chapter one

The easiest way to explain what has happened to the Bad Mother Coitus zine is to look at the unmarked letter that came from Bob in Pequot Lakes, MN. Ellen discovered the letter while trying to organize the Monday Mailbag segment then passed it along to Mule.

In typical BMC fashion, Mule let the letter gather dust for several months until an idle Friday where no worthy challengers showed to play Harmon and him for the office Volleybag title and he found himself bored enough to buckle down on actual work.

Mule looked the letter through several times before making Harmon read it.

“I didn’t even know we had a cleaning room.”

Harmon, in his usual disappointed air remarked, “It’s next to the break room.” When Harmon noticed that this failed to register recognition with his writing partner, “Where you keep your coffee.”

They walked down the hall to the door marked ‘Cl aning oom’, inside of which were cleaning supplies purchased twenty years ago most leaking and, no doubt, seeping chemicals into the surrounding office. But masked by the shelves and with no real light to show laid a small door. Written across the door in large font type was a warning: “Do not open this door… Ever!”

“Think we should open it?” asked Mule, looking at Harmon in the dim light.

“Well, the warning label advises us not to and there is that letter from Bob which indicates it would be a poor idea.”

“Well, there is that.” Neither of them moved. In the background Balddee shouted at the telephone even though his phone line had been disconnected some weeks ago. Mule spoke again, “It’s not like it would hurt anything if we just opened it a crack. I mean seriously what could possibly be in there that could be so bad?”

“I guess it couldn’t really hurt.”

“Remo has a crowbar in his office.”

“And why wouldn’t he have a crowbar in his office?”

After much heaving and cursing Harmon opened the door and huffed “Well, that was anticlimactic.” A remark aimed at Mule who had not helped in opening the door whatsoever. Both looked into the small, empty, blasted hole that had been uncovered.

“Fuck it, let’s go to Happy Hour, today’s shot anyway.” Mule commented as a means of empathy.

Harmon shut the door with a large clang, the reverb shaking the entire office. Harmon and Mule stared at each other, alarmed for the briefest of seconds as the office shook to a stand still.

But it was quitting time and, in the offices of Bad Mother Coitus there is no holier of a time. All the occupants skipped across Selby towards Costello’s for a much deserved dose of Friday reality.