Anyway, Gay Johnny and I each made seven figures on this old building I purchased back in the eighties. Johnny turned my shithole property into a hot popular brewpub down in Old City maybe eight years ago. Big, big, big fucking coin was made by all parties involved. Win, win, win. So we’re tight, Johnny and yours truly. Anyone who helps me make serious money is okay in my book, no matter where he may or may not insert his dick.
Here’s another good thing about homos. They are extremely thoughtful and surprisingly patriotic. Since I’ve known them, Johnny and Timmy have sent me a card every year on Veterans Day, thanking me for my service. And there is always a little notice stating that they donated money to a charity that supports US veterans. They donate in my name too, which is a nice touch, even though they get to keep the tax write-off for themselves. My favorite gay couple hasn’t missed a single year yet. They have no idea what the fuck thanking me for my service means, because they have never been to war, but I appreciate the sentiment. Actually goes a long way with me, especially when I consider how many heterosexuals say fucking zilch to me on Veterans Day, let alone make a donation to help my brothers-in-arms.
So these two are okay in my book. Any day of the week, I’ll take a classy pair of gays who say “Thank you for your service” over a million straight ignorant assholes who say nothing at all to combat veterans. The gays can hump each other all they want as long as they are patriotic, because that’s true American freedom. Love your country. Period. And Timmy and Johnny proudly fly the stars and stripes from their home on historic Elfreth’s Alley, which is a detail not lost on me.
Any fucking way, I’m in Gay Timmy’s spin class, riding the bike, sweating my motherfucking nuts off, when I smell nuoc mam, which is a Vietnamese fish sauce.
Fucking nasty awful stuff. Make you wanna puke, just smelling it.
I scanned the room using the mirrors on the walls and found the culprit pretty easily. There was this little Vietnamese broad toward the front pedaling fiercely, sweating up a goddamn rice-paddy monsoon. The fish sauce smell had to be coming through her pores, no doubt, I initially thought.
This fucked up my spin class experience, to say the least. Timmy kept saying, “Keep pedaling, David! You can do it! Beauty is paid for in sweat!” because my ass was dragging. He usually doesn’t have to single me out like that. I generally can keep up, because I am a tough motherfucker and don’t you forget it. So he knew there was something wrong right away when he saw me putting in a subpar spin.
What Timmy didn’t understand was this: Back in Vietnam, I used to set up with a sniper rifle downwind of a trail. I’d smell the gooks before I ever saw them. I don’t have miraculous powers when it comes to my nose. But nuoc mam stinks. Fucking hell, it’s a truly terrible potion. You can smell it from miles away. Eat that stuff, and it’s like you sweat rancid putrid liquefied fish guts for days. The little bastards in Vietnam love that shit too. Drink it down by the bottle. And whenever I got a whiff of it during my tour, that meant I was going to do some killing. So you can imagine what the scent of nuoc mam does to my brain when it comes to triggers and flashbacks here in the USA. Takes me right back to the jungle.
“Get that ass up in the air, David!” Timmy yelled at me. “Pedal like your life depends on it!”
Timmy was pushing me like he was paid to do, because he is an extraordinary motivator when it comes to fitness, but he didn’t know that I was in kill mode at the time. Civilians don’t understand kill mode because that switch in their brain has never been activated. So I didn’t blame Timmy. He didn’t know any better. Instead, I just got off my bike and hit the shower early. I gave Timmy a wave on the way out, letting him know I was okay, but he looked concerned nonetheless.
Gays are pretty perceptive when it comes to feelings, which is another thing I admire about them. If ever I’m sending flowers to someone, I always make sure I hire a gay florist. You’d have to be a fucking moron to hire a straight man to arrange flowers. Gays are the best when it comes to floral arrangements. I regularly send flowers to Geraldine, my old secretary from my banking days, because she’s a classy lady and her husband, Carl, died a few years ago, so he obviously can’t send her flowers anymore. Geraldine is black, by the way—if you couldn’t tell by the name—and what racist sends a black lady flowers multiple times a year, let alone hires a black secretary in the eighties? I’d like to see my liberal son go back in time and hire a black before it became the trend. People praise you for hiring blacks today. You were punished, back in my day.
And if you’re thinking, How the hell did the foulmouthed son of a bitch telling you this story ever make it in the banking world? you don’t understand real estate investment. I wasn’t a born-rich New York banker in a ten-thousand-dollar suit getting cute little manicures during Friday lunch breaks so I’d look refined in the Hamptons on the weekend. I was a Philly banker kicking ass on my city’s streets. Hustling. Making prime-time players real money. And if you make money for the right sort of men, you can do and say pretty much whatever the fuck you want.
After I showered and dressed, I waited around for spin class to end because I didn’t want to offend Timmy and get kicked out of the best class in the city, nor did I want to risk offending Johnny, with whom I hoped to make a lot more money in the future. It’s been my experience that if you offend one gay, you offend them all. They stick together, so you have to be careful. I never want to be on the wrong side of a queer parade because there is no fucking end to a gay political movement once they get their minds made up, which is another thing I admire about them. They are a strong people with a rock-solid resolve. Don’t fuck with the gays. Trust me.
So I’m standing there outside the class when it ends and everyone starts leaving the room, headed for the showers, except the little Vietnamese lady. She’s talking to Timmy, and they keep touching each other’s arms like gays and women do when they are close, which is when I realized that the gook must be friends with Timmy. I figured she was probably okay if she was Gay Timmy’s personal acquaintance, but I wasn’t sure I could control myself if I got another strong whiff of the mind-altering gook condiment known as nuoc mam.