PERHAPS I SHOULD
STOP NAMING THE
PROTAGONISTS IN MY
SEMI-AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL
FICTION AFTER MYSELF.
- - - -
The Prince of Wall Street
It was simple, yet deviously efficient ... all he needed to do was route the slush fund to his Cayman Islands account, let it sit there for 60 business days, then reroute it back to his mainland account with Citibank—and no one would be the wiser, least of all the IRS. He reclined in his Aeron chair overlooking the financial district with the satisfaction that comes from duping the U.S. government and knowing your name is Teddy Wayne and your Social Security number is 635-00-4923.
Adulterous Bodies
Was he really unrolling his co-worker Melissa's stockings in the supply room during the office Christmas party while his girlfriend of six months, Valerie, mingled just outside? Valerie was vindictive and violent, a hot-tempered Mediterranean vixen; if she ever found out, she would surely take advantage of his severe allergy to peanuts and slip a fatal amount into his food. "But she doesn't know about the peanuts—yet," he thought to himself with relief. "You're safe for now, Teddy Wayne."
A Perfect Murder
He had disposed of all the evidence and cemented his alibis; there was no possible way he could be caught. "Well, Glen Markson," he said to the night wind as he dumped the cold body in the East River near 40th Street at 1 a.m. on the night of June 12, "consider yourself the victim of a perfect murder, by none other than Teddy Wayne of 553 East 37th Street, Apt. 8F."
Invisible Viruses
He had every sexually transmitted disease known to man that was not immediately apparent to onlookers: gonorrhea, syphilis, HPV, you name it, plus several that had not yet been classified by the CDC. And he was about to hit the Manhattan singles bars full steam, ready with a smile and his standard pickup line: "What's your name? Mine is Teddy Wayne."
Teddy Wayne: Terrorist Mastermind
Here are three things I want to do: assassinate the president; detonate a bomb aboard a 747; and shout "Fire!" in a crowded theater. After everybody flees a Wednesday matinee of Mamma Mia! I will cackle and exclaim, "You were all fooled by terrorist mastermind Teddy Wayne." Then I really will set the theater on fire, because musicals are stupid. The first two things will be harder to pull off, though, especially since the no-fly list now includes "Teddy Wayne."
Guantánamo Nights
Fuck.
- - - -
Teddy Wayne's
Other Features.
- - - -
OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
- - - -
Perhaps I Should Stop Naming the Protagonists in My Semi-Autobiographical Fiction After Myself By Teddy Wayne
An Extremely Patient Producer Works With an Aspiring Pornography Scriptwriter By Ryan Dilbert
American Girl Dolls Write to President Bush By Kate Hahn
Refreshingly Honest Crate and Barrel Catalog Descriptions By Kyle Killen
An Overheard Conversation at the Suburban Neighborhood Pool, If the Suburban Neighborhood Pool Were in Deadwood By Kari Anne Roy
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