“I Ain’t Your Daddy Warbucks,” Said Brad E. Horbux

By: Melissa Nott

Who’s that knockin’ at my door? I’m freakin’ shredded and I got nothin’ left to give tonight. Whoever’s out there, she sure as heck missed her chance. I’m spent. No siree, Brad E. Horbux got nothin’ for any babe within a fifty-mile radius tonight.

I’ll just lie here with Star Trek on low and wait for my little hoochie caller to get the idea and scram. Criminy, I’m whipped. Wouldn’t have the energy for Deanna Troi if she climbed outta my TV right now in a babydoll negligee.

Dang, woman! Whoever you are, you got a determined fist. Fine. I’ll set down my Boones, roll offa this scratchy-yet-comfortable davenport and answer the door. But don’t expect no fashion show from Brad E. Horbux tonight. Ain’t got the energy to kick my zippered track suit out from under the laundry pile. Whoever you are, Miss Midnight Thang, it’s the Brad E. patchwork robe and mismatched sock treatment for you.

Whoa, little girl! You’re a bit on the puny side. I take ’em young, but not this young. Name’s Annie, huh? Well, Annie, what brings you to Brad E. Horbux’s door at this late hour? Ain’t your mama callin’ you or somethin’?

Got no mama, you say? Lookin’ for your Daddy Warbucks, you say? Honey, this ain’t 5th Avenue. This is West 55th Street, otherwise known as Hell’s Kitchen. I ain’t your Daddy Warbucks. I’m Brad E. Horbux.

Doggone it, Annie, stop that blubberin’. Ya got the wrong address, that’s all. No, ya can’t come in. Whoa, where’d ya learn to karate chop like that? Fine, okay, come in for a sec. Take a look around; you’ll see this ain’t no billionaire’s mansion.

Where’s my swimming pool? Aint’ got one, ya dopey kid. That’s my bathtub. Don’t touch that thing on the floor; it ain’t no deflated balloon. Crap, ya better get outta this bathroom before ya catch the plague and they throw me in jail. Gotta pee? Hold it. That’s what orphans are supposed to do.

I don’t care if you’re tired, Annie. Ya can’t lie down on my bed. Yeah, it’s in the shape of a heart. No, I don’t like Hello Kitty. Get offa them sheets; they’re filthy. All right, you can stretch out for a few minutes, but then ya gotta go. Heck yeah, those are my teddy bears. Heck no, they don’t have names. They’re props. Someday, God forbid, you’ll understand about a bachelor man’s props.

You want what? A reuben sandwich? I freakin’ don’t even know what that is, Annie. OK, I’ll rustle up somethin’ in the kitchen. That scrawny hind end of yours needs some padding. No, I didn’t say paddling. I ain’t that big a scoundrel.

Here ya go, ya effin’ arm twister. Saltines with margarine and bacon bits. Don’t turn that freckled nose up at me, young lady. Don’t be droppin’ no crumbs in my bed, neither. Last thing I need’s bed bugs. Had to wash every last blanket and sheet with detergent last time I got them critters.

Yeah, that’s a mirror on the ceiling. Because I like watching myself sleep, all right? I don’t have to explain my boudoir decor to you, ya ragamuffin. Come on, skedaddle. Outta my bedroom before someone calls the cops.

I mean it, get up. Pretty please with a maraschino cherry or whatever the sam heck it is you yard monkeys like to eat. I’ll let ya watch Star Trek on the davenport. That’s a good orphan. There ya go.

Listen, I don’t care if Daddy Warbucks has a gosh-darned movie theater in his house. This here nineteen-inch Zenith tube TV is a peachy keen piece o’ machinery, thank you very much. Now sit here on the davenport. When Star Trek’s over, you’re history, understand? I can’t have a scrap-bit kid spendin’ the night with me. No way.

What’s that scratching noise? Cripes, don’t open the door, ya dumb ankle biter. What’s this? Your dog? Ya brought a flippin’ fleabag mutt into the bachelor pad of Brad E. Horbux? Get that mangy varmint off my davenport! Don’t want no fleas biting my lady friends on the backside. All right, sure, I admit he’s adorable. Yeah, I suppose he could nibble a few bacon bits. But after Star Trek, both your ragged hineys are so freakin’ outta here.

Stop that singin’, would ya? There ain’t no maybe about it; ya ain’t stayin’ tonight. Whaddya mean, tomorrow? Me and you don’t got no tomorrow. Fine, sure, I’ll give you a hug. Hey, huggin’s kinda different when I’m not tryin’ to…oh, never mind. Can I do just one thing, Annie? Can I boing this red springy curl right here? Aw, thanks, Annie. Thanks.

Crap, you and this damn Sandy mutt are cuter than a coupla happy birthday cupcakes. Shoot, I guess you guys can stay the night. But first thing tomorrow, I’m locatin’ this Daddy Warbucks numbskull and dumpin’ your sorry keesters off on him.

Annie, quit that grinnin’. Quit stickin’ out that adorable chin; ya can’t sway me. Early tomorrow, you and the mutt are hittin’ the road. I mean it, I do. The two of you gotta scram, vamoose. Soon as the sun comes out.



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