I'M A BOUNCER

By Michael O'Hare (Not a Bouncer, But Still Capable of Feeling Love)
IN COLOR
A QUINN MARTIN PRODUCTION

I'm a bouncer. Not a fat guy, but a bouncer. I kick the crap out of people if we don't want them in our club.

I work at this nice club called The Drunken Despot. Nice little place, right in the middle of New York, not easy to spot, well concealed from the average folk prancing and gadding about this city. And, it's a good thing, too, because this club isn't exactly what you'd call on the level.

At the Drunken Despot, you can get just about anything you want. Drugs, sex, alcohol brands you didn't know existed, a good beating, every type of sexual kink that doesn't involve permanent damage or killing, things built FOR YOUR MAN PART (!), or even, if you're lucky, the true meaning of friendship and teamwork, and, just maybe, love. Once you get past me, and into the club, there's not much that's illegal, anymore.

There's the catch, though. You've got to get past me. I'm a bouncer, and I kick ass. I mean that both figuratively and literally. I'm Hella Tough, sucka.

My main job is to check people for weapons, or anything else we don't allow inside, although that list is pretty damned small. I've confiscated just about every weapon that's ever been made. Guns, knives, swords, explosives, pointed sticks, crazy women they stuffed in a bag and hoped nobody would notice, rats, rats with guns, bees, bees with little tiny guns that shot little tiny bullets. You name it, I've taken it away from people. Only one person's ever gotten past me, some dart - throwing, blonde tart, and she hit me with a rubber ball before stealing the picture of a sailboat over the bar and yelling something about deceptive beauties, or some such crap. I think she was insane, so it doesn't count.

There's something else about me, something that people might find odd. I like throwing midgets. Wait, let me rephrase that: I LOVE throwing midgets.

I first learned about this during the Annual International Bouncer Championships. It attracted bouncers from around the world, many coming just for the competitions, and many others also coming for the chance to learn about bouncing procedures from other cities and countries. Did you know that in Puerto Rico, all bouncers have the right to declare martial law within the space of the bar they work? It's true! Bouncers in Russia are taught the ability to take the form of water! Anyway, one of the events at this fine Championship was the dwarf toss. Yeah, you heard me, the fucking dwarf toss. Jesus Christ, I have no idea how I survived before I knew about this concept. If you've never tossed a midget before, I truly recommend you do so.

I don't know what drove me, but I won first prize that day as if I'd been hurling midgets my entire life.

Here's the nicest thing about my hobby... or addiction. Midgets seem to flock to the nightclub. For some reason, The Drunken Despot seems to attract lots of midgets. Of course, none of them ever get in, because I hurl them as hard as I possibly can. Sometimes, I try to justify the hurlings, calling a pen or a bow tie a weapon, and using that as an excuse for hurling them into the dark, moonlit sky. Most of the time, though, I don't even bother with that. I just pick the little fuckers up and throw them as hard as I possibly can the second they start speaking to me. They protest, they struggle, no doubt about it, but they usually only have three seconds to do so, because I can wind up and throw really fast. After that, the thrill of tossing some abnormally small human being violently through the air is something I want to feel right away.

It's possible I may have killed a midget or two at some point, I don't know. I can never see where they land, because I work the night shift, and I can throw midgets really good. All I know of a tossed midget is their quickly fading scream, as their comical little bodies flail in the air and disappear into the night.

It's a very nice spectacle to behold, believe me, it really is.

Sadly, tonight doesn't seem like a midget - tossing night. So far, the only people I've turned away, or beaten the living crap out of, are the usual, largely unimpressive lot of losers you'd expect to try to get into the city's most popular semi - legal spot. Also, about five minutes ago, this guy who called himself "The World's Strongest Pacifist" came by, but he refused to back up his statement, surely enough. I let him in, only because he gave me a slinky. I like slinkys. They remind me of my first girlfriend, The Amazing Bendina. She worked at a carnival/sex shop. It was called the Sexival Carn Shop. Oh, the things The Amazing Bendina could do...

