“Welcome to The Sparrow Soliloquies with Simon Sparrow. This is Episode Forty-one: The Mystery of the Jade Platypus.
I am your host, Simon Sparrow. Jatt Starr. The Ruler of Jattlantis. The Champion of Jattanooga. The Hero of Jattlanta. The Jattlantic City idol. The Starrabian Knight. The Baron of Boca Jatton. The Earl of GlouStarr. The Sultan of SeaJattle. The Mayor of ManJattan. You know who I am.
I know it’s been a few weeks since my last show. To my fans, I appreciate the six of you for your patience. You know this little podcast was started last year as a way to break up the regularness of my life, battle the day to day boredom. Since my daughter showed up, I’ve posted less and less. But I am back, for now.
Where do I begin?
(pause, the sound of sniffling)
(sound of the King of Grapple from the Big Apple taking a deep breath)
I guess, I should start with the beginning of the end. As you know, and if you don’t, you should….I have been mentoring Gilda in the ways of professional wrestling. I was her Jatt-i Master and she was my Padawan. She was a freaking natural. Had I not dragged her out of that Tag Title match, she would have been undefeated and a champion.
So much potential. So much raw talent. She could have become a bigger name than me.
Anyway, we had just gotten back home. She had defeated Bobby Dean. We were riding a high. But of course, she had to that damned N’Sync CD Mario Maurako repeatedly to the point where I actually think they are not half bad. We got some Chicago Deep Dish pizza from…..i forget. It’s no New York pizza but it was good.
We talked. I mean really talked. I shared some of my road stories from my days teaming with Max Kael. I told her about the good times I had with Mario. She told me how she learned to create a Bowie knife using a San Mai technique involving a taco. It really went over my head, to be perfectly honest. But she shared that memory, that’s the important thing.
She told me about her mother. It was hard for her. She didn’t let me in, but she opened the window. She alluded to some of the malicious acts performed by the Children of Ota’Topeht under the guise of religious responsibilities. Degenerates.
I’ve flushed more honorable turds than those Elder bastards.
We arrived home late Sunday night. I had something special for her. I gave her two jerseys. An old Starrvivor: Maurako jersey of mine. One of three in existence. Mario has one, Gilda has one, and I have the other. The other jersey i gave her, I had custom made. It’s a “Gilda Starr” baseball jersey. It’s lavender with hot pink lettering with some silver glittery sequins for some added panache. She hugged me. What a smile she had. I think it was the sequins.
Since it was a long travel day, we just went to bed soon after. I would have fallen asleep right away, but she was listening to that N’Sync CD in her room.
The next morning, I needed to run some errands. The usual, get some groceries, et cetera. I was gone for two and a half hours. When I came back….
There was a body on the floor and the entire room was ransacked. My coffee table was destroyed. There was glass and magazines all over the floor. Chairs toppled over. My collection of canes were knocked over. I picked one of them up. It had a stainless steel head with the words “Mister Whacky” etched into it. It was a gift from….who was it? It doesn’t matter. Armed with Mister Whacky, I dropped the groceries and screamed out looking for Gilda.
There was no response.
I went to the body, it was a guy. His freaking emaciated, Skelton looking face was bloodied and beaten to a pulp. I don’t think his own mother would have recognized him. His left leg was twisted worse than Alex Smith’s or Joe Theismann’s. It was gross. Like nauseatingly gross.
Bu the weird thing was, this guy had a potato shoved in his mouth. He was struggling to breathe, snot and blood shooting from his nose. I yanked the spud from his mouth, grabbed the guy by his collar and began shaking him, screaming at him, “Where’s Gilda?! Where’s my daughter?!” There may or may not have been some colorful language.
All I got was more wheezing, some gurgling, and tooth falling out of his mouth.
Naturally, I called the sheriff. Eight minutes later the cops showed up. The man’s name was Paxton Price. Utah driver’s license. The EMS took him away. I was stuck answering questions like ‘When did you leave?”, “When did you arrive home?”, “Where were you?”, “Did you know the victim?’, “Where’s your daughter now?”
