Exhibit A: Bill Clinton

Submitted into Contest #156 in response to: Write a story about a pathological liar.... view prompt

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Funny Crime

This story contains sensitive content

Disclaimer: References to drug use, sex, and murder. Slight profanity.


A wise pathological-liar-turned-crackhead once told me that if you’re going to lie, at least add an embarrassing detail to your lie to make it more believable.  


Just hear me out. 


Exhibit A: Bill Clinton 

Let’s start with a textbook example, Bill Clinton. If Bill Clinton had chosen his words more strategically—thrown in a false confession that he suffers from an incurable form of erectile dysfunction that renders him completely incapable of having sexual relations with other living beings—people would have believed him. They might have even felt sorry for him. Sure, Monica wouldn’t have gotten her 12-million-dollar book deal, but who cares?


The point is, I whole-heartedly endorse this liar/crackhead's advice. It saved my reputation once and could save yours too one day. Of course, you probably won't find yourself getting a hand job (or for my female-identifying readers, eaten out) in the Oval Office from a solid 4 (fine, 4.5 . . . I forgot everyone feels bad for her these days), but chances are that everyone, myself included, will have their Jesus-loving, calorie-tracking, pristine reputations called into question at some point in their lives.


And that’s the day they'll need this advice the most.


But before I go any further, quick shout out to my boy Willy the Bong Rat for providing the advice featured in today’s episode. To show my gratitude, I’ve launched a GoFundMe page to finance Willy's life-long dream of snorting crushed Xanax from a stripper’s butt in Tahiti. If you’re blessed enough to drop a few dollars, maybe even more,1 go show him some love. And give his story a quick read while you’re there. It’s actually pretty sad. He recounts it every time I see him—how the only reason he got into crack is that he accidentally mistook it for Pop Rocks at the age of thirty-five.  


Pretty embarrassing if you ask me, but it’s the reason I completely and undoubtedly believe him. 



Exhibit B: The time I drowned the lead singer of the Toothbrush Cult

When Detective Burnham or whatever his name was asked me whether I killed the guy in question, I said, “No, detective, I did not kill the lead singer of the Toothbrush Cult, but I did shit my pants in a Walmart parking lot once.”


It worked—with some further questioning, of course.  


“You what?” 


“I said, while I took no part in the unfortunate demise of one of the greatest indie vocalists in Buckwheat County, I did shit my pants in a Walmart parking lot once.”


“What does that have to do with anything?”


“It has everything to do with it. It’s my alibi.”


“Your alibi?”


“My alibi.”


“So you’re saying—”


“That while I was busy dropping a load in the Walmart parking, Mr. Ren was busy swallowing chlorine. I can’t be in two places at once, can I? Although . . . shitting my pants while simultaneously drowning a guy who, according to Wikipedia, is twice my height, would be a very impressive feat.” 


With that, I grabbed my complimentary water bottle, confident that I had made my case, and tried to leave. He blocked the door. “Which Walmart?”


“I don’t know. The one with the crackhead who sleeps in the Dora the Explorer sleeping bag. So sad. It only goes up to his knees.”


“So . . . if you were there . . . you must be on camera.”


“Yeah, I don’t know. I was parked in the back, so I might be out of frame—if they have cameras, that is.”


“How about a receipt? Did you purchase anything from Walmart that day?”


“I meant to, but then . . ." I point to my pants. "You can’t walk into a Walmart like that.” 


“Sure you can,” he joked. “Especially the Walmart in Buckwheat County.” 


I laughed, then he laughed—perhaps the beginning of a true friendship. It ended with me giving him Willy's contact info (back of Walmart, to the left) for a witness statement, as I knew for a fact Willy had seen me there that day.


Ghosts, pharaohs, dead grandmas—Willy always saw things that weren't there.


***


“Got it,” said Willy, rehearsing what I just told him. “Ate some bad meat and shit your pants around noon on October tenth.”


“And if this guy keeps asking you questions," I explained, “just do that thing where you pace the sidewalk screaming that Jesus Christ is our lord and savior. He’ll go away.” 


“That’s why I do it. I value my solitude."


As a thank you, I rewarded Willy that day with a steaming bucket of chicken wings. We sat together, backs against the wall, our mouths too full to talk. As I chewed my food, I watched in awe as Willy ripped off the chicken skin with the three teeth he had left. It was quite impressive, if you ask me.


"Hey," said Willy suddenly, licking the grease off his nubby fingers. "Why’d you kill the guy?”


“Slept with my wife.”


Willy offered me a sympathy cigarette. “Deserved.” 


“Yeah,” I said borrowing his lighter. “I found out she went to one of his concerts twenty-something years ago. That’s when it happened. I didn’t know her at the time, sure, but I’m the retrospective jealous type. You know what I mean? Had he done it now . . .” I dragged my cigarette, “I probably wouldn’t care.” 


“Makes totalllll sense, man,” said Willy with the type of utmost sincerity that just melts your heart. “Fuck that guy.” Then, for no reason at all, he broke out in his signature toothless laugh, quickly spiraling into his manic one. This was my cue to leave. I looked back at Willy one last time, in case my plan to avoid prison backfired and I never saw my favorite crackhead again. I soaked in the image, a beautiful one really, of Willy crab-walking into the sunset with a chicken bone in his mouth. For a moment, I was in awe, but that awe soon turned into fear.


Did I, after all my hard work, just store the one piece of information that could ruin my life in an unsecure, loose-handled vault?


But guess what? My boy Willy (whose real name it turns out is Theodore Wilkenshire the II according to his witness statement) came through! As another small token of appreciation, I surprised Willy with a thermal blue sleeping bag built for a man. Shortly after, I was delighted to discover that Mr. Ren’s Wikipedia page had been updated almost as swiftly as he had drowned.


“Bentley Ren,” I read out loud, “known professionally as The Cavity, is was an American vocalist best known as the lead singer for the indie band the Toothbrush Cult.”

______________________________________________________

1 While we appreciate donations both big and small, the more you can pitch in, the better. Strippers are charging ten percent more than they did twenty years ago, and for a guy who sleeps behind a Walmart in a Dora the Explorer sleeping bag, Willy has quite an exquisite taste when it comes to exotic artists. 

July 28, 2022 03:08

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6 comments

14:24 Nov 26, 2022

This piece is a pop-up parking lot carnival -- where did it come from? how long will it be here? Who cares. Pay your money. Strap it. Enjoy the Tilt-o-Whirl ride before the screws succumb to metal fatigue. The footnote was beautiful in its utter charming uselessness. How can you not fall in love with this writing style? It's like a kitten adopting you.

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Liv Chocolate
19:45 Nov 26, 2022

I love your comments! XD I actually contemplated taking down this strange pop-up parking lot carnival a few days ago, but you've encouraged me to keep it going

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Sophia Gardenia
22:29 Nov 16, 2022

LOL! 😂 You have a real talent for humor, Liv. Keep writing!

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Liv Chocolate
19:58 Nov 26, 2022

Thank you for the encouragement, Sophia!!! I'm happy you enjoyed it <3

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Hamah Tedertt
15:01 Aug 04, 2022

This made me keel over with laughter, you painted a wonderful mental image and I will take comfort in knowing that somewhere out there Willy is crab-walking into the sunset with a chicken bone in his mouth. Please keep them coming <3, you are by far my favorite author.

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Liv Chocolate
19:23 Aug 04, 2022

As you are mine. Thank you kind stranger.

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