He had a catch phrase on that shitty sitcom a few years back. You know the one, with the animatronic alien and the little kid squealing “Who’s your daddy?”. Anyway, that’s the kid back there, the ginger with the gun to my head. Tyler Quackenbush. I don’t think he’s been in a movie or T.V. show since then. Just living off royalty checks, the ungrateful little shit.
The night started off brilliantly when Tyler crashed a pretentious A-lister’s party. Some juice head caught him and dragged him out of the house like a freckled Raggedy Andy doll. Since then, we picked up a high end prostitute, stocked up on booze, and went off to get what I only can assume was gonna be heroin.
As we drove, I was serenaded with the sweet sounds of awkward fornication and a repetitive, wheezy “Who’s your daddy?” coming from that speckled prick. The occasional “Easy on the turns, dick head” were sprinkled in, too.
We pulled up on a row of condemned shit heaps and Tyler tells me to be quick with the wheel if shit goes down. Never a good sign. Gang bangers rose up from porches and cars. Tyler’s got his window down, and I could see money and baggies being passed. They made the deal then Tyler yelled something like “Remember me, bitch? Never rip a mother fucker off!”
I heard pops. Bullets pelted into the side of the limo like rocks on metal. Tyler screamed for me to drive, blasting away with a gun fifteen sizes too big for him.
I floored it, slamming through trash cans and onto the freeway. I tried to slow my pulse as banana peels and beer cans slid off the hood. I could hear Tyler panicking in the back, whimpering and cursing. I peeked at the rearview, the back seat was coated with blood. The prostitute was flopping back and forth like a limp puppet as I hit the seams in the pavement.
He freaked and ordered me to dump the body in some flood channel off the freeway. No fucking way. The spoiled shit flew off the handle, waiving his gun, cursing through his frustrated mommy tears. He doesn’t like to hear no, which is how the gun wound up pinned to my head.
“You’re gonna dump her body, bitch!” he screeches.
Normally, I’d do the sensible thing, here. But, this kid’s a complete douche.
“I’m not dumping shit. Not unless you want to pay me?”
“The fuck? I’m gonna shoot your ass, bro!”
“Go ahead! Then you got two bodies to clean up, not to mention a busted ass because a corpse don’t drive too well!”
The kid chews on my bitter logic, tells me he’s got cash at his parents’ house. I sit in the drive way of their fancy home in the Hills. The lights snap on inside and I hear yelling and cursing. Seconds later, Tyler comes sprinting down the driveway like a redheaded scarecrow and dumps a load of cash into my lap, all bundled up in neat stacks.
“Alright,” he says, out of breath. “Now, do it! Make it gone.”
I jump out of the limo and run.
I run as fast as I can for freedom, clutching the money to my chest like the goddamn Monopoly man. I hear Tyler screaming behind me. I look back, he’s stomping his feet in the drive way next to my limo filled with a dead prostitute.
I stumble into a Spudnuts Donut shop on the main drag and crawl into a booth, order a coffee and a cruller, and I look at the cash in my arms.
It’s time to do the sensible thing. I take a bite of my cruller and get the LAPD on my cell.
The next morning, I pick up a copy of the Times. There’s a picture of Tyler being hauled off. The title reads “Child Star Arrested in Alleged All Night Murder Binge.”
I’m quoted in it. They call me a heroic survivor. Got myself an interview with Entertainment Hollywood, too.
Who’s your daddy?