But, aside from that one little piece of nostalgia, absolutely nothing interesting has happened at all tonight. I basically set in for a boring night of just punching people armed with razor sharp CDs.

That's when he shows up. Another midget.

You'd think that, after all this time, the midgets would stop showing the Hell up. But, no, they've just got to try. This makes me happy.

Anyway, this midget comes walking down the road, and stops in front of me, all dressed up like a little Humphrey Bogart from some midget production of Casablanca. He stops in front of me, not all that aware of the fact that I'm trying hard not to giggle like a horny catholic schoolgirl in a french tickler factory, and speaks.

"I'd like to enter the Drunken Despot, please."

Now, bailing the fact that you could misconstrue that statement to believe that this midget wants to have sex with an intoxicated Pinochet, the thing that gets me chuckling is his voice. It sounds just like a silly midget voice. Imagine what it would sound like if the lead singer of Air Supply sucked in a lungful of helium after someone kicked him in the nuts with a sandpaper covered boot. Well, this guy's voice sounds ten times higher than that.

"What the Hell are you laughing at?" he yells at me. To be honest, he shouldn't even be standing in front of me, right now. He should be sailing through the air like a Surface to Air OompaLoompa (SAOL). But, damnit, it's really hard to pick a midget up and lob him when you're laughing your ass of at his voice.

"I'm laughing at your voice, shorty," I finally manage to say. "What, are you just fucking with me, or are you some Goddamned helium addict? Ha ha ha ha ha!"

"This is my natural voice, shitstain!" he yells back angrily. Well, thanks, twerp. Now I have more than enough justification to hurl your tiny little ass into the romantic New York night. But, not yet. I'm going to drink in the beauty of this situation. I have the perfect midget in front of me, and I want to savor this moment before I take full advantage of it.

"So, let me get this straight, Tiny," it's very hard for me to talk, since I'm still giggling like a ticklish 12 - year old Vietnamese whore being tackled by a man in a chicken suit. "You're a midget with a funny, squeaky voice, FOR REAL!"

"YES!" the midget screams. "What the Hell do I have to do, draw you a Goddamn... Hey, what are you doing? Why are you looking at me like that? Stay away from me, you cockspit! Let go of me! SWEET JESUS WHAT ARE YOU DOING OHGODNOHELPMEMOTHEROFGODNOOOOOOOOoooooooo..."

I'm as appreciative of the abstract beauties of life as the next guy, but I could only hold back for so long. So, off he goes. Before he could even finish his insult, I have him in my hella tough grasp, and before he could formulate a decent cry for help, he's sailing through the air like some freakish midget Thanksgiving Parade float that some ants had constructed and deliberately let go of. I don't see where he lands, I never do, and I never bother going to check where tossed midgets might land. I never even hear about them in the newspapers.

As the tossed midget's silly, shrieking voice trails off into the night, I'm filled with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction and joy that one might normally get from taking drugs. But, like I said, I am addicted to midget tossing. It IS my addiction. And, goddamn, if it isn't the most kickass addiction ever, I don't know what is.

Satisfied beyond measure, I settle down for the coming night. No doubt, somebody's going to try to smuggle in some gun made out of cheese, or a box of angry hermit crabs. Those hermit crabs can shoot your thumb off at thirty paces, you know. But, as it turns out, my fun's nowhere near over.

I hear singing coming from the darkness. It sounds just like the midget I just tossed, only more than one. At first, I think he not only survived, but that he reproduced asexually, and has come for revenge. And, you know, that WOULD be a terrifying prospect, were it not a midget. I focus into the night to see what approaches.

As it turns out, it's not the same midget. God knows what happened to him. It's MORE MIDGETS! At least fifteen of them, and their marching down the sidewalk, singing that Lollipop Guild song from the Wizard of Oz. Sweet Jesus, I don't even dream about opportunities like this! Chances are, they don't even want to come into the club. But I sure a Hell am NOT going to let this opportunity pass me by!

