Fred Dick
· Character Development Promo
· Apr 7, 2024
Mike Kafka's, "Metamorphbrosis"
You've reached Fred.
I'm unable to answer the phone at this time. Don't fucking leave a message, okay? I'm sick of fucking messages, okay? I fucking hate messages. Unless this is Lindsay Troy, of course, and you'd like to apologize for SCREWING MY ASS OVER IN WALES.
God damn it Lindsay, you assho'.
beep.
"Hey Fred... It's Randi."
"You can't be a winner and a hot dog at the same time, Fred, you fuggin' dumb ass. LOL. Fuggin' soft ass little boy. Get you some tissues, crybaby lil bitch."
- Confucius
Hello.
'Tis I.
Reality.
I know, I know. I possess no doubt that you are quite tired of hearing from me. I understand, and in many respects, I empathize. However, I am here for your own good.
I'm trying to protect you.
Because once again, Fred intends to lie to you. To gaslight you.
To make you believe that I have no constraints placed upon his existence.
If you were to make the awful mistake of extending unto him the benefit of the doubt, or worse, choosing to believe him, chances are high that he would find a way to ruin your life.
It is simply how he is, my dear.
It is how he always will be.
Adapt or die.
Now... is this particular lie that he wants to tell you even remotely believable?
No. Not in the slightest.
In fact, it is, incredibly, most unbelievable.
So much so, that this time, I'm going to let him have control of the narrative. I'm going to let him lie to you. Because what he's about to indulge you with is mere fantasy.
A dream.
A dream that, for some reason, he very much wishes was real.
A dream that, for some reason, he very much desires you to believe.
Are his dreams any more worthless than yours?
Perhaps.
Are his reasons any less meaningful?
Perhaps.
Nevertheless, I feel that in this particular case, it is safe for Fred Dick to be heard.
After all, this place? It is a safe space for Fred Dick to express himself.
Oh, and what is this place, you ask? It exists upon the very planes of existence that your mortal brain can only envision via imaginative proxy. A place where the absurdity of existence is examined and addressed with deceit and intellectual subterfuge.
A place where a thought can be a weapon.
A place where a hotdog can be more than a hotdog.
Welcome, one and all, to the very landscape of Fred's deranged mind.
Welcome to Fred Dick's theatre of the absurd.
"What have I become,
my sweetest friend?
Everyone I know
goes away in the end."
- Hurt, NIN
My ex-wife made me feel bad about myself last night. She called me and said a bunch of mean shit. She told me I lost. She told me I was a loser. She said I had a little Oscar Meyer Wiener dick. She said even though I helped my daddy escape prison, he went and joined up with my mortal enemies.
Now, I'm old enough to know that words ain't got no power by themselves. They can't hurt you on their own.What hurt me was that... well, she was right.
You know, folks always say that I tell lies. Maybe I do and maybe I dont. But even if I did tell lies, at least I wouldn't be telling the truth.
it's the truth that kills you, ain't it?
So there I was in a London Ramada Inn (3.5 stars, classy af), lying on a queen sized, thinking about everything she said to me.
She really hurt my feelings, y'all.
She hurt them real bad.
And as I was lying there, I began to have the strangest sensations. As though the bones in my body had coagulated and joined my meat. Like my dickinbaws got ripped off by a damn silverback gorilla, tossed in a fuckin' blender with a bunch of pig assho's and cow ears, and then got funneled down my throat without my consent. As though my skin were nothing more than a thin, salty casing for my stinky ol' meat blend. As though I were held snuggly in a jacket made of bread and sesame seeds.
I smelled pig testicles, and mustard.
I felt char grilled.
I felt burnt.
Had I done become Icarus, took the wings my daddy fashioned for me, and become enamored with the sun, obsessed, only to crash and burn amongst the dipshids below me?
Naw.
Somethin' far shiddier than that, I'd done become.
I'd done become a hot dawg.
And pretty soon?
All the bigwigs in London that had a hankering for my fuckin' meat were gonna try and take a bite.
Even though I'd become a hot dawg while lying around in an old Ramada Inn, I figured, fuck it, you know, what's the worst thing that could happen? Nearly everybody in the world is a hot dog. They just hide it. But I can't hide it. So I might as well embrace it.
I must've squirted seventeen thousand individually sized mustard packets on myself (I took them from the kitchen supply walk-in Frigidaire) before I headed out the Ramada Inn and into the world of London, England.
