The 30 Minute Murk-out

Friday, March 16, 2007

I had just returned from a filling breakfast at the diner down the street, when I was startled to discover that the door to my apartment was splintered and hung precariously from one hinge. I hesitated a moment, trying to determine what awaited me inside, but I could hear nothing but the refrain of “Splish, Splash I was Takin’ a Bath” blaring from within.

I was incensed. True, I do not live in the best part of town, but the thought that someone would break into my home and casually loot my apartment while listening to Bobby Darin was too much to bear. Who would dare invade my domain, heedless of the consequences? My rage boiled over, so intent was I upon entering my abode and beating the intruding miscreant to death.

And then, suddenly, I knew who it had to be.

Murk.

I could picture him splashing playfully in my bathtub, chest-deep in steamy water with soap bubbles clinging to the brim of his derby hat and the tips of his moustache. He would doubtless be playing with Randall, my rubber ducky, while Mrs. Dr. Murk scrubbed his back with a coarse sea-sponge. How I longed to burst in and knock the blaring radio into the tub with him, to avenge the intrusion and put an end to the ceaseless mind-games my infernal therapist subjected me to. But I would never get past his very capable and deadly Asian wife. Seething, I pushed open my door.

Dr. Murk was not in the bathtub. Instead, he was in my living room, dressed in a sweat-soaked tank top and extremely short shorts. In addition to his ever-present derby hat, he wore yellow terrycloth wristbands and ankle-weights strapped to red-striped athletic socks pulled up to his knees. He was marching in place, doing step aerobics upon a stack of papers I recognized as the manuscript for my novel,. The music came from my television, where an excited Richard Simmons faced a group of overweight women, performing the same exercises Murk was doing. “Ah, Piper,” said Dr. Murk as he heedlessly tread upon years of work. “Home at last, eh? It seems you caught me and the missus in the midst of our daily workout. Care to join us?”

I looked around but didn’t see Murk’s Asian wife anywhere. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment, Murk?!” I demanded, enraged.

“I told you, you thick-headed imbecile, the wife and I are ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’.”

“In my apartment?” I asked.

Murk stopped aerobicizing and made a point to look around as if noticing this for the first time. “Seems so,” he said.

“You broke my door, you inconsiderate bastard!”

“Hmm…yes. It was locked, you see.”

“I know!” I screamed. “I’m the one who locked it!”

“No doubt because you didn’t want anyone discovering these, eh?” Murk produced several magazines from behind his back.

“My secret porn stash!” I cried.

“Secret no longer, I’m afraid. It was child’s play to find your freezer safe, buried under dozens of frozen burritos. Then I stumbled on the key to it, hidden quite obviously between the covers of Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice that I discovered under your bed, contained within pockets of a pair of Z. Cavaricci pants I found in the box labeled ‘Chess King.” And what a find it turned out to be. Big Butt magazine—such rarified and impeccable taste you possess, Piper.” With a flourish, Murk opened one of the issues he held and eyed it with detached interest. “Well, there’s certainly no false advertising here.”

“Give those back!” I reached for the magazines, only to be seized roughly from behind. “Do not move, Piper-san,” said a female voice I knew all too well: Murk’s bodyguard, personal assassin and Asian wife, Mrs. Dr. Murk.

Dr. Murk tossed the incriminating pornography aside and continued as if uninterrupted, clasping his hands behind his back and beginning a slow pace back and forth. “While perusing your drivel-lined bookshelves, Piper, I noticed you have read Dune. Therefore I assume you are familiar with the gom jabbar, the Bene Gesserit test of humanity, but I will refresh your memory for the benefit of those who will no doubt read your whiny account of this day. My lovely wife wears upon her finger a poisoned needle. The slightest scratch from this ensures that you will die a most horrible and agonizing death. You will spasm uncontrollably and purge from every orifice, vomiting and shitting like a mink, doubtless biting though your own tongue in the process. I don’t need to remind you how desperately my lovely wife wants this to happen. She really loathes you, Piper, you know that?”

“Y-yes,” I said, fear and the four cups of black coffee I recently ingested threatening to loosen my bowels.

“Good,” said Murk. “Now, you will answer my questions. Should you even attempt to lie, my wife will prick you with that needle without the slightest hesitation, and the two of us will gleefully watch your demise. Understood?” I nodded as the frenzied, effeminate urgings of Richard Simmons, imploring the big girls to kick higher, continued over the sound of The Beach Boys’ “Help Me, Rhonda”.

“First…why have you not updated your website in months?”

“What…what do you mean?” I asked. The needle flicked slightly towards my face.

“I would advise against making me repeat myself,” Murk said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Murk!” I said, frantic. “I did update my website, just last week.”

Murk considered this. “Really?” he asked.

“Yes, really. And I’ve resumed my book reviews. I just put up the second one in 3 weeks!”

“I see.” Murk motioned and his Asian wife grudgingly released her iron hold. “What about that pathetic blog of yours?”

“I put up a poem by Langston Hughes a week or so ago—“

“Hughes,” Murk made a face. “A minor poet of middling talent.”

“Are you insane?! He was the father of the Harlem Renaissance and one of the greatest poets America has ever produced!”

“Oh…you mean that Langston Hughes. Well, no matter.”

I exploded. “And I put up another post today! God damn it, Murk, you haven’t even been to my website, have you?”

“Of course not, Piper. Do you think I actually care about anything you write?”

“Then—then why do all this?” I stammered.

“No particular reason, although I must confess I had a morbid curiosity to see how you live.” Murk cast a disdainful look about the room. “Nice place. I’m thinking about giving up the palatial estate and renting the apartment across the hall. We could be neighbors.” I stared at him in disbelief. “Anyhoo, we should be going,” Murk said cheerfully as his Asian wife wrenched open my broken door and casually dropped it on the floor of my apartment. “We took the Murk-copter today. It’s parked on the roof. There’s probably significant structural damage to your building by now, but from the looks of this place I’d say a leaky roof is the least of your problems,” Murk said as they took their leave.

“Oh, and keep the Richard Simmons tape, Piper, and try not to use it for anything other than its intended purpose. Which is exercise, by the way, not eye-candy.”