(You can listen to this story here.)
Keagan, born Keagan Derpshy Bilggs III, showed talent at a young age. His singing and dancing routines were the tops of the tops, and by the time he had graduated “Professor B’s School for Gifted Nitwits” he was well on his way to being part of the mega-pop sensation, the immensely popular boy-band “Four Limp Dicks.”
When asked where the band came up with their name, these four shy little twerps said, “Because our, you know, dicks, are so long we can’t walk right. So we walk with a limp. You’ve been warned, ladies and dudes, we are the limp dicks.”
Although “Four Limp Dicks” started with flaccid record sales, their debut album’s title song “I was a hard man before I met you” sailed to the top of the charts for a record eight weeks. Soon they were getting sponsorships from pharmaceutical companies.
And Keagan was riding high. Soon he was known not just for his trademark pelvis shimmy, but also for his trademark extravagant lifestyle. Seen partying most nights of the week with A-list celebrities and eventually garnering enough fame to hang out with podcasters. That’s right, actual podcasters!
And that’s where our story begins.
Keagan and the band just had another sell-out concert in probably the largest city in America. The concert hall blares boy band music as Keagan coos into the microphone, “You’ve been great, Des Moines! Thank you!”
Backstage, the boys planned their evening.
Keagan toweled his sweat off and asked, “Who’s ready to party?”
The other band members, worn out from performing, looked at the floor.
Paulie said, “Aww. Gee-whiz, Keagan. We are all just so plum tuckered out. We gave that show our all, what with Des Moines being the Paris of America, and what such.”
Rango nodded and said, “Yeah. I wouldn’t mind a nice hot bath and a good book.”
Gorge nodded in agreement. “Not every night has to be a drug-fueled sex jamboree. Sometimes it’s nice to stay in and catch up on your podcasts, like Discount Storytime.
“Podcasts? Bathing? Discount Storytime? That’s your idea of a good time?” Keagan’s nostrils flared in frustration. Somewhere, a camera flashed. “If you won’t go party with me, then I’ll go party with new friends by myself!” and Keagan stormed off in a huff.
Keagan, being popular, had no trouble finding a nightclub to dance the night away at. And, as usual, there was no shortage of beautiful women on his arm. But then he saw… her, the most gorgeous woman ever. Her dark eyes and long eyelashes batted as she swished up to him. Even the other women, intimidated by her spectacular beauty, backed off.
In a thick Eastern European accent she cood, “So, I hear you want to party?”
Keagan’s eyebrows shot up. “Why? Who told you?”
“A little bird. A little party bird.”
“Yeah. That sounds about right. What’s your name?” he asked.
“Rosie. And I think you’re hot.”
Keagan grinned like a dope.
“You look thirsty. Here, have some water.” Rosie handed him a glass of bubbling green liquid that gave off a sulfurous musk.
“It smells,” said Keagan.
“Nonsense. Just a glass of water for a big, strong, party-boy like you. C’mon, drink up. You need to stay hydrated before…”
“Before what?”
“Before we…” she kissed his neck and then turned, giving her hips a sultry sway with each step, only to look back, smile, and wink. “Follow me, lover boy. But drink up first.”
The acrid drink gave off fumes that burned Keagan’s eyes and nose, but, water is only water after all, so he guzzled the foul liquid down and stumbled after this mysterious woman. She blew him a kiss before walking out the back exit into the dark alley.
By the time Keagan made it to the alley, the mystery woman was already far away, near the darkest part. He followed her, but felt woozy, and the narrow walls of the alleyway kept bumping into him. “Hey, stop that,” he slurred to the walls.
The mystery woman, Rosie, held out her hands and motioned Keagan to come to her. So sultry, so blurry, so – so – and blacked out.
