New Broadway; Chapter 1

It's nine PM, eastern standard time.

Cue dramatic music.

Cut to horrifying montage.

It's time for Canine Cleansing.

Yet another prime-time Thursday night spent watching myself on television. Here I am, lounging on my scorched-earth brown micro suede sofa in my white washed apartment, eager to stare at myself for the next fleeting hour. I loathe these white walls, and how they are so devoid of life. I want blood red walls, or turquoise, it doesn't matter. Any kind of change would be even more welcomed than the deep well of orange juice slash Grey Goose vodka glaring at me, perched on the horizon of my coffee table. The colossal glass is wide enough to swim laps in refreshing drunkenness; it's also tall enough to drown in. I've always been terrified of drowning, it's my worst fear, but in this case I don't think I would mind being smothered in a sea of screwdriver one bit.

I digress.

A typical person may find it strange that I spend my Thursdays adoring myself on a national broadcast. Then again, said 'typical person' would probably find it odd that I am on television at all. My job is ridiculous, but I am quite complacent with it. The version of myself that I watch at nine PM, eastern standard time, on the MSF Science Fiction channel is my idol. He is more than my alter-ego, he is everything that I wish I was. Unfortunately, the fun-house mirror image of myself is nothing even remotely similar to the real deal. The actual me is the one wearing tattered red sweatpants, whose roots are developing a frighteningly tight grip on the micro suede couch beneath my buttocks.

From miles away I hear the sound waves of my own voice slicing through my vodka induced haze, and kicking open the door to my eardrums with M-16s that are loaded and poised to fire.

“Hello, I am Scott Harper.”

Is he? I am not so easily fooled, impostor.

The Scott Harper that is commanding my television is breathtaking. He is a towering individual with short, jet black hair that is currently shooting an intimidating glare into the camera with his piercing azure eyes. His broad chest implies importance, and his posture screams dominance. Normally such a protruding nose would seem unattractive, but on this Scott Harper it is nothing short of impeccable.

The true Scott Harper is an utter waste.

“And I am Amanda White.”

Wrong. Her name is most certainly Amanda McHale, but it turns out that the focus group didn't like that name at all; I guess that there is just too much prejudice against the Scotch-Irish in America. So much for the land of the free.

This woman is the grand thief of my overwhelming thunder. I originally hosted Canine Cleansing alone, but yet another spiteful focus group that was determined to desecrate my dreams hated that idea as well. Did they not ogle my marvelous pectoral muscles that show ever so subtly through my tight polo shirts? Were they not enchanted by my chiseled-to-perfection-and-bright-enough-to-startle-the-blind smile? Against all logic, they voted for a female counterpart and now I have a co-host. Fuck focus groups.

Amanda White is a stunning angel with wispy golden hair that is practically begging to have a halo floating above the remarkable features that some would call a 'face'. Her emerald green eyes shine as if she was standing on the roof of a building, watching a city doused in gasoline burn to the ground around her. The reflection of the slaughter would mirror in her irises and come out exactly the opposite, an astounding image of beauty. She was also staring direly into the studio cameras attempting to relay the importance of our actions, and succeeding valiantly.

Amanda McHale is a filthy slut with lopsided tits. Unadulterated, the right one is noticeably larger than its partner in crime. Oh, the infinite magic of the Wonderbra.

“Welcome to Canine Cleansing.”

Relief. Back to the crisp voice flowing from the object of my idolatry.

“Tonight we have a very special case lined up for you. Hunter is a Jack Russel Terrier that lives with his family, the Richardsons, in a quaint home in Starkville, Mississippi. He is a terribly troubled dog, and he has been wreaking havoc within the home for some time now.” The words snaked effortlessly from my wonderfully plump lips. “We have Madelyn Richardson here in the studio with us tonight to tell us more about his devilish actions.”

Cue fog machine and roaring applause.

Cut to Madelyn Richardson entering from stage left.

She walked through an ornate black door which, unbeknownst to the audience and home viewers, had absolutely nothing on the other side of it; The guests still appeared to be walking on stage from a much more prominent place. Heaven maybe, Valhalla perhaps, but it is irrelevant. There was nothing of substance when walking backward through that threshold, only blank space and white washed walls, much like that of my surroundings. I suppose it's possible that my apartment is through that door. It's doubly possible that I have drank too much Grey Goose.

