Fred Enthralls Two Custodians and Turns Them Into His Lasagna Boys

“No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith.”

- R.A. Salvatore, Streams of Silver.

An evil entity dwells in the bowels of the Fiserv Center, right here in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

It claws and screeches and writhes and seethes, deep in the arena’s depths. A scaly, giant, red beast, who was crafted by ancient fuck-demons from the very shit rivers of Hell through which Satan created dysentery.

The Boiler Room.

It's up to you two to strike down that demonic beast and return it to whence it came. I won't lie to you, it will be difficult. He is… a horny, vile, dastardly demon. Since his arrival, he's taken the form of a dragon, guarding a small horde of silver and Four Lokos. I say small relative to other dragon hordes, but make no mistake – relative to other four loko collections, it's rather impressive.

I must admit, I do not envy your positions – but I admire your bravery, and tenacity, and god damn it, your fighting spirit.

The fate of the Fiserv Center depends on you two.

I know you will accomplish your mission.

Any questions?

“Yeah.”

Go ahead.

“Fuck you.”

Hey, Toddrick – not cool. Also, not a question. Now, I know you're nervous, but there's no need to go at me like that. Unless you wanna get fucked up. I take tae kwon do, Toddrick. Can you do a roundhouse kick? I can, pal. I can. Try me.

Try me.

“Well, I've got a question.”

Go ahead, Miguel.

“You can go fuck yourself, I'm not fucking going down there.”

God damn it Miguel, that wasn't a question either. Listen, the two of you? You're the best God damn custodial team that Fiserv has ever had. You're like the Abbott and Costello of cleaning shit off toilets. That's great! Hey, that's really, really fucking great…

If that's all y'all ever want to be.

And here I am, God damn handing you the opportunity to become heroes on a silver fucking platter.

You know, some people, they'd be kissing my fucking ass right now, thanking me for this opportunity.

“I'm not thanking you for shit. You are constantly fucking us over.”

“Yeah, constantly. How many times have you passed us up on promotions?”

Christ, is that what this is about? God damn Goddfrey and Billy Joe getting the promotion over you? That's why you're in here, fucking going at me like this?

Well, they were better than you. Sorry ‘bout it, but hey, it is what it is. They beat you out. Fair and square. And because of that, they got the promotion. Maybe down the road, you two will get another opportunity at a promotion. But right now? Right now, you're in a rare position. To become more than what you are. To go down to the depths of Hell, defeat that dragon, and take his silver – and his Four Lokos if you want them. If not, throw them away. Just get rid of it. And him.

“What if we say ‘no?’ What if we quit? What if we say we're tired of this fucking place, we're tired of you being a tyrant, tired of getting passed by promotions for your little buddies?”

Psh, come on man.

Look, if you want to quit, you know where the door is.

But you don't want to quit.

You want to be fucking legends.

And someone who wants to be a fucking legend?

Well, they don't turn down the opportunity to dethrone a demon.

As my employees leave my office, I hear one say to the other, “This shit isn't real. It can't be real.”

I look around. I spin around in my chair. I count four walls. I clap my hands, the lights turn off. I clap again, they turn back on. That's called a God damn light clapper.

Perks of being the Custodial Manager.

All that is to say, it's plenty real enough for me.

“He had turned into a dragon while he was asleep. Sleeping on a dragon's hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart, he had become a dragon himself.”

- C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Trader.

Toddrick and Miguel couldn't look more different from one another in spite of their matching navy coveralls. Toddrick was fifty years old, overweight, and missing teeth. Miguel was thirty years younger than Toddrick, had a thin, shitty little mustache, and a bag full of coke in his pocket– and you just knew by looking at his string-bean ass that he had cocaine in his pocket. He was the type.

But currently, he was the type to put a metal bucket over his head and arm himself with a broom handle. And Toddrick had actual ninja stars he usually only whipped out on holidays, but given that he was fifty, and never had a chance to use his sweet ninja stars before, figured this might be the only chance he ever gets.

They lingered outside the Boiler Room door.

“Honestly, you look really fucking sweet with those ninja stars,” Miguel said.

“Thanks,” Toddrick replied. “I see you went more medieval with it.”

“Sword and shield,” Miguel replied.

An evil, guttural roar slowly emanated from the Boiler Room delths.

“Welp,” Toddrick said. “This is it. If I die, tell my wife–”

“That you love her,” Miguel said.

“That I got to use my ninja stars afterall.”

Toddrick slowly cracked open the door to the Boiler Room. Immediately, the duo observed a strange, red light cast from the center of the room. Their nostrils flared, filled with the stench of sex, or something resembling sex, but nastier, more disgusting in some way one can't put a finger on.

They crept into the room, as quietly as two custodians could.

They were just about ready to turn around and tell the boss man there wasn't anything in there but a red light and the smell of butt stuff, when suddenly.

They heard him.

The Dragon.

“Who… Who comes forth into my layer, tryna start some bullmess over my horde?”

