Category: Celebrity Cameo

Ponderosa

The prairie sky bled red like a fresh wound as Jonny and Boris sat by a lonely campfire, boots stretched toward the flames, letting the smoke curl up into a sunset that looked like it had been poured from a whiskey bottle. A month riding the dust trails had taught them one thing — silence out here wasn’t peace. It was a warning. They turned around to see four men of about the same age on horses, but since one of them had gone prematurely gray, he was in charge.

“I’m Ben Cartwright and these are my sons Hoss, Joseph and Adam, although Adam will be leaving us soon because he’s a Drama Desk Award-winning Shakespearean actor and our adventures have gotten too ridiculous for him. This is our ranch the Ponderosa that we operate exclusively by ourselves, with only our cook Hop Sing to ease our loneliness. Who exactly are you strangers?”

“This is a RANCH?” asked Jonny incredulously. “It’s so big, we thought we were riding from one end of Texas to the other.”

“We’re from the future,” explained Boris nervously as he realized that the Cartwrights were between him and his Colt .45. “We took our time machine to check out the Old West. We didn’t mean to trespass.”

Old man Cartright calmly dismounted while Hoss and Adam boxed in the boys with the horses as Little Joe retrieved Boris’ pistol. The patriarch gave the pug a disinterested glance and then fixed a long, cold look at Jonny.

“Time machine, eh?” said Cartwright as he stroked Jonny’s cheek with his gloved hand. “I’ll say this…they make ‘em with REAL pretty mouths in the future.”

Heaven Knows, Mr. M.

Boris and Jonny got the summons like a bad hand at a crooked table. Rufus T. Firefly’s office smelled of panic and cigar smoke, and the Dictator for Life was pacing like a man who’d misplaced his spine. “I’ve got sour news, boys,” Firefly said, voice cracking like cheap shellac. “You fled here to dodge that lunatic Donald Trump, and now he’s kicking down our door. The orange windbag’s declared war on us for our helium reserves. As if he didn’t already sound ridiculous every time he opened his mouth.”

Boris cocked an eyebrow and scratched his jowls. “I thought our spiritual ringer, Sister Ana of Armas, handed him her Nobel Peace Prize to keep his beady little eyes off our goofy gas.” Firefly snorted. “The man’s got the memory of a three-day-old gnat. He forgot. That’s why you’re here. Boris, you take the northern front and try not to get us all killed. Jonny—your job’s heavier. Sister Ana is the soul of this tin-pot republic. She breathes, we breathe. You get her south to our friends. It won’t be pretty, but you’re the only mug I trust to pull it off.”

Jonny opened his mouth to protest the partner split when the door swung open and the good sister walked in. They’d heard the hymns about her kindness and charity, but none of them mentioned she was built like trouble with a halo slapped on top. Boris clocked it instantly—Sister Ana froze when she saw Jonny, her angelic face melting into the same hungry look every Van Nuys tramp gave his pal when she’d already picked out the motel. The pug had seen that look a hundred times. It always ended the same way—wrinkled sheets, bad decisions, and regrets that didn’t last past breakfast.

Jonny & Boris Meet J.J. Gittes

Finally confronted with a direct question of what Boris’ relationship actually was to him, Jonny shot a furtive glance at the pug and quietly answered “He’s my partner.” “Okay, so he’s your partner,” replied Gittes. “So why the…” “He’s my pet,” interrupted Jonny.

Gittes had finally had enough. He slapped Jonny across the face with enough force to rattle his teeth. “He’s my partner…” Gittes slapped him again. “He’s my pet…” Another slap. “My partner, my pet…”

Gittes delivered a barrage of slaps that reduced Jonny to hysterics. “I said I want the truth!”

“He’s my partner AND my pet!” screamed Jonny. “And when I’m lonely, sometimes I get him to lick peanut butter off my wang. Got it now? Or is it too tough for you?”

I Left My Heart in San Francisco

Karen sat uneasy in the leaky rowboat, the kind that made promises it couldn’t keep, praying it would cough them up on Alcatraz’s rocks by midnight so Jonny could hunt down his missing ticker. The fog rolled in like a bad alibi. Boris fussed with the oars, pretending to check knots, but his eyes told the real story. He’d seen it a thousand times: the way men kept their distance from women like Karen because beauty that loud made cowards of them. And Karen—poor kid—never knew the damage she did just by breathing. She wanted one man and one man only. From the moment Jonny had sidled up, all trench coat and trouble, tapping her for island know-how she gained from her job as the top tour guide on The Rock, she’d been lost. Boris watched the familiar spell take hold and sighed. The boss had that effect. Always had.

Jonny felt it before he saw it—the stare, heavy as a loaded revolver—aimed squarely at his rock-hard glutes. Same story, different dame. He turned, tore his shirt open, and let the night see the hole Jesse the Knife had punched through him back on Alcatraz. “Don’t,” Jonny said, voice low and final. “Don’t fall for me. Not till I get my heart back from wherever that rat hid it on Alcatraz. All I’ve got is danger and bad decisions.” The oars dipped. The boat crawled. Karen said nothing. She just stole glances at the man shaped like regret and figured—quietly, stubbornly—that she could make do.

The Law of Transferance

Hack wrote this novel after María Corina Machado gave Donald Trump the medallion and certificate she received for being named the 2025 Nobel Peace Prize winner in a transparent attempt to make her his puppet president of Venezuela. And while Hack clearly doesn’t comprehend the insignificance of someone winning a trophy and then giving it to another person who didn’t, it’s even more fucking obvious that Trump doesn’t either.

Witness from the Grave

You could have heard a pin drop when Madame Cherepakha took the stand. Jonny and Boris had seen her testify at many trials and she always had a strong impact on juries. Her showmanship was in top form as she took the crystal ball she had purchased at the Hollywood Magic Store, said a few “magic words” in her Native Russian that sounded to Jonny and Boris like pig latin, and a cloudy image in the glass of a figure wearing a trench coat fired a gun. “Ve do not hef such creetures in my country,” she said in a thick Bela Lugosi accent,  “but here you call it a…”

“A pug?” asked Big Tim’s attorney Atticus Finch. The psychic shook her head as a gasp came up through the spectators’ gallery and every member of the jury glared at Boris as if they were seeing him for the first time…and they were disgusted by what they saw. The twelve hicks from Van Nuys took one look at a conjuror’s trick from a novelty store and were ready to throw evidence from six months of detective work in the dumpster so that they could execute one of the great heroes of the city. Boris sat stiffly, his jowls slack, his eyes wide and wounded—not with fear, but with the kind of disbelief that comes when the world you saved starts sharpening the axe. Cherepakha’s magic show was finished, and Jonny and Boris would have to pull their own rabbit out of a hat…and now.