For the first time I find myself worrying that this glass of vodka will be the one that introduces my liver to Cirrhosis.

Isn't it funny how your worst enemies always turn out to be your best friend's best friends?

Back to the small silver screen. Madelyn was an incredibly sexy middle aged woman, even if she was insufferably naïve. Luckily for her it isn't a requirement that you must have a working brain to appear on television, you simply have to be aesthetically pleasing, and this woman was a cougar. Her curled brown locks rested loftily on her shoulders, her taut skin was a testament to the positive aspects of Botox injections. The wide, royal blue eyes north of her slender rabbit nose revealed a shining innocence, the kind of unsullied soul that vultures from network production love to prey on. She walked forward riding a tsunami of applause from the studio audience.

According to her pre-screening biography, Madelyn Richardson is the definition of suburban housewife. Her talents include cooking, poetry, and coaching a recreational softball team for eight year old girls; she does all of this while mothering two rambunctious little children, one twelve year old boy, and of course, an eight year old girl that reluctantly plays softball on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. I can only assume that she has intricate plans to live vicariously through the young girl, hoping to forget her own life that is sinking slowly into normalcy, being guided to oblivion by the pitfalls of suburban life. She also stated that when she was younger she was full of grandiose dreams, but her objection to prophylactics cut them down prematurely. I would like to add a footnote: even having abandoned her dreams, she gives a ruthless blow-job, albeit the exchange of ambition for a prowess in the art of ejaculation does not sound enticing in the least. But I suppose that the weak will cling to those that possess whatever it is they lack, as a barnacle will attach itself to a sturdy hull. I think that there is only two types of person in this world: the barnacles, and the hulls. In this case, it was my aspiration to fulfill my goals that drew her to me, or at least thats what she was led to believe by my alter ego's exterior distinction. People will do anything to feel even the least bit significant these days.

It's a shame, really.

Madelyn walked over to the two of us, with her hand graciously extended to limply shake Amanda's, and reached out for mine. When I took it, her eyes lit up as if there had been a thousand football stadium lights behind them, all switched on simply by the touch of my hand. I had not noticed this during the taping, but looking in from the outside it was all to simple to spot. 'Excellent,' I thought. Now her husband is going to see this, and he as well as the entire nation is going to know that she had bathed in my semen backstage. Note to self: put a deadbolt lock on the door to my apartment.

The tantalizing voice of my co-star filled the speakers. “Tell us a little bit about the demonic dog, Madelyn.”

A sultry vocalization of her sexual character was launched from her lips. “Well, Amanda, Hunter has been terrorizing our home for months now, we just can't understand what has gotten into him.”

“Demons, of course.” Amanda stated, ever so matter-of-factly.

“Yes, of course... We're all hoping that you can save him. We don't want him biting anymore small children, or ripping apart brand new furniture anymore. Please help, I'm begging you.”

It was my time to shine. “We are going to do more than just help, Mrs. Richardson. We are going to cast out the demons that have been plaguing your beloved dog in just a few moments. But first we're going to have a quick word from our sponsors. When we get back its time for yet another...” I pointed enthusiastically to the logo that was plastered across the back of the set. The audience burst into chant, exclaiming “Canine Cleansing! Canine Cleansing!”

Cue commercial break.

Cut to the raping of viewing minds by endless corporate marketing.

I'm taking this quick opportunity to sever the roots that are holding me relentlessly to my micro suede couch. The vodka has torn a calculated path directly through my urinary tract, and was now protesting violently in my bladder, screaming for freedom. I suppose it is only fair to give into the demands, everyone deserves to be liberated, and piss is no different.

After ridding my body of the intoxicating substance, the only thing I could do is fill up yet another bottomless glass of orange juice slash Grey Goose to the brim. The problem was that this time, I had forgotten the orange juice, leaving only slash Grey Goose. These next 47 minutes of demon dogs are going to fly by, and within the hour I won't even be able to pronounce 'dachshund' correctly.

As I am topping off my glass, I am told by the speakers of my television that it is my responsibility to save Darfur. I can't save myself, how am I supposed to singlehandedly end a holocaust? I am a pet exorcist, not Superman. Now if they had told me to save Darfurian dogs that have bad social habits, I would oblige. But Darfur as a whole? No thank you. Call the Justice League.

