Chapter IV


Months passed. Posh spurt out a baby boy, whom she and her fiancé named Brooklyn. For some reason, Posh was under the impression that she had become pregnant while she and Beckham were in New York, so she decided that naming the child after the place where he was conceived was a good idea. It was a shame that Posh had not consulted with other couples who had done the same thing, or she would have known better.

Who could forget the tragic legend of Titicaca Thomas Rowls, whose only secure job in his entire life was performing for amateur transsexual porn movies thanks to his parents' unfortunate choice of his name? He died of complications after an unsuccessful sex change operation.

Then, of course, there was a young girl named Albuquerque Smith, who had a slight learning disability. This disability wasn't extremely detrimental, except for one fact: she could never learn to spell her own name properly. After years of having various job applications rejected due to misspellings of her name, she found employment as an orderly in a Canadian hospital, earning minimum wage her entire life until the day she died from being trampled by a crazed man in a soccer uniform who was charging through the hospital. She still lived with her parents, and would no doubt have been more successful with a simpler name, like maybe New Mexico.

And finally, there was Abraham Lincoln's Bedroom Peterson, whose parents had an illicit affair while on a tour of the White House. He was diagnosed as clinically insane by the fourth grade. He later hung himself with a sausage casing at the tender age of thirteen.

Had Posh known about any of these unfortunate cases, she probably would have thought more about her child's name. After the lawsuit with the Walt Disney company was settled, she promised her husband-to-be a quick nooner if he would tattoo the name Brooklyn across his back as a publicity stunt. He obliged without hesitation.

And so, it came to pass that the lovely couple set a wedding date. It was to be July 4, 1999. It would be held in a large castle, with celebrity guests ranging from soccer players to Elton John to more soccer players. Posh sold the rights to the wedding to a local magazine for a hefty fee, condemning this celebration of marriage to be nothing more than a glitz and glamour excuse for her to remain in the spotlight just a bit longer.

According to the media, Beckham refused to have a bachelor party. Some sort of bullshit about spending time with his wife-to-be. The truth was that the media covered up the tragic events of that night.

Beckham's best man, Gary Neville, had organized what he believed was a great party for his teammate. He had ordered a stripper to jump out of a cake, three kegs of beer, and some inflatable furniture to provide for seating in his basement. At around eight o'clock on the night before the wedding, Beckham, Neville, and a group of thick-as-shit soccer players gathered in Neville's basement. Few pleasantries were exchanged as a good portion of the guests headed directly for the beer on tap. The media outside was gathered in a large crowd, hoping to get some incriminating photos of some sort. However, the men guarding the door would not allow anyone through who didn't have an invitation.

Three men waded through the crowd of photographers and walked up to the door. "Now remember," Cloud said, "stick to the plan at all costs."

"Cloud," said Oliver. "Look, this is a great idea and all, but I still want to know how the hell you got my number."

"You ready, John?" Cloud asked.

John Redwood nodded. He was a twenty-year old football fan, adorned in a Newcastle United shirt to keep the spirit of the black and white bachelor party affair alive. "I'm ready."

At the door, Oliver and Cloud stayed behind, watching as John knocked on the door. It opened, revealing two large bouncers whose responsibility it was to keep the media frenzy and uninvited guests out of the party. "Let me see your invitation," one of them said.

"Er… I don't have an invitation," he said.

"Well then, fuck off," the other bouncer said.

"Um…" John thought out loud. "Manchester United kicks ass!"

"Oh," the first bouncer said. "Terribly sorry. Go right on in."

John stepped past the two men and headed for the party in the basement. Damn, he thought, that was easier than expected; they really do all have a one-track mind.

Cloud and Oliver nodded at each other. "Well, time to get the truck," Cloud said.

The scene in the basement was not exactly for the feint of heart. Off in one corner, a few men had taken to the idea that lighting their farts on fire would be the most amusing thing since that Viva Forever video. Others had decided that binge drinking was for sissies, and were downing shots of something clear and strong at an alarming rate.

Neville and Beckham were lounging in inflatable easy chairs, each nursing a beer.

"So… then… me… shag… Posh… on… table," Beckham said, then drank a gulp of ale.

"Hur… hur… hur…" Neville laughed.

"And… then… me… shag… Posh… on… floor," Beckham continued.

Neville laughed again. "Where… else… Beckham… and… Posh… do… it?"

"We… shag… in… bathtub." He drank again. "And… on… toilet… seat."

"Ever… do… it… in… plane?" Neville asked, before sipping his own beer.

"Toilet… seat… was… on… plane," Beckham said. "David… hurt… back… from… shagging… in… small… bathroom."

John decided to blend in before he got the signal, so he grabbed a beer and sat down.

Moments later, Sporty Spice came running down the stairs. "Hi fellas!" she yelled. "Is the stripper here yet?" The entire room fell silent, and merely stared at her. She realized her goof. "Oh… what I meant to ask was if the stripper was here because she's… uh… an old friend of mine from school." She looked around the room, searching for anything resembling a camera. "Wait a minute, is there anyone here from the media?"

Heads around the room shook in answer to her question. No, no media was allowed inside this party. Sporty's eyes brightened, and her usual lecherous grin spread across her face. "Woohoo!" she screamed. "Bring on the cooch!"
Cheers of agreement erupted through the room, as every man in the room raised his mug in the air in a salute to Sporty. Hooting and hollering began. Sporty herself darted for the beer kegs.

John merely sat and waited, stupefied that a dog had a higher IQ than the sum of the IQ's of everyone in this room. Soon, his cell phone began ringing. He picked it up quickly and pressed the Talk button. "Yes?" he asked.

"John," came Oliver's voice over the phone. "We've managed to shake off the media, and the traffic's just started to pick up."

"How did you get rid of the media so quickly?"

"Quite easy. We just told them that a prostitute a few blocks away was orally satisfying Hugh Grant, and they ran for it like a pack of wild dogs. You ready?"

"Yup. I'll have the lot of them out there in a few minutes." He turned off the phone, stood up, and got ready to do his part.

John walked calmly to the middle of the room, and then let out a shrill whistle between his fingers to get everyone's attention. "Attention everyone!" he yelled. "I just found out that there are two dogs having sex out in the street!"
As anyone who has ever witnessed an orgy of heavy drinking knows, the slightest mention of an animal performing some sort of disgusting biological function will send most participants to the scene of the act in order to point and laugh. Such was the case here. Every man in the room, including Beckham and Neville, leaped from their chairs and dashed up the stairway, pushing and shoving. Only Sporty was left sitting in the basement with John. She smiled half-heartedly at John, as if to say that such juvenile things didn't interest her.

"Er…" John stammered. "The person carrying the leashes is a naked woman?" he tried.

Sporty stood up without hesitation and charged up the stairs and out the door. John sighed, relieved that it had worked, but wondering if Sporty's departure was a bit too late for the plan to work.

The screeching tires, bloody screams, and loud crashes coming from outside indicated that at least some of the partygoers had fallen for the ruse. John chuckled to himself, then walked upstairs to meet Oliver and Cloud outside. "That'll teach you to get England thrown out of the World Cup," he mumbled.

On to Chapter V: Requiem.

Trademark and copyright 1999, CloudVader Productions. Do not reproduce without giving the author, Cloud Volpe, due credit.