The next morning. Keagan awoke, not in his bed, or on the tour bus, or in a hotel room, or on a dirty gas station toilet, or even a public library’s filth-ridden section 100-199. He was in a bathtub, in ice, freezing. He shivered, but had no strength to move. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Trying to maintain calm, he looked around. The room was dark with grubby, blackened brick walls, and the only light was a flickering bare lightbulb. What the hell was going on?
He peered into the surrounding darkness and found nothing. Nobody was around.
His head ached, and his throat scratched. This wasn’t just a hangover; he was used to those. Keagan suspected he might have maybe been drugged.
He cleared his throat and said, “Hello? Hello? Is anyone here?”
What? What was wrong with his voice? Keagan breathed quickly, but not just from nerves. This was all wrong. He was – mouth breathing, just like the cretins who read the books in section 100-199 of public libraries.
Keagan looked at the bathwater. Red! Blood! His blood!
Panicked, Keagan scrambled out of the bathtub and onto the mildewy floor. His bloodstained clothes were soaked, cold, and heavy. Frightened and weak, it took several attempts to stand up.
“Hello? Help! Help me!”
The flickering lightbulb went out for a moment. He turned around in the darkness. When the light came back on, Keagan screamed [girl scream -female-scream-1-86768] for someone else was staring back at him – also screaming.
A moment later, he realized he was looking in a dusty mirror. At least, it looked like him, I mean, he looked horrible, but still. Something else was wrong.
Slowly, cautiously, he walked up to the mirror and wiped away the grime and spiderwebs. He was facing away from the lightbulb, and shadow darkened his face. His hair was a mess; his eyes were bloodshot. He checked his teeth and stuck out his tongue. Overall, pretty normal. What was it?
He tilted his head up to check his chin and neck, and that’s when he saw the problem. The fleshy underside of his nose. Smooth skin covered the bottom, where there should be… holes, should be… nostrils!
“They took my nostrils. Somebody took my nostrils!”
Later that morning, Keagan sat in an emergency department bed.
His world had collapsed. That mysterious woman hadn’t just stolen his nostrils; she had stolen his singing voice, his way of life, and his nostrils.
Sitting in a chair next to him was the world’s premier nostril surgeon, Dr. Nostrillia. She was called in by the record company to see Keagan immediately. Something had to be done to keep the band together. To keep sales going.
The surgeon said, “I know this is hard to hear, but I’m afraid there aren’t many options at this time.”
“Why? Why would someone do this?”
“I’m afraid it’s a matter of supply and demand. You see, a healthy pair of nostrils, and, better yet, celebrity nostrils, can go for millions, if not billions on the black market. Shady underground deals with shady surgeries. It all makes me sick.”
“Billions? They can sell celebrity nostrils for billions?” Keagan was both horrified and amazed.
“Yes. They make a lot of money, and don’t care about the horrendous freakazoids that get left behind. I mean no offense.”
“What happens now? Can you fix it?”
“I’ll be frank. There are no good treatment options for someone who has lost their nostrils. The scientific community has been working fervently on this problem for decades. And although we have made some advancements, we are still far behind where we need to be. I have a colleague at Johns Hopkins who has designed an iron nostril, but it is still in the experimental stage and requires massive amounts of nuclear energy just to run.
The other option is to be placed on the waiting list for a matching nostril donor. Given your, celebrity status, you may find a nostril donor faster than most, but, the honest truth is, even if you find a matching donor, the surgery is very high risk, and the rejection rate for transplanted nostrils is up to 80%.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed. If only you had your nostrils back. I could put them back in, and maybe..maybe… I’m sorry I don’t have more to offer at this time.”
“I understand. Thank you, doctor.”
Before leaving, she gave him her business card and a pamphlet, “Your New Freakazoid Life Without Nostrils.”
Keagan sat and thought.
Iron nostrils, transplants, why him? Why? For money. No, he would not become another victim. Keagan sat up in his bed.
Somewhere out there were his nostrils.
And someone had them.
And someone would pay.
Six months later.
