Heaven, INC: Chapter 6: HELLO, LOVER

Many a man in love with a dimple
makes the mistake of marrying the whole girl.
— STEPHEN LEACOCK

UNIT 6-A
EMERALD ISLE APARTMENTS
7:34 AM PDT

IT WAS ON DAYS like today that Mick wished his family never left Nice to live the American dream because if they’d stayed in Nice, Mick wouldn’t a been in the Kiss-N-Tails that Friday night nine summers ago, shit-faced on Viagra, tequila-poppers and cocaine, and so woulda never met, and hence married, Tonya Kuzman, a.k.a. Candy Loveloads, porn star and possessor of the world’s second largest tits.

Tonya’s voice now burbling to the surface of Mick’s alcohol-ravaged consciousness like debris rising from a torpedoed party-barge. Bitchy voice-bubbles of, ‘I know you’re awake, Micky,’ and ‘You promised you’d do it this morning,” and, “How lazy a piece of shit are you to break a promise? I thought you were Catholic, you big fat liar!”

How many times you gotta tell her . . . ‘I am GREEK FUCKING ORTHODOX!’?

“You promise to do something, Micky, you do it . . .

The silicone’s probably leaking out and messing up her brain.

“ . . . because that’s what married people do, they help each other, and this is my dream we’re talking about, you know I’ve wanted to act since I was a little girl, and I’m done begging you, Micky, done, do you hear me?”

Like a jack-hammer in the ear, baby.

“So you’d better stop pretending to be asleep or I’ll pour this pitcher of ice-water on your crotch. Probably have a heart attack and die, you fat son-of-a-bitch, but here goes. . .”

Which, upon opening his eyes, Mick discovered to be total bullshit— Tonya stood empty-handed in but a garter-belt and red cat-eye mask and the ruby-red crystal that dangled between her gargantuan breasts. The Boob Monsters, the result of an ongoing steel-cage death-match between Tonya and the ‘Sri Lankan Bitch’ for the World’s Biggest Breasts.

The latest? Tonya’s boob surgeon said she’d reached her maximum breast threshold— Dr. Rosenpepper called it MBT, as in, ‘Tonya is right up against her MBT due to inadequate management of cc-to–the-dollar pricing ratios.’ This was boob-doctor talk for Mick was a cheap fuck who shoulda gone big from the start.

Mick hid his head beneath the pillow and tried recalling what about Tonya’s tits had once seemed so damned necessary, back in the days of 44 double-Ds and tequila-poppers. “Don’t ignore me, Micky. You didn’t forget the promise you made before you went out with your criminal relatives, did you?”

As a matter of fact, Mick had forgotten . . .

Jesus, what the did you promise her this time you drunken fuck?

. . . and scanning his alcohol-scorched memory-banks for some factoid to hang bullshit from, a little sliver of last-night’s reality, he suddenly sat bolt upright.

“Oh, c’mon, Ton! I just got in bed an hour ago and now I gotta be at Bivo’s in—” he glanced at the clock “—in less than an hour. I don’t have time for all that.”

“You’re gonna break a promise to me for your criminal uncle? What about me? What about what you promised me?”

“This is business, baby.”

“This is our life, Micky. Remember Father Nicodolis’ sermon? Service to your spouse is next to God.”

Mick ran a hand through his hair, digging furiously for an excuse. “Look, I got nothing to wear—”

“Yes you do. I ironed your Armani last night. And your black shirt.”

Mick paused to marvel. Frankly, with Tonya’s mammoth breasts, he didn’t know how she managed to see the ironing board, let alone get close enough to be effective on creases, but Mick supposed it was the thought that mattered.

Behind her cat eye mask, Tonya’s blue eyes flashed like gems. “Baby, I know you work hard, but so do I.”

“I know you do, baby,” Mick said, resigning himself to the task ahead. “Still, you know, you’re a dancer. You make guys think you care about them while you’re hustling ‘em for money. It’s not the toughest job in the whole world.”