Paxton fucking Price. It’s very clear he’s one of those culty pricks that Gilda was running away from.
I told them that I had security cameras installed about two years ago. I had a strong suspicion that my neighbor, Walt, was stealing my paper. Not the point. They have motion sensors. We reviewed the footage. The cops were pretty satisfied with what they saw but there are questions. Questions I am not in a position to answer.
Ten minutes after I left, a car pulls up. This Paxton Price fuck gets out of his car and he’s not alone. With him is this woman. Long light brown hair? Her hands are bound. She’s got what looked like a black eye and a fat lip. He’s dragging her out by her hair. She seems to be crying, pleading with him.
He punches her the face. Not a slap. Not a backhand like in the movies. Straight on punch to the face. He drags her to my porch by her hair like a caveman. Her legs flailing. I felt like throwing up watching it.
This dirtbag then knocks on my door. Like he’s a freaking FedEx guy delivering a package. He drags the woman to her feet. The door opens and there’s Gilda, Was there a look a of recognition? Shock? I couldn’t tell then because the donkey’s wang, Paxton shoves the woman through the door, pushing Gilda back, then he barges into MY house and the door closes behind them. The feed stops.
According to the time stamp forty minutes went by before the feed come back. It certainly did not take Gilda forty minutes to pound this low life’s face into sausage. Unless she took her time. Either way, he deserved it.
Anyway, the feeds come back on and the woman, is trying to run from the house, pulling Gilda with her. She doesn’t seem like she wants to go but she has her backpack. The same backpack she had when she showed up at my doorstep. The woman looks like she is yelling, no, that’s not the right word, not yelling, she doesn’t seem angry. She’s more likely begging Gilda. Waving her over. Gilda, who doesn’t seem to have a scratch on her runs back in. The woman continues to yell for about a minute at my door.
Then Gilda comes running out. She’s wearing the “Gilda Starr” jersey and has the Starrvivor: Maurako jersey in her hands.
(Sniffling followed by the sound of Jatt Starr clearing his throat)
The woman gets into the driver seat of the car as Gilda looks up at the camera. She mouths “I’m sorry” before getting the car. Excuse me.
Sorry. I’m trying to not break down like Mario at the end of “The Shawshank Redemption”. Or, from what I hear, anyone watching “This is Us”. Never seen it, it seems like emotional manipulating garbage, just give me “Stranger Things”, “The Boys”, or “The Sopranos”. Back to the story, as soon as the car reverses out of frame the feed ends until I show up.
She did leave me a note. It says:
She’s alive. She’s here. I have to go with her. Need answers.
So, that’s that. The fact that my little girl kicked that wretched prick’s ass, I have never been prouder. I hope she gets the answers she seeks. I hope she finds peace of mind. I hope I hear from her again.
So, uh, yeah, she’s gone now. Story of my life. Everyone leaves. Look, I don’t want to turn this into a pity party for the Sovereign of Starrgentina, but I am just stating fact. My ex-wife and son want nothing to do with me.
Ironic, don’t you think? That Gilda’s next match would have been against Simon Loveless. Who’s feeling more “loveless” now than Simon Sparrow?
Simon Loveless. Getting a win because Gilda left with her mother. Forfeiting a match?. Not on my watch! I might not be able to protect Gilda, but I am her father and I will protect her reputation. I will not allow Simon Loveless to win just because she didn’t show up and he did. Not my daughter! She’s worked too hard for it to end like that! I don’t know what will happen, but it certainly won’t be Simon Loveless in the middle of an empty ring and getting his hands raised for doing his best Shane Reynolds emo impersonation or whatever the heck it is that he does.
Listeners, I will figure this out. I don’t know who I need to talk to or where to send the hookers. Sorry, “high class escorts”, You can’t see me, but I’m using finger quotes. I will come up with something.
Not for me.
Thank you for listening.
As always, shout out to my loyal listening audience:
MetallicaRules Two-One-Eight-Seven-Nine-Twenty-two. They’re no ABBA, but their music is pretty good.
FryGuyPiGuy – Math sucks but I dig fries.