It was the most bizarre dragon the two custodians had ever laid eyes on. He was…slithering? On the floor? Like a snake, or something. A red mullet was clearly glued on its scalp. Red… pieces of construction paper, maybe? Equally glued onto his body. All over. Head to toe. Save for the scales, he was butt ass naked – oh, and the baby oil he was coated in, which had left snail trails all over the floor, indicating he'd been slithering around in there for some time. Hundreds of four loko cans, some drank, some not, littered the floor.

But in the center of the floor lied the PRIME Intense Championship.

Miguel couldn't help but stare at it.

“Yep,” the Dragon said as he slithered over to the title. “That there's my penis due resistance. Won it fair and square off my future stepson's second daddy, Hayes Hamlon. And now? A dear friend of mine, I mean, seriously, probably the only gotdamn friend I got that I can count on, or call when I have nightmares about my mama and daddy, do indeed doth come to try and take it from me. Can't trust her – not til July 5th. Then, I can trust her. But not until then.”

Fred hissed like a cat, turned on his side, and slithered in a crescent shape around the Intense Title.

Maintained eye contact the entire time.

Absolute power move. Any unbiased observer could see the power in that move.

“Are you here to try and claim my horde?” The Dragon asked, a sense of both calm agitation, and severe curiosity in his tone of voice. “Or have you come to be enthralled by the Dragon of Fiserv Center?”

“The fuck does ‘enthralled’ mean, o woesome and terrifying demon beast from Hell?” Toddrick asked.

“It means for me to… shall we say, fug on yo minds – hard, right?” The Dragon replied. “Like, you got a mind. Pretty good mind, all things considered, Lawd yes and praise be and all the various whathaveyous and et ceteras what's associated with the Lawd. Ain't nobody ever fugged on that mind too hard, nawmean? Only, boom, here comes Fred, the Dragon of Fiserv Center, stickin his wang – so to speak – right into your mind hole. It's a tight mind hole. Real tight. But it's OK. His wang is little – so to speak.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yeah, you want to get enthralled?” Fred asked, eyes pleading.

“No,” the two custodians replied simultaneously.

“Damn,” Fred said. “Alright, though. I respect ya wishes. Well, y'all wanna do like… a shit ton of LSD and mushrooms and stuff? I got a bunch because… you know, I had plans to create an army of enthralled people who would exercise my will and my will alone. It was a whole plan. A whole thing. Didn't work out. The hell ya gonna do? Nawmean. Sometimes a plan don't work. Anyway, what say we get so high, we high five Jesus Christ, huh? Say? Up high! Nawmean?”

“Sure,” the two custodians again replied simultaneously.

Folks, that's exactly how you end up getting enthralled.

I can't even with these people right now.

Phew. Gosh, it just makes me so mad.

Anyway, hello. Long time no see. ‘Tis I, Reality, back from vacation.

WhAt!? ReALiTy tOoK a VaCaTiOn!?

Yeah, dumb ass. I did. I needed it. I'm still tense, but it's whatever. Reality's tense right now, and ohp, there I go talking about myself in the third person. Bit of a narcissist, I must admit.

And maybe that's my problem, you know? I never thought that my rampant narcissism coupled with my ability to basically get whatever I want could cause me to, shall we say, underestimate those who fight against the fates I have chosen for them.

Yet, here I am.

I cost ol’ Fred, that loser, the Universal Title – proving he's a loser, by the way, for anyone keeping score at home – and take a vacation, figuring, hey, his Delusions can run the show for a while. He's a defeated man, mentally, physically, spiritually, there's no way he can come back from that loss.

Well, not only did he come back from it.

He won. Then he won. Then he lost. Then he won again.

Then, he won the one thing I had vowed to never allow.

He won a championship.

The list of Intense Champions in the history of PRIME now includes my greatest, and most worthy opponent.

And if that wasn't bad enough, he's been selected for the Almasy.

Et tu, Lindsay Troy?

Hmph.

You got me feeling like Anna Daniels, not gonna lie.

You got it out for Reality, LT?

Maybe I should make a jabber account.

Anyway, now that we are all caught up (And Lindsay Troy has been warned), I feel it's necessary to clean up a bit of the above narrative.

Mainly, Fred Dick is not, nor should any of you be so foolish as to call him, a dragon.

Seriously, you'll send his ego into overdrive. Avoid at all costs.

Also, he's not a mind-flayer. So please, understand, this enthralled state is not one of cosmic, psychic origin – no matter how much over the course of the rest of these two custodians lives that he suggests otherwise. He's just a man who is about to, if I may, Charles Manson a couple of janitors with enough mushrooms and acid to completely cook their brains and refry it with whatever Fred Dick wants them to think.

This won’t end poorly for anyone, will it?

I guess I can't take a vacation any time soon. At least, not until I finally find a way to kill Fred Dick.

“Confusing a targeted audience is one of the necessary ingredients for effective mind control.” - Joost Meerloo “Numbing the senses by monotonously repeating an assertion is a key element in utilizing mind control techniques.” - Joost Meerloo “Now, repeat after me: ‘I am a Lasagna Boy.’”

