As I employ literary constructs in an effort to shape the Chad Robuckle mythology and build venture capital for my novel, one thing that comes up, over and over again in the focus groups is Chad’s mother.
People want to know about her. What’s her deal? Where was she when all this was going on? Is she hot?
I guess this is the same sort of fascination people have with Hitler’s mother. They want to know what someone who has birthed pure evil is like. Are they evil themselves, raising their seed to be the same or is it rather a genetic anomaly, a force upon itself? You know, the usual “nature versus nurture” bullshit that is all the rage in the stand-up comedy clubs these days.
The truth is, I haven’t really spoken of Chad’s mother for two reasons:
First off, while in the greater sense, she played a very big role in shaping who Chad would become, she did so mostly by her absence. She carried him inside her for the standard 13 months, pooped him out and was gone, not to return for 27 years.
Secondly, it’s actually a pretty sad story. We can all laugh at Chad’s antics because he seems so incapable of feeling human emotion. But there’s just something so universal and sorrowful about an unwanted child. I just didn’t want people to empathize with him at all.
Not that you should feel sorry for him or refrain from passing judgment on him because it’s “not all his fault”. I think you will see that his path was indeed chosen by him through his free will.
But enough psycho-analyzing. “Why don’t you tell the damn story, already and let us decide for ourselves, Eric?”
You’re right, imaginary voices in my head. So without further ado, I give you “The Sheila Robuckle Story”.
Sheila was a wealthy socialite who met Chad’s father at a cotillion. Or maybe it was her coming out party, I don’t really know/care.
Anyway, they met, fell in “love” and were married soon after.
It was the 70’s and they were pretty heavy into the swinging thing. I know there was a lot of concern on Mr. Robuckle’s part whether or not the child was his, though I am pretty sure all doubt of that has been erased in the time since then.
The Robuckles were also heavily into drinking and drugs. Now, before you get all uppity, remember, it was a different time. People didn’t know about the dangers of smoking, drinking, doing drugs and getting triple-penetrated by a team of soccer players from Brazil while you were pregnant back then.
I’m not going to defend them and their actions, but I’m sure if you ask your parents, you probably rode around with your child seat facing forwards before you were 9 months old are something else on par with the mistakes the Robuckles made.
Sheesh, I keep getting off track here! Focus, Eric!
One night, the Robuckles are out partying, I believe this was close to the beginning of their fourth trimester, when Sheila decides it will be a “larf” to go and get a psychic to talk to the fetus.
Back in the 70’s, that thing was all the rage and people actually believed in that crap, so Mr. Robuckle agreed. As soon as all the mescaline was gone, they take off in their dune buggy and drive around looking for an all-night psychic. Luckily for them, the party let out right around 11 am, so they didn’t have too much trouble finding one.
The psychic is playing her hokey little game, dressed up like Stevie Nicks with the flowing scarves and all that. She takes Mrs. Robuckle’s hand and starts her incantation in that “spooky voice” they all seem to use, when suddenly, she goes stiff as a board, her face gets as white as a sheet and she wets herself like some other cliche I’m too lazy to think up.
Mrs. Robuckle freaks out and tries to pull her hand away but this lady has a death grip on her. Mr. Robuckle tries to help out by smashing a chair over her head. Apparently, he thought if she was dead, she would release her hold on his wife, but no such luck. Even though she’s bleeding from her ears and mouth, she won’t let go.
Finally, she starts speaking, no longer in the sing-song Scooby Doo villain voice we’re all used to. This is deep, low and robotic. The voice tells them that they will give birth to a son and the son will bring darkness upon the world. He will signal the coming of the anti-Christ and herald the arrival of the Four Horsemen.
Well, the Robuckles were pretty freaked out. Even for them, that was some pretty fucked up shit.
The lady comes out of her trance, lets go of Mrs. Robuckles hand and collapses onto her chair. She has no idea what has happened and can’t understand why her head hurts so much.
Being a man of action, Mr. Robuckle throws a twenty at her, grabs his wife and they get the hell out of there.
Well the whole drive home, Mrs. Robuckle can’t stop talking about what she just saw. Mr. Robuckle, on the other hand, just wants to forget the whole thing. He tells his wife that it’s all just a big act to spook people and she needs to shut the hell up and give him another beer as he’s almost done with this one.