As the head OompaLoompa passes me, I yell out to him.
"HEY!"
"Yeah? What?" His voice sounds even squeakier than the last guy's, it's all I can do to keep from wetting myself in laughter.
"You wanna get into this club?"
"Hmmmm..." he says, "The Drunken Despot. Looks interesting, but-"
"You can't!" I don't even let him finish, as I hoist him up over my head. "Your pants are weapons! ACCESS DENIED!"

With that, I launch the midget into the air, his little limbs flailing madly in the air like some sort of mad misfired rocket that somehow grew limbs and a squeaky voice. I tell you, this feeling's better than sex! That is, of course, unless your idea of sex involves tossing midgets. In that case, you rule!

I don't have too long to enjoy, since I've got a troupe of angry midgets before me, now.

"Holy shit! Holy fucking shit!" One of the midgets is yelling. His voice is even higher than the last two I tossed. I can't hold back my laughter, anymore.
"And he's laughing about it!" This one sounds like a chipmunk. I'm literally peeing my pants, at this point, I'm laughing so hard.
"GET HIM!"

... Okay, NOW I'm not laughing.

What follows is a series of events that I can only described as screwed up. I get tackled by a small force of midgets, and they start crawling all over me like flies, beating at me uselessly with their little limbs, screaming at me with their funny little voices. I take a full minute to do nothing but laugh and giggle like an idiot, before I start tossing. Oh, man, what a beautiful thing to see. One by one, their little forms flying through the air, arms flailing, squeaky voices fading into the night. It was like some insane version of the 1812 Overture. Several of the midgets go for my legs, which leads me to discover a new hobby: Dwarf kicking! Suddenly, I'm a football star, scoring the winning field goal in the Midget Bowl 3000. It's Heaven, I tell you! Midget - tossing Heaven! OH, YEAH!

My midget - tossing extravaganza lasted all of one minute, but it felt like an entire year's worth of tossing, to me. The midgets were all gone, now. They'd sailed off into the night, never to return, never to be heard from, again. And, as I stood there, aware only of my own joy, allowing several heavily armed Nazi Storm troopers to enter the bar and order beers with an evil tone, I realized something: This was, without a doubt, the greatest night of my life.

Yeah, that's right, I'm a bouncer. I toss midgets. Screw you.

THE END (OR IS IT?)

...

...

...
(YEAH, IT IS. SORRY IF I GOT YOUR HOPES UP.)

DISCLAIMERS)
I own this story! It gonna rain!

AUTHOR'S NOTES
Oh, shit! I can't believe I wrote this! Holy fucking shit, I can't believe I wrote this! Oh, Jesus, mother of Mary, I can't believe I wrote this! I RULE! IN YOUR FACE, NON-MIDGET-WRITING-ABOUT PEOPLE! Stick that in your fanfic bong and smoke it! YEAH!

Anyway, if you're wondering about the inspiration for this story, it's Mr. T. Yeah, that's right, Mr. T, back when he was a bouncer, used to toss midgets in Bouncer Competitions. I kid you not. That's not to say that the bouncer in this story IS Mr. T, because it isn't. It's just a nameless bouncer that likes to hurl midgets. There's nothing wrong with that, right?

... Okay, his name is ShattenJager. Happy? No? Forget it, then. No Name Bouncer.

Look, it took me a while to convince myself I should write this, and I had such a Goddamn blast writing it, I think it's fair to say that this is the greatest fanfic to ever grace this page. Seriously. If I don't get at least fifteen review to this story, Good OR Bad, I'm going to be severely disappointed with all of you. So, tell your friends about it! DO IT!

Yeah, I'm happy with this story. I wonder if anyone else has written about midget tossings... If so, do speak up. You deserve praise, as do I!