flared up like a jalapeño pie.
He relaxed his face and tried again.
Polite. Warm. Sincere. A Canadian smile, he thought.
“Hi guys, I’m Tom. I’m a Canadian,” he said, smiling.
His wife came in and looked at him.
His face was stiff and robotic, mangled and paralyzed in a weird interpretation of a Canadian smile.
“Mi corazón, the smile needs to reach your eyes,” she told him.
He turned back to the mirror and did not see the reflection of a man that would be king of Canada, but of his abuela.
His eyes were hard little black beans, rotting in the Canadian sun.
Elizabeth looked around at the state of things: food splattered on the walls, empty bottles littering the floor and various pieces of clothing thrown into the mix.
She gently rubbed her temples, her brain drowning in last night’s mango daiquiris. She went back to her bedroom and shook the nude, dormant man spread-eagle on her bed.
“Ahmet, you need to get out of here, NOW”
“Oh, come on, Liz, don’t you want to have another go?” he asked amorously, pulling at her robe.
“NO! I want you to get the fuck OUT!” she shrieked, straightening her crooked glasses and throwing a pile of clothes at Ahmet’s face.
Elizabeth ignored the slamming door when the boy finally scampered off. She stood in front of her open fridge, letting the icy air cool her down while she frantically searched for something to whip up and get her through the day. Muesli and half a bottle of Pinot Grigio. She unscrewed the bottle cap and took a swig.
“Aaaahh,” she belched, satisfied. Fruity and sweet.
Her memory of last night was foggy at best. It had started respectably enough: just a few cocktails shared with fellow MPs and a handful of keen interns.
Had there been an argument? Probably.
The environment? Migrants? Ah, then it clicked. Elizabeth took a few more swigs as the images flashed in her mind. The bartender.
“SAY IT!” she had yelled. “Ma’am, please this is a respectable wine bar,” he responded, trying to appease her. “Elizabeth, come off it,” chimed one of her drinking pals, placing a condescending hand on her shoulder.
“Get off me you little twat! I just want him to admit it!” “Fine, fine!” the bartender relented, “I’m serving you this drink on stolen Indian land.”
“Ah-ha! Yes!” she squealed, downing her flaming Sambuca with glee and looking over her shoulder to claim victory over the little man who’d been pawing at her seconds earlier.
The little twat was gone. They’d all gone.
“Screw ’em!” she shouted at no one in particular, “I’m the friggin’ hardest working MP in Parliament and I deserve a fudgin’ good time.
“Sure you do, Ma’am, but you’re going to have to have it somewhere else I’m afraid,” threatened a bulky security man.
Elizabeth stumbled off her bar stool, throwing money on the floor before stepping out confidently enough. “Take me to the friggin’ club,” she ordered the taxi driver.
There, the lights had been bright, Ahmet had been leering and they’d been playing her jam.
Bitch better have my money/ Bitch better have my money / Pay me what you owe me
“Rihanna is just like me,” she had slurred to Ahmet, “Fierce, gutsy…a woman.
“Screw ’em,” she laughed, finishing off the Pinot Grigio, “Screw ’em all.”
Gilles never woke up.