FootFetish Nine-Nine-Nine-Nine-Six-Six-Six-Zero – Please don’t direct message me anymore, perv. As soon as I figure out how to block you, I will.
JattsNumberOneFan and JattlantisRising – Thanks for listening. I do this for you, my adoring fans.
MikeBestSucks – He certainly does.
Have a good night everyone. And until next time, ah who cares?”
::::Jatt Starr grabs the tear and snot infested tissues that have accumulated next to his laptop and places them into his lap. He backs his wheelchair and he rolls into the kitchen where he discards them in his stainless steel trash can he purchased from Walmart. He wheels himself back into the living room. The glass shards from the vase that has been in his family for eight months (Pier One was having a sale) have been properly discarded. The magazines not covered with spatters of blood have been saved and stacked on the couch. The rest were tossed. There’s a small brown stain around two inches in diameter and several smaller stains on the rug. Dried blood. Tomorrow, it will be off to Trader Joe’s or Walmart for cleaning supplies. And gloves. Lots and lots of gloves.
The AmStarrdam Duke’s phone vibrates next to his computer. He picks it up. “DON MARVELOUS” is on the screen. He swipes up to answer and turns on the the speaker phone function.::::
JATT STARR: Hey Mario.
MARIO MAURAKO: Hey good buddy. I got your message. Can’t say i got all of it, but I got the gist of it and the general feeling I get from it is that it sucks.
JATT STARR: I know.
MARIO MAURAKO: So, is she like “gone” gone? Or is it more like kids acting out?
JATT STARR: Things were going great. This is not a case of Gilda acting out.
MARIO MAURAKO: Kids are weird. I had a neighbor whose kid wore a suit and a briefcase. i saw that kid on more than one occasion drive his parents’s care. Come to think of it, he also had gray hair. Maybe that WAS my neighbor. But he had a Hummer. Do little people drive Hummers?
JATT STARR: Mario, there’s no time for tangents.
MARIO MAURAKO: Hold on.
::::There is silence on the other end of the line. After about fifteen seconds the Marvelous One returns.::::
MARIO MAURAKO: I’m back! All I’m saying is, some kids rebel and spraypaint penises on statues, some shoplift, some run away, some get fat, some become strippers.
JATT STARR: Oh Jesus. I hadn’t even thought of that….
MARIO MAURAKO: She’s a health nut, Jattman! Didn’t you tell me that she eats kale like normal people eat potato chips? Her weight won’t be an issue. But if it is, it is very important not to body shame. Avoid phrases like “fatty”, “wide load”, “piggy”, “Shamu” is another bad one that—-
JATT STARR: No! The stripper thing!
MARIO MAURAKO: I’d be more concerned with her weight than her gyrating against a pole, good buddy. She seems kinda prudish to me.
:::Jatt Starr sighs with a hint of frustration.:::
MARIO MAURAKO: Did she give any indication to where she may have gone? Your message was pretty nonsensical. You were talking faster than the MicroMachines guy.
JATT STARR: You would not believe it if I told you.
MARIO MAURAKO: You know me, I’ll believe anything.
JATT STARR: Her mother is apparently alive and she left with her.
MARIO MAURAKO: I don’t believe it.
JATT STARR: Yeah. It sucks. She didn’t give any clues to where they might be going.
MARIO MAURAKO: Sorry, bro.
JATT STARR: It was nice having her around. We connected recently.
MARIO MAURAKO: She’ll be back. You might be her father, but I am her Godfather. No way she’d flush that privilege down the toilet.
JATT STARR: I don’t know, Mario.
MARIO MAURAKO: What can I do? Keep in mind, I can’t do much. I’m the middle of an online bidding war for this George Foreman grill previously used by Sugar Ray Leonard and signed by Tommy Morrison from “Rocky Five”.
JATT STARR: Seriously?
MARIO MAURAKO: It’s being auctioned off by a guy named Sal from Tacoma, Washington. It’s totally legit.
JATT STARR: Mario, I need to do something about her match Saturday night. She’s made so much progress. And now, her name will be synonymous with—-
MARIO MAURAKO: Bolting?
