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“You don't know how many women are on the manifest, Kirk?”
He rolls his eyes at me and then lays back down, dramatically kicking his heels back up onto the arm of the sofa. His eyes close and he crosses his hands over his dick protectively for no apparent reason. In fact, I hadn't actually even thought about punching him in the dick until he made that stupid move right there.
I hate musicians. Hate them.
“Kirk?”
“That's not my name,” he groans. “Kirkman. My name is Kirkman. Use it.”
I shake my head, taking deep breaths. This little wiener mobile is not worth getting my blood pressure up. He would be impossible to reeducate, and it would be beneath me to try to deflate his swollen head even a little bit. There's no point.
“Kirkman, there are only fourteen women on the manifest. That's all that are ever supposed to be in this building, assuming every single one of them is here at the same time. Now, I haven't bothered trying to wake them because I don't think all of them will be able to be awoken at this time. But how many of the women who are actually on the manifest are supposed to be in the penthouse?”
He shrugs. “Things got crazy last night, man.”
“Okay, just tr
y to remember. To the best of your recollection?”
“Dude… I don't even know,” he sighs irritably. “Why don’t you just fucking tell me? Okay? I know you are trying to make a point here, but I really don't get what it is. So can you just tell me?”
He crosses his feet the other way, not even caring that his boots are scuffing the leather sofa arm. That’s not going to come out.
But it’s not my job to point that out.
Then again, wouldn’t I be doing the world a favor? Just to take him down a peg or two? I could teach him some manners. Teach him some Marines-style restraint and respect. Teach him the basics on being a real man, assuming he has the potential to learn even that much.
Alternatively, I could kick his ass. I could dangle him by his ankles out the penthouse window until the TV crew got here. Of course, then everyone would know this location and it would no longer be a secret.
The easiest thing to do would be to simply allow this morning to unfold the way it naturally would without my intervention, let the women sleep, and assume he won’t do it again now that I have pointed it out.
Of course, then I wouldn't be doing my job, now would I?
“To be honest, Kirkman,” I begin again, “the point is that there are definitely at least two unauthorized visitors in the penthouse, but maybe more. I don't actually know yet. I'm about to find out, but before I do… I just wanted to alert you to what your lapse in judgment has brought you.”
I find the picture on my iPad, blowing it up real big and holding it out to him. He finally rolls his head toward me, squinting.
“I don't what that is,” he huffs.
I rotate it back so I can look at it. He's got a point. Doesn't really look like much of anything to me either.
“That's your dick, Kirkman,” I inform him. “On Instagram. At five AM.”
He sits up suddenly, his eyes wide. “What… wait, are you fucking kidding me?”
“That's what I was going ask you,” I reply, tapping the power button and tucking the iPad back under my arm. “After all the shit that I did to get you set up here. After explaining the protocols to you and giving you the manifest, plus giving the manifest to those two stoner halfwits that you call bouncers, I thought we were totally clear on this.”
He’s got his phone out, frantically scrolling through some app, then opening another.
“That's my dick! Oh my God, I'm trending on Twitter too!”
“Yeah, I already sent this to Melanie. She’s on it.”
“Why would you do that?? She's going to be so pissed at me!”
“Well, that's what marketing people are for, right? So she will pissed at you for little while, but she’ll also kind of love it. You probably just made the Ugly Little Wiener Hall of Fame.”
“Shit! Shit!”