“I am a Lasagna Boy.”

“I am a Lasagna Boy.”

“I am a Lasagna Boy.”

It had been… a bizarre several days (hours? years?) for Toddrick and Miguel.

It began with a period of festivities and merriment. Fred fairy danced to a burned copy of Now That's What I Call Music! 4, while he continuously dosed the pair with enough LSD and mushrooms to convince a grown man that Atlantis not only exists, but it exists in his butthole. He made them dragon costumes like his, glued the scales to their bodies, and crafted them dragon masks out of the very same construction paper. Drank a veritable metric shitload of Four Lokos. Smoked a considerable amount of weed. Found the bag of coke in Miguel's pocket, blew through that in a matter of…

God, how long had they been down here behaving this way? No one was sure. Fred knew he had an alarm on his phone set for the 4th of July, when he had to defend his title against his best, good friend, who would probably tuck him in at night if she was around and he asked nicely.

But until that alarm went off, he had all the time in the world.

And he was spending however much time he had brainwashing the living shit out of our dear custodians.

He began by having them repeat the words, “I am merely a machine that represents a mothafuggin’ expression of Fred Dick's absolute will.”

They repeated it.

Over. And over. And over.

Eventually, Toddrick and Miguel forgot they had families at home, and in Toddrick's case, grown children. Miguel had forgotten about his mustache which Fred had shaved off and collected in a small, ziplock bag that had once held weed.

They had forgotten they had jobs. Or a boss, who clearly had forgotten or did not give a shit if they were dead or alive. But even if their boss did give a shit, and he came down there to look into their situation, all he'd find are two guys who never told him they'd quit their job hours ago, or days ago, or weeks, or months, or years, or however long ago it was he told them to go down there.

Why?

Because,

“I am merely a machine that represents a mothafuggin’ expression of Fred Dick's absolute will.”

Once that had been seared thoroughly into their utterly cooked brains, Fred gave them an arduous task.

“Come up with a sweet name for my new army which you two are the only current members of.”

They came up with some sweet names.

Dope Ass Laser Monkey Army

Fuckin Sweet Monkeys With Laser Guns in an Army Together

The Motherfuckers who Kill People with Laser Guns Like a Sweet, Monkey Army.

“Stop with the laser guns and the monkey business!”

The… Awesome Snake Squad with Laser… Eyes. Army.

The Snake Eyed Laser Snake Squadron.

Snakesquad 2, Electric Laser Eyes.

“That's it, that's it, God damn it all, that is IT! Y'all can't come up with a name that's worth a shid, so Fred Dick gonna give you a name.”

Fred scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then he said...

“You two will be known as the Lasagna Boys.”

“The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand, not the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when you discover that someone else believes in you and is willing to trust you with a friendship.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson As the Lasagna Boys slept in a cuddle puddle (as Fred had instructed them to do, and they did so without complaint), Fred sat in the corner of the Boiler Room and he considered what it meant to fight Anna Daniels in his first Intense Title Match.

He did know, deep down and even not so deep down, that she was the only real friend he had. He knew that if he killed someone and asked for a shovel, she'd loan him one and wouldn't even ask why. And when his big mouth told her anyway, she'd probably oversee the burial to make sure he didn't fuck it up.

Call it fucked up, but where Fred came from, that was real friendship.

So, it hurt.

It hurt that he was going to have to beat the fuck out of Anna Daniels.

Bobanner, as he'd come to know her.

It hurt that the fate of his first title defense was out of his hands, some guy named Randy Miser got to pick the matches. Folks said he did it without bias, but Fred knew, if it was in Reality's hands, which in the end, it always was, there was always going to be some bias.

Because Reality hated Fred, and Fred hated that motherfucker right back and let Reality know it, and defied Reality at every turn.

The very thing that Fred and Anna had in common, the very thing they'd probably bonded over at the most deepest level.

The irony of Reality thus pairing them against one another in the First Round of the Almasy, guaranteeing one leaves the other entirely empty handed, was not lost on Fred – even as he was knee deep in a homemade MK-Ultra experiment.

Couple that with all of the Whoresmen finding themselves in the same quadrant of the bracket?

Fred and Anna probably owed Rob and Daytona an apology for that.

But Rob and Daytona would call them pussies for trying to apologize. Then they'd all laugh. That was the Whoresmen, right there.

They weren't just a motley crew. They weren't just four individuals with a rich crash out heritage.

They were friends. Loyal friends, who laughed off the dumb shit like societal norms and Reality

So, yeah.

Pain.

Fred just hoped Anna would understand.

He just hoped that, win or lose, Anna would like the Lasagna Boys.

And he hoped that, when he beat her, she wouldn't stop being his friend.

Because he was going to beat her. First title defense, you kidding me? She'd have to kill him to beat him.

BUT – hey, if she did kill him?

He forgave her for it a long time ago.

Fred didn't know a lot about time.

But he knew that for sure.