Keagan Derpshy Bilggs III no longer existed. He had ditched the band and his identity. He left his old life behind. Keagan now went by a new alias – John Pierre Frenchman.
He traded in his old life for one in the shady underworld of black-market nostril dealers. Nobody suspected that John Pierre Frenchman was anyone other than a wealthy man of means and a nostrils aficionado.
At first, all leads went cold. It seemed he would never see his precious nostrils again, but then fate lent him a hand. A second-rate nostril dealer, a small fish, mentioned a certain set of celebrity nostrils would be auctioned by Mr. BlowHard, a premium dealer of select nostrils. It was rumored that a never before seen set of pop-singer nostrils, acquired six months ago, would be for sale.
Keagan, or I should say, John Pierre Frenchman, was hot on the trail, the nos-trail. He easily gained entry to the exclusive auction. At the auction, he would have his nostrils back, or die trying.
The auction was in a seedy warehouse in the seedy warehouse district. Keegan, or should I say John Pierre Frenchman, arrived early to explore the auction items. Damn. He didn’t see his nostrils anywhere.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” said the most gorgeous woman ever. Very much like the woman, Rosie, who drugged him months ago. But this woman had a different hair color. Her dark eyes and long eyelashes batted as she swished up to him. Even the other women, intimidated by her spectacular beauty, backed off.
“So, I hear you want nostrils?”
Keagan’s eyebrows shot up. “Zut alors! Who told you?”
The mysterious woman smiled. “This is a nostrils auction.”
“Yes. That sounds about right. What’s your name? Is it by chance, Rosie?”
“No, it’s um….Posey.”
“Whew!” Keagan grinned like a dope.
“You look thirsty. Here, have some water.” She handed him a glass of bubbling green liquid. He stared at it cautiously.
She purred. “Just a glass of water for a big, strong Frenchman like you. C’mon, drink up. You need to stay hydrated before…”
“Before what?”
“Before we…” she kissed his neck and then turned, giving her hips a sultry sway with each step, only to look back, smile, and wink. “Follow me, lover boy. But drink up first.”
The drink gave off fumes that burned Keagan’s eyes, but water is only water after all, so he guzzled the foul liquid down and stumbled after this mysterious woman. She blew him a kiss before walking out of the showroom and down some stairs.
By the time Keagan made it to the stairway, the mystery woman was already near the darkest bottom steps. He followed her, but felt woozy, and the narrow walls of the stairway kept bumping into him. “Hey, stop that,” he slurred to the walls.
The mystery woman, Posie, held out her hands and motioned for Keagan to come to her. So sultry, so blurry, so – so – and blacked out.
Keegan awoke to find his pelvis shackled in a pelvis shackle.
Before him stood his nasal nemesis, BlowHard. Large and bald, in a white suit and with furrowed brows. BlowHard looked down at helpless Keegan in his pelvis shackles and smiled. From this angle, Keegan could look up and see that, although these two men were nothing alike, they had one thing in common, a lack of nostrils.
BlowHard spoke in a terrifying baritone. “Did you think you could fool me, Mr. Jean-Pierre Frenchman, or should I say, Keagan Derpshy Bilggs III?”
Keegan Gasped. “Zut alors!”
“Yes. I knew it was you. You were getting too close, so I laid this trap. Of course, it wasn’t all a lie. Say, do you remember these?” BlowHard clapped his large hands, and an assistant rolled in a cart holding a bubbling tank of blue liquid, and inside the tank, floated helplessly, Keegan’s Nostrils!
[Keegan Gasps] “Zut alors!”
“I thought you may remember them. Do you know why I took your nostrils.”
“I don’t care, why?”
BlowHard pulled up a chair and sat before Keegan, studying his prey. “When I was a small child, my family was poor; we had little and scraped by for every meal. Eventually, each of us had to sacrifice to keep the family going. And there was no shortage of underground parts dealers. So we sold a spleen here, an appendix there. It broke my parent’s hearts to ask their children to sell their body parts to help make ends meet. I was just a schoolboy when it was my turn to ‘contribute.’ But we needed the money – for our cat’s harpsichord lessons. That cat loved playing the harpsichord!”