JATT STARR: No.
MARIO MAURAKO: Quitting? Oh damn, she didn’t quit did she?
JATT STARR: No. At least, I don’t think so. But not showing—-
MARIO MAURAKO: So what you’re saying is, Gilda Starr is still on the roster, right?
JATT STARR: Yeah, but no freaking way Simon Loveless is going to make a name for him——
MARIO MAURAKO: And you don’t want her contract nullified or breached or whatever it is you want to keep her in the HOW. You want to keep her legacy alive, blah, blah, blah. I got it. You came to the right person. I know how to make this whole thing A-Okay.
::::There is a long pause.::::
JATT STARR: Your suggestion would be…..?
MARIO MAURAKO: One word: Loophole.
JATT STARR: What?
MARIO MAURAKO: Find the loophole. Oh, man this jerk just bid twenty-five—-
JATT STARR: Thousand?
MARIO MAURAKO: No, just twenty five dollars. It’s not Gordy Howe’s Foreman Grill. Thirty! BAM! Like that, bitch??? Yeah!!! Take it!!!
JATT STARR: You’ve given me something to consider, Mario.
MARIO MAURAKO: Don’t you dare go thirty-five!
JATT STARR: Thanks Mario. You’re a true friend.
MARIO MAURAKO: Ohhhhh! That skank! He went to FORTY!!!! It’s not even worth that much!!! Dammit!!! Let’s see how you like this: forty-five motherfu——
:::Jatt Starr disconnects the line and sits in silence for a moment. He removes his New York Mets baseball cap and rubs his hands through his receding hairline (receding is a generous term, a few more lost follicles and he’ll adopt the nickname Peter Starr-mare). He tosses the Mets cap onto the couch, it lands just short of the magazine pile and considers what Mario has told him.::::
JATT STARR: Loophole, huh? A loophole!
::::Suddenly, a light bulb goes off in Jatt Starr’s head and he excitedly rolls down the hallway until he gets to his room.::::
JATT STARR: A LOOPHOLE, GILDA! An Oedipal Loophole!
::::He looks over at the open door to Gilda’s room adjacent to his. There is sorrow in eyes as looks towards the empty room. He looks towards his own room and rises from his wheelchair. He twists to the right, the sound of his back cracking like twigs is heard. He twists to the left, more twiggy crunching sounds.
He enters his room and picks up the note that was left by his daughter. He looks at the part of the letter he did not share with his few listeners. It reads:
“P.S. I hope these answer at least a few of your questions about me and where I grew. Thank you. I will miss you.”
The note was left on top of two VHS tapes. One day, he will view those tapes using the VCR in the main bedroom of his apocalypse bunker in the back (which has been outfitted with an airlock just last week). Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Thursday. Maybe next week. But not tonight. There’s a loophole to exploit tonight.
The Marquis of MadagaStarr places the note on the desk next to the tapes. He walks over to his closet and pulls out a box. The contents of which he thought up until moments ago he would never have the opportunity to use. He opens the box. His eyes light up.
A plan comes together in his mind. Some might call it crazy, others diabolical, and still others might say ridiculous. The Jattvian Prince of Polka (given to him during one drunken thirty-six hour layover in Latvia sometime in 2007) looks the contents inside the box which is revealed to be:
A black baseball jersey with hot pink and silver sequin lettering that reads “GILDA STARR” on the front. On the back it reads “Number 1 Dad”.
He removes the navy blue button up shirt revealing a bit of a gut (but for the most part still in shape) and a body scarred from the multitude of matches and assaults he has endured over the last eighteen years. He picks up the “GILDA STARR” jersey and puts it on.
He walks over to mirror attached to his mahogany dresser located across from his king sized bed and looks at himself. He sucks in his gut and smiles across from his bed.::::
JATT STARR: Simon Loveless….meet Gilda Starr. Of course, we will have to do something about the hair….
::::The scene fades to black as Jatt Starr continues to map out the details of his brilliant, nay, GENIUS scheme.::::