The Big Bad Wolf.
Part 1: Rumblings.
It was the third day after Christmas and in the gardens of the Playboy Mansion, the prospective Miss January 2013 screamed,
"Give it to me! I'm so frigging wet, give it to me now!"
She could scream all she wanted, Wolf was keeping the umbrella.
He went back inside, a worried man.
It was a book-lined room with a desk, a Dictaphone, word processor, great padded armchairs and a furry rug. A painting by Jack Yeats stood above the mantelpiece; sombre, Celtic, yet delicate, it had something in common with the other red pastel drawings by Henry Moore, whose sad classicism against the wall was in keeping with the dark shades that dominated the interior.
What had been found was a snuggery, a den such as might be found in any vicarage or small country house in England. The only suggestion of an obsession, or of anything out of the ordinary, was a collection of seventy-four different brands of toilet tissue, ranged on top of a bookcase, as bizarre in context as a convention of Salesian novices for the priesthood.
He sat down before the fire, a lonely figure.
Increasingly he had been suffering from colitis, a chronically inflamed colon and rectum, the symptoms being the almost uncontrollable urge to defecate. Whilst previously he used to enjoy rising from a slumber littered with dreams about large black MILF’s wiggling seductively in his face, now he was obsessed with the proximity of the toilet where he invariably nestled with a façade of ferocious concentration etched upon his vein pulsating brow.
His physician had said he needed a colonoscopy to determine the cause of the problem, possible followed by radical surgery, nappies, a colostomy bag, divorce and being perpetually enveloped in an unmistakable and unpleasant aroma of fecal leakage.
His psychiatrist however was more positive and suggested it was perhaps a revelation pointer of the way forward in the strains his business was currently sustaining.
He, who had been the ground breaker so many years ago, was now in a market where supply outstripped demand. Everywhere there was porn and sexual titillation. It had become so pervasive, so comprehensive, that if it was not on the internet, it flaunted itself in the form of naked weather girls, rival magazines, lap dancing, strip clubs, blue movies, escort agencies, chat lines and Lord knows what else.
His close financial adviser Milky Mikalarko entered. Wolf had employed him on the strength of his background as a mono-sexual ex crane operator with a head for figures, who had been discharged from the LA docks for operating his equipment in high heeled shoes. He was into coprophilia, urophilia, exhibitionism, voyeurism, frotteurism, telephone scatophilia, transvestic fetishism, plus MSB. He had also served time. As Captain Jack Sparrow had invariably reiterated, "It's the honest ones you want to watch out for, because you can never predict when they're going to do something incredibly stupid."
“Hi Boss, how are you doing today?’
“Usual problem Milky,” was Wolf’s reply, “Want to take a dump but can’t. How are the circulation figures?”
“Not too good. Excessive competition.”
“So, what have you come up with in terms of new initiatives?” Wolf asked.
“Well I was thinking of that advice your shrink had given you, about turning unfortunate aspects of personal experience into an advantage.”
“I don’t follow. We are in the sex industry, what’s the new angle?”
“You must be mad! You mean no more beaver! Is there a market for defecation?”
“Boss, there are parts of Germany, Japan, and the lower Balkans where it’s almost regarded as a religious experience. Up till now the only implicit bodily function we have marketed for is sex.”
“And masturbation!” Wolf added.
“Yes, that too. But think of other aspects we could portray; breaking wind, nasal mucus accumulation, burping, impotence, vomiting and sweating. All new material virtually untouched from a non-medical commercial aspect.”
Wolf was silent for some time and then reflectively he mused, “Perhaps after all there is a possibility that this stage of my life is behind me.”
“Send in Red Riding Hood.”
His buxom secretary in a velvet thong, ear rings and a smile joined them both.
“Get me the most qualified person to discuss coprophilia, and open a new business file titled “One Foot in the Crave.”