I faintly hear deep tones that strike fear into any heart that they come across. These tones mean that I am about to adorn my television screen once more. I have waited for this moment for my entire life, sitting patiently (as well as thoroughly inebriated) on my sofa.

When the introduction is complete, various appalling images of Hunter doing dastardly things are shown to the masses. One such image involves a teddy bear that has been decapitated, with its unlucky head being held by the fangs of a Jack Russel terrier that is foaming at the mouth. Another shows a snarling mutt ripping olive colored curtains from the windows, a viewer can also notice the shredded couch, as well as an ominous crimson stain splashed across the shag carpet. It is unclear whether it is blood, or fruit punch, but one has to assume the worst. These vehement snapshots are accompanied by Madelyn's stressed voice, proclaiming that the family has done everything within its power to settle the dog, to no avail. That is where I come in. Do not fret, for I am here to expunge the demons.

If only that was so. I wish that my career was not so similar to that of a Shammy cloth infomercial, in that I have promised to cure everything, when in reality all of my pledges are just a sheet of wool ready to be pulled over the collective eyes of civilization. Poor Madelyn had no idea that I am no pet exorcist, merely a cardboard cut out that has been pasted to the face of a mildly interesting television show. She was oblivious to the fact that she had sent her dog in two weeks prior to taping, and it had undergone some serious dog behavioral rehabilitation in that time period. But I have found that it is best to just leave the ignorant to their beliefs, people are more happy when they are blind than when they are informed. Thus Madelyn stands on my stage, waiting for me to exorcise the demons from her bastard dog. And there I stand with my proverbial Shammy cloth in hand, ready and willing to play into her inane beliefs in the occult.

People can believe whatever they want, as long as they watch my marvelous display of blasphemy from their living rooms. It's all about the ratings. It's all about a paycheck. Enlightenment doesn't put a filet mignon on my plate, and it certainly doesn't fill my goblet with top notch imported vodka.

The whore of Irish descent sung her vivacious siren call. “And now the time has come that we introduce the crowd to Hunter, the dog riddled with demons. Audience, stay relaxed, we have taken special measures to make sure that no harm will befall you.”

Seriously? Do people honestly believe this shit?

Suspenseful background music overwhelmed the studio as a stocky man walked onstage through the door from Valhalla. Little do people know that this is the very dog trainer that had taught Hunter both manners and discipline over the last two weeks, they only knew him as the dreadful soul that brought dogs to their deliverance. I suppose that he too holds a Shammy cloth among his toolbox.

The cage he carried was dilapidated and covered in rust. The production team believed that this adds to the illusion. When it was finally set on the ground and opened, the tiny brown-spotted terrier tore out of the cage, snarling through his black leather muzzle. No one heard the dog whistle from offstage that had caused him to freak out, no one cared that they were watching a ludicrous charade. They just chanted for the casting out of demons. They just wanted to pass the time.

Hunter ran flippantly around the set, jumping on chairs and scratching the ground. He only wanted the true demon to stop bothering him, the dog whistle.

I interject, “It is time for yet another Canine Cleansing.” The crowd chants emphatically behind my cause. Louder, and louder, more passionately with every scream. They are practically lusting after the exorcism of this poor dog. Hunter jumps on top of a chair and turns his head to the studio audience, his superior hearing being assaulted by the incessant, cult-like chant of the faceless. The vivid fear in his eyes was growing increasingly blatant, as if he was a martyr being sacrificed for the twisted entertainment of MSF science fiction channel advocates. The cult livened their crooning, parlaying their incantation louder and louder. Suspense was building, and it was no longer Hunter that was foaming at the mouth, but the audience. Even I am sitting on the edge of my micro suede refuge, biting my nails, waiting for the reverent portrayal of myself to be Hunter's savior.

I will be a hallowed saint to this dog. I will cast out his troubles and forgive his transgressions, all while appeasing the viewers with the attributes of a Roman gladiator willing to kill for the cheers of onlookers. I am the leader of this cult. I am everything that they need to sustain happiness.

Cue theatrical entrance into my immediate life.

Cut to wood splinters flying across the room and landing in my vodka as the door to my apartment is demolished.