The Missing Link
by Randolph O. Mann

“… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”

Blaw, blaw, blaw. For me the bottom-line is my place among the privileged has come to a screeching halt, just like the Muni bus that took out my old man. Bitter? Damn’d straight I am bitter! Livid is a better choice of word and you can sprinkle my cynicism with a smidgen of animosity too. There is nothing this well meaning ‘padre’ is going to say that will fix this poorly timed fiasco. Trust me when I say there isn’t anything to be found between the covers of the Book of Common Prayer that will make this ruinous occasion ‘all good.’ Plain and simple, this sucks! And believe me, the old man got off easy compared to the catastrophe that is about to rock my world.

“Mr. Mann? Are you still there?”

“Of course I am still here! Where the fuc-“

“Mr. Mann I have already warned you if you persist in using ‘toilet talk’ I will be forced to terminate our conversation!”

“I got a better idea! Just transfer me into his voice machine!”

“One moment, please and I will connect you.”

Click. You have reached the Answering Service for A. Randy Mann. Unfortunately he is way from his desk at this time, if you would please leave your name, contact information and a short message, A. Randy Mann will be in touch with you at his earliest opportunity.

“Nice of you to bother not showing up for your Grandpa’s interment, ASSHOLE and what the hell is wrong with your ‘F-in’ Receptionist? That thin-skinned ‘bee-atch’ you are ‘tapping’ just rudely transferred your BEST client to Voice Mail.

“Oh ya, you can take that retainer I am paying you every month and stick it where-the-sun-don’t-shine.

“Wait a minute? That would be right here where I am standing, ALL ALONE I might remind you, in a torrential downpour while shriveling my wretched ass off and feeling very sorry for myself, as the weakest link in our pedigree is gradually lowered into a cement vault. And here I am, trying to navigate the menu in this godforsaken cell phone while at the same time having to ‘network’ with your CLUELESS answering service, for Christ’s sake!

“Damn-it ‘Drew’! Where are you?

“We both know this is only a six foot plunge for Pop but for us this is a massive fall from grace and I am frightened as hell! Eventually the gossip mill will blow the whistle on me ending my tenure as a celebrated seven-figure stud-muffin. I can just imagine how once the news of Pop’s passing is published and the tabloids ‘out’ me as an undocumented centenarian progeny my ‘kernels’ will depreciate over night and that scares me to the marrow.

“As my attorney, bartender, accountant, shrink, business manager, pimp and my SON you have to understand that in my line of work it is all about the ‘Woodrow’s’ and in the current marketplace commanding lofty stud fees requires more than a hardcopy of your pedigree because we both know those are far too easily forged. Believe me when I tell you, today’s feline seed-receptacles are very shrewd and nobody is fooling them with saintly documentation anymore. In this contemporary automated culture ornate calligraphy on weathered parchment is insufficient linage corroboration. Genetic fingerprinting is the new gold standard and has been ever since that first run on the sperm banks in 2027 when the entire artificial insemination industry was outlawed.

“You know as well as I that with all the bogus seed out there the ‘ladies’ will only accept direct penile penetration as their ‘preferred courier’ anymore and we now must also provide a laboratory report with corroborating finger print verification before they hand over their reparation. In short, I have ‘shoot’ if I want the ‘loot!’ AND at my advanced age that is no simple trick.

“Speaking of simple ‘tricks,’ what was up with my ‘ten o’clock’ this morning? The bimbo’s parents arrived five minutes early in order to watch the insemination with a notarized certification verifying how their money had been wired into the Trust Account and then the three of us just sat around for the next forty five minutes awkwardly discussing the “amaaaaaazing” inclement weather while together we waited for their fair-haired ditzy daughter to drag her tight little ass out of her Parkside high-rise and into the chartered Mating Chamber before I could publicly ‘poke’ her and still arrange get to this funeral, ON TIME!

“We ‘really’ need to add a Punctuality Addendum to any FUTURE contracts.

“And that reminds me, before I forget; I took the last bottle of Viagra from the medicine cabinet this morning and failed to make a notation on the inventory spreadsheet in the stock room.

“Where were we?

“Oh, I remember now. Pecuniary Armageddon! I am telling you, Drew, there isn’t any Grand Exit Plan us. There’s not a Gigolo 401 Retirement Plan out there for us! The nearest thing to a ‘Golden Parachute’ coming our way, no pun intended, will be a second-hand Durex Tropical Banana condom glibly tossed in our path. I am way too old to be ‘working the streets’ again. Plus there isn’t any money to be made that way anymore and I don’t see myself as an ‘Old Wally’ hustling at a meager 100k per ‘wiggle.’ That’s just not me! Don’t get me wrong, I love ‘The Trade.’ Whoring around has been very very good to me. But you have to understand that until the premature passing of my father I was living in clover. I had more women, thank god for extra strength Levitra, than I could shake my stick at.

“At ‘The Home’ I was the cock-of-the-walkers with my ‘johnson’ servicing everyone’s granddaughters. What can I say, until you have experience a lap-dance in a Hamilton Swivel Recliner you just have not lived at all? And let me tell you, the first time you rouge a pretty little filly that has been stripped naked and been bent over the front rail of your aluminum walker you too will be singing the praises of the clever engineers that designed those quick release tabs found on the side panels of incontinence pads.

“I Know it sounds like I am living the dream, but I must confess for my advanced age delivering the goods to the plethora of aspiring ingénues that have been stalking me down, is no walk in the park and is NOT CHEAP either! You remember how I dropped a small fortune on bodyguards until we finally got smart and replaced those overpriced male sentries with the female verity that are more than willing to work for a quick ‘tumble’ and a healthy sampling of my seed. But that is another story.

“I know, there is no benefit to be found from crying over slit-, aw ‘cream.’ I am living in the past; wretchedly my sexual monopoly is over. After all we did have a good four generation run going before having Pop’s ticket prematurely canceled three and a half years shy of triple figures.

“You would think that kind of history would count for something.

But no! Even my pimp has stopped returning my calls once Pop was pronounced DOA. How is an aging gigolo like me to ply his trade when my own agent is screening my calls, for Christ’s sake?

“Next June I will be hitting the big eight-oh and I should be in my seed-planting prime. It is not like I am over the hill in that department mind you. Far from it! I will be reaching my stride at the same time my seed should have been the most marketable. You see I figured, once the ‘Old Man’ cracked the century mark our Public Relations Department could boast of having a stream of copiously documented sperm containing four generations of centurion DNA to share... at the right price, of course.

“And that brings to mind another thing, Wher-”

Click. The Mailbox is full at this time. Please call back.”

The End

Copyright© 2012 by Randolph O. Mann. All rights reserved.