Blowhard bellowed, “Do you know how expensive it is to train a cat to play the harpsichord?”
Keegan looked up “very?”
“Yes, very expensive! And although my parents begged me to only sell a useless body part, like my liver, I was gifted with a beautiful pair of nostrils. Not unlike yours.” At this, BlowHard looks at the floating nostrils in the tank tenderly.
“So I sold them. But we could never afford to buy them back. And the kids at school. They taunted my new voice. They gave me the moniker BlowHard, because I could no longer blow my nose! I kept that name as a reminder of how I survived their cruelty.
Do you know what it was like when mean kids asked you, ‘What’s that smell?’ They knew I didn’t know!
And as I grew, it only got worse! When everyone around you is snorting drugs, and you just have to watch!
No, you don’t know that shame. Because you were blessed, not just with nostrils, but with the perfect nostrils, like mine, but you got to keep yours. At least, until I saw you in a music video. It was one of those camera angles shot upwards, and I could see your perfect, precious nostrils. And that arrogant, smug look on your face. As if you were mocking me! But now, I shall mocking you!”
BlowHard waved his hand, and a team of doctors and nurses walked in, dressed in operating room attire, and began setting up. He grinned madly. “I’m not selling your nostrils; I will have them all for myself! And you get to watch your perfect nostrils being transplanted into my nose.”
Keegan howled, “You monster! I’ll get you for this!”
“Good luck. That pelvic shackle is escape-proof.” Blowhard cackled..
As Keegan shook with rage, his body started doing something else, something he had practiced since his youth, something only he could do, that he had trademarked. Keegan did his pelvis shimmy. As his pelvis shimmied, it matched the same frequency of the pelvis shackle.
The nostril surgeons had taken Keegan’s nostrils out of the tank and were carefully prepping them.
The pelvis shackle loosened, just a little at first.
BlowHard, at first intently focused on the surgeons, looked over and his face paled. “No! Don’t! He’s escaping!”
But it was too late. Keegan had shimmied his pelvis free and dove for his nostrils.
The nurse holding his nostrils was taken by surprise and dropped the nostrils. Everything fell into slow motion. Keegan dove for the nostrils, which were now flaring in panic.
BlowHard, more vengeful that ambitious, screamed, “You will never have them!” and pulled out his revolver. He fired at the nostrils. They drifted down towards Keegan’s outstretched hands, bullets blew holes in both nostrils, destroying them.
Clumps of frayed and damaged nostrils flopped onto Keegan’s palms. He wailed “Nooooooo!”
“If I can’t have those perfect nostrils. Nobody can!” BlowHard smirked.
Keagan raged back, “This isn’t over!”
“No, Keegan, this is over. I can always find nostrils, but you only have one life.” BlowHard pointed his revolver at Keegan and pulled the trigger only to hear an empty click. He was out of both bullets and patience. Blowhard threw down a smoke bomb and disappeared. Well, mostly disappeared, because it was one of those discount smoke bombs and the smoke didn’t last all that long and Keegan saw BlowHard running out of the room.
Keegan held what was left of his nostrils, his dreams.
In that moment, Keegan vowed to seek justice. Not for himself; that was too late. But for everyone else who had their nostrils taken.
On a rooftop spire crouched a dark figure, a new hero for the city. He looked down at everyone going about their daily lives and knew he would be their protector. Wherever BlowHard and his band of nostril-stealing goons would be, so he would be there too.
He was no longer Keagan Derpshy Bilggs III or John Pierre Frenchman.
He was:
NostrilVenger?
Nostril Man?
Mr Nose it all?
Nosetalgia?
As he workshopped his hero name, a flying pigeon smacked into his face.
“Ow, ow, ow, get off me!”