Everything was lame and also stupid. The sky sucked. The people sucked. A lot of people were faking cringe Caribbean accents, the city was a fucking mess and a cesspool of hot dawgs in disguise.
Not me. I was letting my Hot Dawg flag fly.
It wasn't too long 'fore I stumbled upon an e-scooter. I hopped on that bitch and started hootin' and hollerin' and scootin' and boofin' all over London. Was I joyridin'? Was I hotdawgin'? You bet that sweet ass I was. Thing is, it turns out that when you are just out in the world, being your natural hot dawg self, you start gettin' recognized for it.
"Mummy, mummy," one little piece of shit British boy said. "That's the prick that lost to Jason Snow at Culture Shock!"
"Shut your mouth kid before I kick your mama in the taint," I replied.
I could go on and on with examples, I really could. But all of them are more or less like that.
A few of them were, however, noticeably different.
Men with business cards. Milquetoast. White. Old. Rich.
Told ol' Hot Dawg Dick to give them a call.
I told them, "Maybe I will maybe I won't."
Then I said, "Watch this."
Then I did a sweet jump on the e-scooter. Almost stuck the landing all three times.
They were very impressed.
"Having read Mike Kafka's, 'Metamorphbrosis' not once, but seventeen times, I feel I am a foremost expert on Mike Kafka's seminal work. As such, I theorize that the reason he switched from first person to third person isn't so much that the narrator, uncomfortable with the rest of his story, attempted to distance himself and his psyche, as most Mike Kafka scholars purport was his subconscious intention. Rather, I contend that this narrative switch occurs precisely when Mike Kafka, the author of this important text, realizes he is, in fact, a shitty offensive coordinator at the NFL level."
-Michio Kaku
"DICK PILLS?" Dick asked. "Yeah. Dick Pills. Because you're Fred Dick. And it's... You know, dick pills." "Well, there's just one problem with that," Dick said.
It was a top floor conference room that looked like every other top floor conference room. A floor to ceiling window stretched across an entire wall, revealing the London skyline. An oval table that stretched across the near entirety of the room, surrounded by a bunch of milquetoast, white big wigs...
...and Hot Dawg Dick.
"I'm not a good brand ambassador on account of being a fuckin' hot dawg."
"We don't care that you're a hot dawg," the big wig with the biggest wig piped in. "See, the vast majority of our consumers are hot dogs just like you. Hot dogs who can't get a hard on. The most important thing to them is that their wives don't think they're hot dogs, and they won't, so long as they can get some ice hard rods for less than four hours at a time, on demand. Now, what's wrong with encouraging a bunch of hot dogs like yourself to eat a couple Dick Pills, and pop themselves a nice, ice hard--"
"Fuck off," said Hot Dawg Dick. "First of all, your accent is annoying as shid and completely fucked up. You ain't even saying it right you shiddy ol' assho'. It's pronounced 'hot dawg,' as in, 'I used to be a winner, but then I no contested a man name Beautiful Bobby, hot dawged against Jason Snow, and now I'm a hot dawg.' And you think I want to make money off that you stupid bitch? Motherfucker, I wish I had a rake so I could fuck all your faces up. God damn bunch of stupid ass motherfu--"
"DICK WEED!" A different milquetoast, white big wig representing a different company entirely said. "Y'all shidheads are pissing me off, now," said Hot Dawg Dick. "What the hell makes you think I wanna sell drugs?" "Hot dogs absolutely love drugs," the big wig replied.
Hot Dawg Dick once again found himself in one of those fucking conference rooms with the window wall and the skyline and the blah blah blah, but he was starting to feel some typa way.
"See," Dick said. "That's your fuckin' problem right there. Not everyone who became a hot dawg did it on account of drug use. Some folks became hot dawgs because they lost their job. Some folks became hot dawgs because they fell on hard times. Some folks became hot dawgs because their boss absolutely fucked them over clean on TV."
"So, to be clear," the big wig jackass said. "You do not want to make three bajillion dollars selling weed to hot dogs that get inspiration from a loveable hot dog like yourself? That's what you're saying? You're saying you're turning down three bajillion weed dollars?"
"Buddy, let me make something clear to you," Hot Dawg Dick said, standing to his feet. "There ain't enough weed dollars in the world to make me go on TV and sell drugs. If I was gonna sell drugs I'd do it the old fashioned way, with a horse and a buggy that has the word 'Elixirs' painted on it. But I don't have a horse. And I fucking HATE buggies."
Hot Dawg Dick marches towards the door. He swings it open, turns around, and looks at the table of big wigs.