Well, Mrs. Robuckle isn’t so easily swayed and behind her husband’s back, she seeks out members of the clergy and other spiritual leaders, asking for them to consult her on what she should do about her demon child.
Most of them laugh it off but a few take her seriously and realize that if she’s been carrying a baby for 11 months who isn’t dead from all the harmful chemicals and strange penises she’s put in her body, their might be some validity to her claims.
Now, they’re in quite the conundrum because they know what the answer is, but they have to weigh the good of the world against the teachings of their faith.
Finally, a rabbi of all people, tells her flat out that she needs to abort that thing, ASAP.
I’m not going to get too graphic here, let’s just leave it at this: she tries and nothing works.
And I mean NOTHING.
So despite the best efforts of 19 different abortion doctors, six dentists and 3 demolition derby drivers, Chad Robuckle is born into the world and his mother splits from his life, soon thereafter.
For 27 years, Chad is raised by his father and his ever-changing roster of girlfriends, nannies, butlers and street-wise prostitutes that he befriends while skipping school. And I think we all know how that went.
Fast forward to a few years ago, Chad is at one of his lucrative speaking engagements, regaling the crowd of underclassmen at Vassar College with his famous “I hate Matlock” speech when a lone figure slips into the back of the auditorium. Nobody really noticed the middle-aged woman in her blood-red robes as she stood against the wall for a few minutes, before discreetly pulling out a high-powered rifle and doing the sign of the cross. Certainly, everyone was unaware as she softly incanted, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti” and took aim at the stage.
What they definitely did notice was the gunshot blaring in their ears and echoing across the hall as Mrs. Robuckle missed her target by a good 15 feet, splattering the brains of Dean Oxham-Chipperly across the stage.
Panic ensued, but Chad was ready. Before she could get off a second shot, he had sprang forth from behind the podium, producing two Glock 9mm handguns from the inside pockets of his jacket.
As he ran towards her, shooting from both guns John Woo-style, he shouted at her, “You missed me, bitch, just like you did with that coat hanger!”
Unfortunately for those 14 or so audience members who lost their lives that day, while it looks cool in movies, shooting from both hands while running is not the most accurate way to take down a target.
People screamed as the Robuckles exchanged gunfire, Mrs. Robuckle getting off a few more shots, until she was out of ammunition.
At this point, Chad was a mere 3 feet from her, they were shooting at each other from behind the opposite sides of a chair.
Triumphant, Chad held his gun to her temple and locked eyes with the woman who had both given him life and tried to take it away so many, many times.
“You’re out,” he said.
“So are you,” she replied.
He pulled the trigger and heard only a click. She was right. He was out of ammunition.
They stood there for a few seconds before the tears started to well up in her eyes and she began to smile.
In spite of himself, Chad couldn’t help smiling too. He threw down his gun and they embraced, laughing heartily.
“How did you know?” he asked her.
“You’re my son, you know you can always count on me!” she replied. They laughed some more at her joke which would have made even Michael Bay cringe.
“You mean you can count on me!” was his witty comeback.
More inane laughter.
It went on like this for another twenty minutes before the SWAT team arrived. Chad and his mother, now arm in arm, explained the situation to them.
“You see, officer,” said Chad, “it’s all been a big mix-up. One big mix-up.” He looked fondly at his mother, “Surely you wouldn’t take his mother away from a fella, now that he’s just getting to know her?”
The officer thought it over. “No, I guess I wouldn’t, young man. Gee whiz, I’d have to be some sort of monster to do that. Pack it up, boys, we’re going home!”
And with that, it was over.
15 people lost their lives that day. 7 lived but will now be at least partially paralyzed from their wounds. This is what I mean, this asshole does what he wants and never has to face any sort of consequences! It’s infuriating!
I’m a good person, I haven’t killed a single person! But if I park my car for 63 minutes in a one hour parking zone, you can bet your ass I’m gonna get a ticket. And I will have to pay it, because my car isn’t stolen and I have a license and insurance. UNLIKE CHAD.
Wait a minute, a baby! That’s the cliche I was looking for. The psychic wet herself like a baby. God, it’s so obvious. I’m sure I could have thought of it if I was Chad Robuckle. I’m sure I’d have a Pulitzer Prize by now, if I was him.
You know what? Fuck it, I’m done. Have a nice life.