Part V

After I had my breakfast, I snuck off to the bathroom for a snort of my instant coffee. As soon as I entered the bathroom, a cloud of steamy methane gas hit me right in the face. I heard moaning coming from one of the stalls. 

“Elton? Is that you?”

Oh, God. Help me! I’ve been here stranded. I need you to call my doctor in London. Oh, God, please. Here it comes again. Grrr… ooo. Oh, God.

Hey, I know we haven’t been formally introduced, but I just wanted to know if you liked the bran muffins I sent you.

You! I thought those fucking hooligans from Manchester United had poisoned me. Those goddamn wankers haven’t left me alone since I came out.

No, I’m no hooligan. I am just here to help. Did you like the muffins?

What the fuck did you put in these bleeding things?

Yeah, I know they can be pretty mean. If you’re not used to a mega dose of fiber, the cleansing can be a little brutal. Have you passed the chronic spasm stage? You know the part when you begin to perspire and it feels like your entrails are going to come out of your ass.

Grrraahh. Oh, Lord. I think I’m right in the middle of it now! Oh, my God.

This should go on for another twenty or thirty minutes. You’re lucky you’re not behind the wheel. The first time I had these muffins, I was on the highway. It was not pretty.

The moaning continued.

Say, Elton, this might be a bad time for you, but there’s no time like the present. You know these bran muffins are the thing of the future. They can loosen up a wild elephant. Do you don’t think you could give us an endorsement? Maybe a testimonial?

I’ll give you a fucking testimonial. Ahaah, phew. Oh, God, the smell… I think I am going to pass out. You got a match?

No, they confiscated my cigarettes and matches at the border. I wish I could help you.


You probably better flush, so you don’t stuff up the commode. The last thing you need is a major flood. Look, let’s get down to business. My partners and I are ready to start mass production, and we are looking for a front man. We’ve even got the promotional strategy in mind. Just picture this: a muffin with arms, legs, and a face with a mustache waddles out next to you while you’re sitting at your piano, kind of like the M and Ms thing, and he asks you: ‘Do you feel uptight? Bound up? Boxed in? Unable to let it all go? Well, I have the answer for you. Eat one of these mega-dosed bran muffins in the morning and one more at night, and within twenty-four hours, we will take a load off.’ Elton before we have even got the logo, ‘We work hard so you don’t strain yourself.” Do you think you can come up with a jingle?”

“Did you say eat just two of these a day?”

Yep, two of these will keep you right as rain…

Two!—he interrupted–I fucking ate all six.

Wow. You ate all six of them? You didn’t read the card? It said, “It was a three day supply.”

Although Elton was in the middle of an agonizing intestinal spasm, he responded, “What… fucking… card…?”

About then, I heard the grumbling of his lower bowels rearranging their contents for a new barrage of shit-mist and shrapnel-laced ass matter. Then, it occurred to me! I was the victim of a double cross:  Fantat had stolen the recipe, pinched the card, and was planning on cashing in and taking credit for himself. He’d get rich on my invention and travel the world, living among the rich and famous. His devious little plan would have worked, too, if he hadn’t underestimated the power of the bran. Elton was in deep shit. We were talking about a major intestinal purge, I had to make a break for it. Elton was going to be sitting for a while: he might even drop a few pounds. But when it was all over, he was going to be pissed off. Not only was the endorsement out of the question, but I was probably looking at a law suit. I thought fast.

Well, Elton, I am going to leave you in the Thinker position for a while. When you finish maybe we can have lunch and discuss the details of our special arrangement. Let’s say, we can set you up with a package of these bran muffins for life? What do you think?

Sounds great—he answered—do you have a business card you can slide under?

No, I don’t carry one, but my name is Fantat. Originally I’m from Singapore. You can reach me at the front desk.

I got out of there as fast as I could and told the family that it was best that I went fishing for the rest of the day.  I didn’t do too badly either. The boat captain was a local who knew his way around the island bars and local dives. He set me up real good. By the time we returned, I was seriously bent and the sun was setting on the idyllic resort in the Caribbean. The local authorities had taken Fantat into custody on the charge of attempted poisoning of internationally recognized musician and singer-songwriter Elton John. The forensics agents found traces of the substance known as psyllium on Fantat’s clothes. It was an open and shut case. They had already slapped the manacles on him and were leading him away. My wife informed me that we had a new butler, and that the manager had come personally to apologize for all of the inconvenience we suffered. Because we had gone without butler service that morning and had been so patient, he offered us gift certificates for a massage and tea at the spa. 

I decided to sit on the beach, read, and take it all in.

About the Author

Jimmy Gabacho

Gabacho– according to the Dictionary of the Spanish Royal Academy– is derived from an old Provençal word “gavach,” meaning a person from the foothills of the Pyrenees who spoke incorrectly. These days, it means “outsider,” somebody who just doesn’t fit in.

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