"Y'all are a buncha knuckle dicks. And if y'all try to call me again, I'm gonna get a rake and come back here and fuck all your faces up."
"FREDDY'S GOT CHICKEN FINGERS!" "Go FUCK yourself!" Hot Dawg Dick screamed in response. "What could you possibly have against chicken fingers?" Yet another milquetoasty, frosty ol' big wig cried in yet another top floor conference room said.
"It's microwave chicken fingers assho'," Fred shouted! "And microwave meals at that price point are exclusively for hot dawgs. And I swear to FRICKIN CHRIST, y'all. The next group of big wigs that tries to exploit me, I'm bringing a rake and going to town like it's grandma's house in October."
"Totally," the big wig said. "Totally get that. The thing is, is you are a hot dog. You know? You hot dogged against Jason Snow. You nearly hot dogged against Beautiful Bobby. And you're probably going to hot dog again and again and again. Because you're a hot dog. And hot dogs love microwave chicken fingers. All our marketing research confirms this."
A bar scrolls across a TV that reads: BREAKING FUCKING NEWS BREAKING FUCKING NEWS BREAKING FUCKING NEWS BREAKING FUCKING NEWS A douchebag wearing a bowtie stood in the middle of a conference room where a bunch of milquetoast whites writhed around on the floor, holding their raked up, bleeding faces, praying to their gods that they weren't permanently disfigured.
With a BBC microphone clutched in his hand, he began thusly:
"This is Fucker Snarlson with BBC News reporting to you live on the scene at a top floor conference room where, apparently, some lunatic hot dog has brought a gardening tool inside and raked the faces of several corporate big wigs."
"Fucker," a woman back at the studio began. "Any word on the assailant's motive?"
"I'm sorry, his what?" Fucker asked, hand to his ear.
"Motive."
"Motif?" Fucker said, kicking away one of the old whites clamoring at his legs for help. "Violent -- but friendly."
"No, not-- MOTIVE, Fucker. MO-TIVE."
Fucker nodded. He understood, finally.
"No Vanessa, the assailant gave no notice. This was an absolute surprise to all these bitch ass, milquetoast, corporate whites."
An exasperated sigh from Vanessa.
"On his way out though, and this may be of some interest to our viewing audience," Fucker adjusts his bowtie. "He did state his motive."
"I might just go jump off a fucking bridge," Vanessa said.
"According to all these crybabies screaming on the floor around my feet, the assailant purported himself to be a hot dog. He said that since he was a hot dog, everyone was trying to take advantage of him, and that if he had one more meeting where they brought up the fact that he was a hot dog instead of a winner as a selling point, he was going to, quote, 'Find a rake and go to town on everyone's faces like it was grandma's house in October.' End quote."
Vanessa feigned intrigue and said, "I see."
"Yes, you have eyes, I'm aware Vanessa."
"Did he say anything else?"
"He did."
...
"WHAT. DID. HE. SAY. FUCKERRRERR?"
"Glad you asked, Vanessa. Just as we arrived on the scene, the assailant was fleeing the premises. We asked him for a statement. And he replied, 'I'm sorry, I have to go. I just shid my pant.'"
You could hear Vanessa roll her eyes as she said, "Fascinating."
Fucker shook his head in disagreement, "As far as we know there have been zero assassinations at this time, Vanessa. However, the police do have a sketch, and request that the public be on the lookout for this gentleman!"
Fucker Snarlson holds up a piece of paper, with the following police sketch on it:
🌭
"Please," Fucker implored. "If you see anyone who resembles this photo, who may or may not be carrying a rake and being a public nuisance, call emergency services. He is armed, he is dangerous, and most importantly, he is a hot dog.""I hate hot dogs," Vanessa said.
"Well not everything's about you," Fucker replied. "Back to you, Vanessa."
Hot Dawg Dick zoomed down the London streets on an e-scooter, holding about four chili dogs in his free hand, munching on all of them at once, singing himself a song: "Sugginon chilidawg, outside duh Tasty Freeeeee-eeeeze!" He e-scooted through London until he reached the very end of it, and felt his phone buzz against his sweet, sesame seed buns.
He saw the notification pop up on his phone like a revelation.
FRED DICK VS CRASH, REVIVAL 46.
The announcement stunned him.
All at once, it came to him. Crash Jackson was the man who had beat the shit out of Dick in his own locker room the night of his debut.
It was Crash Jackson who was most known to be a celebrator of hot dawgs. The man loved to eat hot dawgs. In some circles, they called him the HDB - the Hot Dawg Bro.
