So it’s a hot late July and Brooklyn is baking hot, as are the figures that live there. Deuce S. Bagg is one such figure who figures himself very hot indeed, and not just on account of the weather.
Now Deuce is a, shall we say, temperamental sort, prone to physical and verbal abuse when the mood takes him. And take him it does on one of these hot July nights, his mind hot, his mood hot, and as for his figure, it goes without saying. But this night in particular, he let himself get a tad too hot, to the detriment of his relationship with loving wife Shaylene.
“Ah, to hell with her!” Deuce yells, slamming his door shut at one in the morning, waking up an array of neighbors densely packed into three surrounding floors; buildings these days are made paper thin, you understand.
So he’s walking the hot night, sweat dripping down his hot figure, and he hits up a ratty-ass motel. Nothing for him to do now of course but throw back a case of beer and message girls on the Internet, as he was wont to do when his marriage was on the rocks, which was frequent.
One girl seems okay…Korean girl, nice girl, only shows her face but Deuce has an imagination capable of rendering her unseen body in high mental fidelity: she’s a sizzler.
She messages him, telling him he has a hot figure.
He says thanks and how’s yours?
“Haha, mine too. What are you doing now?”
“Thinking of your hot figure.”
By virtue of digital happenstance, Deuce’s first romantic target disappears offline mid-conversation, and he is left with a part of his figure even hotter than when he started. Now this poses a problem given his unrestrained tendencies when things get heated; add to this the difficulty of building a rapport with a stranger when your figure’s all hot and you have yourself a hot little problem…
Two hours pass of Deuce handing out unsolicited remarks to strangers about how hot their figures are before he gives up in defeat, though by then it’s 4 AM and he has work tomorrow.
“Guess I’ll just hit the hay.”
He wakes up and it’s already past eleven in the morning; so much for work. Deuce calls in sick with a fabricated hot fever, nips down to the 7‑Eleven for a six-pack. By the time he gets back to his room, the midday sun is burning up the walls: the ceiling fan’s no use, opening the window does nothing, and throwing back three cold ones does little to quench the blistering heat of his figure.
It’s the dog days of summer: gotta be careful not to let your figure grow too hot, he tells himself, but there’s only so much a guy can do.
Flips on the computer — there’s three new messages: two of them acting too cold, Deuce knows it will take all afternoon to coax them into a hot situation. The third one is the Korean girl from last night — he responds with hot aplomb.
“You thought I had a hot figure?” he types excitedly. “You wouldn’t believe how hot it is now!”
“Oh really? 🙂 Mmm, can you measure it?”
“Hold on, let me see.” Deuce steps away from the keyboard, searches the motel drawer; sure enough under the King James Bible is a big red thermometer. He sticks it in his asshole and continues to chat with his pants down…takes it out a few minutes later and to his horror it reads 3,005 degrees.
“Holy hell, that’s enough to…”
The flames engulfing Deuce’s figure rise to the height of the room: it’s an inferno the likes of which most motel rooms will never witness.
When the coroner releases his report the next day, he has only this to say: “It is a real tragedy, but the body we found was incinerated on the spot. With incontrovertible proof, we have found the cause of death to be the victim’s excessively hot figure.”
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