The blue gems turned to lasers. “I do not hustle, Micky, I perform. I am an artist. Do you have any idea how much time and money I spend on costuming and makeup alone?”

“I do have an idea. I pay the credit cards.”

“You know it’s tax deductible as a business expense.”

“Tonya, for the love of God, how many times I gotta remind you: I’m a mobster not a Wall Street banker. I run a cash business. Besides, guys in the club’re so drunk, they don’t remember what you wore the night before, let alone last month.”

Tonya shook her head. “You still don’t understand what my position at Kiss-N-Tails requires, do you? The time spent on music selection, dance choreography and general athleticism, the dieting and regimen— whatever you say, Micky, it’s an overt expression of my inner spirituality.”

“Please tell me where there’s spirituality,” Mick said, “in sweaty guys slugging back beers and tipping you singles. Sorry, but I’m just saying that’s not exactly art.”

Tonya rested her arms athwart the Boob Monsters. “I will not let you denigrate my vision. I will persevere. As Lizzie Peters says, I visualize my achievements to maximize my potential.”

“The VAMP thing again?”

“VAMP, Micky. Channeling the power of your spirit by using nothing but positive energy. Something you can’t understand as long as you surround yourself with negative energy. I swear, if you saw your aura right now, you’d cry.”

Actually, Mick was at the moment more inclined to fart, but he also knew a bomber now would only further infuriate Tonya.

“I have a chance to act, Micky, a chance to realize my dream. Is it really too much for you to fuck me in the ass?”

See? Work work work, it never ended.

“Baby,” Mick said reasonably, “how many times we gotta practice? It’s in, it’s out, no biggie.”

Tonya frowned. “Don’t you understand? This is serious: Paul Michael Rogers won’t give me the role if I flinch and yet you know I’ve always had a hang up about butt-sex.”

“It is the Achilles-heel in your sexual armor,” Mick agreed.

"And the butt sex comes right after an incredible scene where John Freehammer finally faces down the bad guy. I get to say, ‘Kill that socialist son-of-a-bitch’, before we blow away the evil union workers with machine-guns.”

What Mick still couldn’t figure was how they planned to maneuver an automatic weapon around Tonya’s tits. But hey, that’s Hollywood, right?

“Hollywood, Micky. Sunset and Vine and the Walk of Stars. Remember what Pulp Fiction did for Travolta’s career?”

“That was a little different. Before Pulp Fiction, Travolta was on Welcome Back Kotter. Your last movie was Tits Gone Wild #23 and your Hollywood breakout is Slut Squad. It’s not quite the same.”

Tonya was indignant. “Slut Squad DOA: Defenders of America. Michael says it could receive a nomination.”

“Call me old-fashioned, Ton, but dildos painted like Dalmatians seems a bit much for the Oscar committee to me.”

Tonya sniffed. “It’s an homage to Busby Berkeley— you’re just jealous of Michael’s passion.”

Mick sighed, thinking about what lay ahead, all because of that goddamned dead-beat sneak, Mij Poopikov. “Look, I got an idea: how about you run into the closet and get one of those vibrators I got you in Athens. Or maybe that Martian Predator? Bing bang boom— you’re butt-sex ready.”

Tonya frowned behind her mask. “It’s called a Venus Titillator and you know it. Besides, I’ve been practicing all morning and it’s not working. I need my big strong man banging my butt, not a toy. Now here,” she said, holding out his asthma inhaler. “Hit your puffer first.”

Mick hesitated before reaching for the puffer. “All right, let’s get it over with, I got somewhere to be.”

“But Micky—”

“And this time, in bed— that means no kitchen floor, no stairs and definitely no fucking on the goddamned carpet.”

“But Micky, it’s gotta be spontaneous!”

"Yeah, well I draw the spontaneity line at carpet screwing. Last time I got rug burns on my knees had guys making jokes about how I walked and— hand me that tube there, wouldja?— and Bivo asked if I was ‘a malakas who likes it up the butt’ and I say— Damn, Ton, this stuff’s cold!”