But in Hot Dawg circles, the man was a known serial murderer.
The man was responsible for six percent of hot dawg consumption worldwide.
Fred Dick.
Crash Jackson.
Hot Dawg versus Hot Dawg Bro.
This was how he cured himself of his dirty ol' stinky hot dawg body. This was how he reversed his most unfortunate hot dawg metamorphbrosis.
"Oh my Gawd," Hot Dawg Dick said to himself. "I don't have to be a hot dawg. I have a choice. This doesn't have to be me... I can just... Win, and stop hot dawgin' around with my PRIME career. I can stop fuckin' with all these hoes and start whoopin' on hot dog bros. I can stop coverin' myself with mustard, and start winnin' again. I can be a winner!"
Hot Dawg Dick rubbed and gyrated his hot dawg body.
"Crash Jackson wants some of this?"
More rubbing and gyrating all over his buns and wiener.
"Crash Jackson wants some of THIS?"
Hot Dawg Dick decided he had one more stop to make before heading back to the Ramada Inn. He had to find a gardening store. He was going to need a lot more rakes.
"CRASH JACKSON... you think you love hot dawgs so much you sorry sumbitch?"
Hot Dawg Dick shouted as he e-scootered back towards downtown London.
"Well by gawd, come ReVival 46 there's only gonna be one hot dawg after the count of three. And it ain't gonna be me."
Hot Dawg Dick popped a sweet jump on the e-scooter. Nearly stuck the landing.
"I'm gonna show the world that I ain't no fuckin' hot dawg."
He climbed back on the e-scooter and raced towards the rake store.
"I'm gonna show the world that I'm still a fuckin' winner."
Hello.
'Tis I. Reality.
Now that the story is nearly over, I thought I'd give you a gift.
Here it is. The phone call that made Fred Dick feel like a hot dog.
You've reached Fred.
I'm unable to answer the phone at this time. Don't fucking leave a message, okay? I'm sick of fucking messages, okay? I fucking hate messages. Unless this is Lindsay Troy, of course, and you'd like to apologize for SCREWING MY ASS OVER IN WALES.
God damn it Lindsay, you assho'.
beep.
"Hey Fred... It's Randi."
A brief pause, and then:
"Went down to Loco's last night. They were playing your big rasslin' show on the big tv. Everyone there was rootin' against you, of course. They were all saying, 'that bastard Fred don't stand a chance against no Jason Snow.'"
She clears her throat.
"They were right. You didn't stand no chance at all. You looked like a loser out there, a real loser. All that hotdawgin', playin' dress up, and for what? Just to expose yourself for what you always were and will be. A fucking nobody. Somebody whose name won't be remembered by history. Somebody whose name won't be remembered by nobody at all."
An inhale. Of a cigarette, maybe? A little cough.
"Anyway, sad thing is, you could've been a great guy. You could've been a father. You could've been a man of your own community. A man of character. A big dick, with a home to keep it in."
Crass.
"But in the end, you chose a different path. The path of a man with a little Oscar Weiner dick and nowhere to put it but his hand. A man who'd rather show out and hotdawg for an audience of strangers rather than his own step-children."
Another drag off a cigarette. Another little cough. Randi apparently sucks at smoking cigarettes.
"It's not the lying, Fred. It's the selfishness. In the end, that's what undid the two of us. And if you ain't careful, it's gonna undid you, too."
A tinge of regret in her voice. Or sadness. Both, maybe.
"One last thing, Fred. Your father. He escaped prison and joined the Citizens Against Fred Dick."
A pregnant pause, and then:
"I joined them too. Officially."
click.
TO DELETE THIS MESSAGE, PRESS ONE.
TO REPLAY THIS MESSAGE, PRESS TWO.
TO SAVE IT TO THE ARCHIVES, PRESS SEVEN.
A hesitation.The way one hesitates before taking that final shot at the buzzer.
When the ball goes through the net.
But the ball didn't leave the hand, before the buzzer.
A hesitation.
The way one hesitates before hitting the brakes as a car runs a red light.
When the vehicles collides into you.
But the CRASH would've taken your life, had you worn your seatbelt that day.
A hesitation.
The way one hesitates before putting the mustard on a hot dog.
When the little droplets of mustard water fall out of the bottle.
But in the end, it doesn't matter, because you're a fucking loser.
And you eat it anyway.
Because you are the hot dog.
A bunch of processed shit in a skin casing.
Just waiting for the world to cook your ass and eat you.