It had been a long day on the porn set.
At the last minute, the director -- Clive Wreck -- decided he wanted eight women converging on Doug, rather than the three who were written into the script. Doug didn't much care because he had one of the best contracts in porn. His penalty fee for any alterations to scripts on which he'd signed off was substantial, so it was all extra lettuce to him.
The shoot had gone into the night, and the moon was just cresting the trees beyond the balcony as he entered his apartment.
After a shower, he went into the spare bedroom, which housed his alchemy laboratory.
Doug had recently discovered how to turn ordinary household tinfoil into gold through a process of oxidation while subjecting it to the run-off of sconed milford sulphate. Between the porn shoots and his schedule of IFC bouts, he'd only had time to rig a rudimentary assembly line converting 167 rolls of tinfoil per day into 17 lbs of raw bullion. He was hopeful, with a few days off, that he could increase productivity to approximately 2,000 rolls per day.
Already a multimillionaire due to his currency trading, and foreseeing the economic collapse in the United States 18 months in advance, Doug was partial to gold, enjoyed alchemy and, hey, everyone needed a hobby.
As he worked on refining the tinfoil-to-gold transformation process, he felt an annoying click in his shoulder. Which immediately brought back memories of his IFC bout two years ago against Gorilla Gorski.
Although Doug had spent some of the early 2000s as a hired mercenary in Chechnya fighting against Russia, he bore no actual animosity toward Russian people. Gorilla Gorski, on the other hand, bore a grudge against everything that breathed oxygen.
Doug never took any of his bouts lightly, though he remained undefeated through all 143 of his career. And he wasn't about to underestimate the six-foot-ten Gorski, whose fighting technique was simple, old-fashioned brute force, imperviousness to pain and a genuine lust for hurting people.
Doug was a leading practitioner of the little-known discipline of Nemak Slapjitsu. At first glance, the fighting style appeared rather comic: its adherents slapping their opponents' heads with rapid, bongo-like tattoos. But there was much more to the fighting style than met the eye.
Nemak Slapjitsu involved a level of training and self-discipline that overshadowed even ninjutsu.
In their bout, the commentators and crowd, alike, thought Doug would suffer his first defeat, when he, Doug, allowed Gorski to storm right up to him and shove his thumbs into his eyes, gouging them.
Little did Gorski know, this was all part of his opponent's strategy.
Doug squinted his eyes and amputated the ends of Gorski's thumbs.
Training had turned every inch of Doug's body into a weapon. He could slice tomatoes with an earlobe, blind a man by blowing his nose into his face, or severe the femural artery of anyone stupid enough to grab him from behind in a bear-hug him, with a single fart.
Doug's eyelids were a pair of miniature guillotines, and Gorski's thumbs were twin Marie Antoinettes.
As the giant Russian stumbled backward -- his thumb-stubs dual fountains of spurting blood -- Doug maneuvered around to the back of the man, climbed him like a trestle until he sat upon Gorski's shoulder like a child. Then Doug unleashed a furious flourish of Nemak slapjitsu upon the bald pate of his discombobulated opponent. It sounded like small arms fire.
Gorilla Gorski fell to the canvas like a Douglas Fir (pun intended).
It was not one of Doug's more dramatic or speedy wins, but it was unique in one way: Gorski died from the head trauma.
Under IFC rules, Doug was not liable for Gorski's death and continued his schedule of bouts uninterrupted. But he did feel personally responsible, so he paid a large settlement to Mrs. Gorski and was paying for the Gorski children to go through agricultural college in Minsk.
Upon their graduation, Doug would present the Gorski children with enough tinfoil-turned-gold to ensure they would never have to work again. They would be left to farm for the sheer pleasure of tending the land.
That's how Doug rolled.
The telephone rang, distracting him from his thoughts.
It was Bono.
"Doug, man," the singer said, "I've been ringing and ringing ya, what've ya been up to?"
"Just doing my thing."
"Right, so. Well, I'm wondering where you're at with the UN Porn For Life initiative. I was updating the U2 newsletter and thought, 'What the bollocks is on with that shite, now?' Ya know!"
Bono's Red program was dying an undignified death, so he one day contacted Doug, his favorite porn/IFC fighter, asking for ideas for raising money and awareness for the poor in Africa. It was an opening Doug had been awaiting for years to unveil an idea he'd had for eradicating poverty world-wide:
Celebrity porn on Pay-Per-View.
He envisioned lining up Scarlett Johansson, Alicia Keys, Salma Hayek, Alicia Cuthbert, Eliza Dushku, Vivica Fox, Kat Denning, and every and any other gorgeous, famous starlet to donate an hour of their sexuality to help the world's poor. The actresses, models, musicians and socialites would be paired with IFC fighters -- or, elect for girl-on-girl scenarios with each other -- and filmed having sex, which would then be broadcast Pay-Per-View for $100 for every five minutes of viewing.
Bono had leapt at the idea.
By Doug's calculations, four months of celebrity porn -- with 72 percent of the profits going toward relief efforts world wide -- would eradicate most curable diseases and fund educational and food distribution programs.
"It's pretty much a 'go'," Doug said. "I'm in the process of vetting directors. Scorsese and Tarantino are already on board."
"Brilliant," Bono gushed. "I knew ya'd come through --" The singer laughed. "No pun intended."
"None taken," Doug said. "Look, Bono, you caught me in the middle of something --"
"Sorry, sorry about that," Bono said. "Right, I just wanted to touch base. Cheers!"
"One last thing, Doug."
"May the Force be with you!"
They laughed and hung up.
End of Part I