Me and The Mall Cop
Since the dawn of time, memes have been circulating around the world. From "Kilroy was Here" to the latest meme on Instagram. However, with every good meme, there is a bad meme. And with every bad meme, there is a shit meme. Dat Boi, doge, and others have been circulating in the bowels of the Internet, such as Facebook and clone Vine websites. These memes are dead, but people still use them. Why? Nobody knows.
However, when all the planets are aligned with a total lunar eclipse, one special meme rises from the graves. He's 290 lbs, he works in a Las Vegas mall as a mall cop, and has hypoglycemia. His name is Paul Blart, and he's the legendary King of Shit Memes. Memologists studied this anomalous man since the release of the 2009 film. However, after 2015, he disappeared.
But this is not the story of an obese mall cop, this is the story of me, a 19-year old college student. I am a sophomore in the University of Delaware, and work in a local Wawa as a janitor. Terrible job, I am aware. But hey, I get hoagies.
So, why did I bring up shit memes? Well, it all happened in July 2017, when I got a copy of Paul Blart 3.
Chapter 1: The Bootleg
April 17, 2017. I loved thrift-shopping, so with $50 in my wallet, I went down to a couple of Goodwills. You never know what you can find in this fancy lil' store. I found VHS tapes of Super Bowl commercials back in the 90s, and even an Xbox 360. Granted, the white piece of plastic didn't work, but the tapes were enjoyable.
But it was that day, when things were peculiar. I got a PlayStation 3 for $39.99 with a copy of ''God of War II'' for $5.00. I was scanning for some movies to watch with this new game console, but there was nothing special. Shit movie, shit movie, German porno, and fucking Jillian Michaels exercise DVDs everywhere. It was an unlucky day, of course, but there was one movie that caught my eye. It was a cheap jewel case, with the only piece of labeling was the Goodwill sticker: $1.00. Just for curiosity, I checked the case. A burned single-layered DVD, with the title "PAUL BLART 3". It was more clichéd than a Jeff the Killer fanfiction, and I chuckled at the sight of this stupid little disc. But hey, $1. Nothing is lost when the only other options for DVDs are Adam Sandler films or a fucking exercise program with a screaming tiger of a woman. So I bought the bootlegged DVD, hoping there was some entertainment value.
I arrived home, with all of my content in a plastic bag. I hooked up the PlayStation on my television, and it worked like a charm. Sweet. With that out of the way, I played ''God of War 2''. It was a fun game, spent a couple of hours or so on it. I don't know how long I was playing, but before I knew it, it was 9:00 PM. Dinner time. I cooked myself a cheese sandwich, and I plop the bootleg in the PS3.
The movie was nothing special. It was no story of Ben, or a man in black. It was just ''Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2'' with Arabic subtitles that you can't turn off. Oh well. After watching the movie, I turned off and went to bed. 94 minutes wasted, it was not funny, and it was shitty. Now that I think about it, I wasted a dollar on a terrible movie with Kevin James. However, out of all the times I could've watched the movie, it was the day the planets were aligned. It was the day of Blart.
According to memeologists, whoever watches a ''Paul Blart'' film on the day of Blart, they are cursed, and are forever known as the Prince of Shit Memes. They will obey under the King, and if one does not kill the person that cursed them with the DVD within 24 hours, their soul is taken away by the Meme God Duane to Meme Hell, and their bodies will be nothing but automatons. Automatons that go on Facebook and post unfunny memes. What a horrible way to die.
Chapter 2: The Arrival of a Mall Cop
Midnight, April 18, 2017. I was browsing memes on my iFunny account, chuckling at the shit that I see. They were mostly reposts, but they were funny, I guess. After downloading a couple dozen memes into my folder, I heard a knock at the front door. Strange, I don't recall having guests, let alone at midnight. Nevertheless, I checked it out. I open the door, not expecting who or what to expect.
"Evening, sir."
Either I was high as a kite from a nonexistent drug, or I am hallucinating from sleep deprivation. I shook my head, hoping Paul Blart goes away. He didn't. In my mind, I was conflicted whether or not if I should scream, run, or both, but before I could do anything, he spoke again.
"Sir? Are you alright? You seem dazed."
It was not easy to grasp, but the fact that this obese man with the glued mustache on his face, riding on a Segway, is in front of me, in the entrance of my home. Eventually, I gather enough words to make a sentence.
"Y-You're Paul Blart.."
He nods humbly, as if this was not the first time he encountered such a reaction. Without a word, he grabs a scroll out of his pocket. It was crushed, of course, due to his weight. Nevertheless, he hands it to me, with a look of encouragement. Like a fragile origami, I carefully handle the scroll, and meticulously unravel it to see what is inside. The scroll was not written in English, rather in a foreign language in a typography I cannot recognize. "What is this? I cannot read it." I ask, hoping for an answer. He respond with an equivalent level of confusion. "I don't know. It is a language I am not familiar with. I gave it to you because I assumed that you would know what it means." I double-check the scroll, hoping if there was anything that I can recognize.
''⏁⍜ ⍙⊑⍜⋔⟒⎐⟒⍀ ⍀⟒⏃⎅ ⏁⊑⟟⌇ ⋔⟒⌇⌇⏃☌⟒, ⊬⍜⎍ ⏃⍀⟒ ☊⎍⍀⌇⟒⎅. ⌰⟟☍⟒ ⏃⋏ ⋏⍜⋏-☊⍜⋏⌇⟒⋏⌇⎍⏃⌰ ⋔⏃⍀⍀⟟⏃☌⟒, ⊬⍜⎍ ☊⏃⋏⋏⍜⏁ ⌰⟒⏃⎐⟒ ⎎⍀⍜⋔ ⌿⏃⎍⌰ ⏚⌰⏃⍀⏁, ⏃⌇ ⊑⟒ ⍙⟟⌰⌰ ⏃⌰⍙⏃⊬⌇ ⎎⍜⌰⌰⍜⍙ ⊬⍜⎍. ⊑⍜⍙⟒⎐⟒⍀, ⏁⊑⟒⍀⟒ ⟟⌇ ⏃ ⍙⏃⊬ ⏁⍜ ⏚⍀⟒⏃☍ ⎎⍀⟒⟒ ⎎⍀⍜⋔ ⏁⊑⟒ ☊⎍⍀⌇⟒. ⏁⍜ ⏚⟒ ⌰⟟⎎⏁⟒⎅ ⎎⍀⍜⋔ ⏁⊑⟒ ☊⎍⍀⌇⟒ ⍜⎎ ⏚⌰⏃⍀⏁, ⍜⋏⟒ ⋔⎍⌇⏁ ☍⟟⌰⌰ ⏁⊑⟒ ⌿⟒⍀⌇⍜⋏ ⍙⊑⍜ ☌⏃⎐⟒ ⏁⊑⟒ ☊⎍⍀⌇⟒. ⊬⍜⎍ ⊑⏃⎐⟒ ⏁⍙⟒⋏⏁⊬-⎎⍜⎍⍀ ⊑⍜⎍⍀⌇, ⍜⏁⊑⟒⍀⍙⟟⌇⟒ ⏁⊑⟒ ☊⎍⍀⌇⟒ ⍙⟟⌰⌰ ⌰⏃⌇⏁ ⎎⍜⍀⟒⎐⟒⍀. ☌⍜⍜⎅ ⌰⎍☊☍.''
Then, epiphany! I knew a friend that was a linguist, who could probably decipher it. Subconsciously, I invite the mall cop inside. He followed without hesitation. However, before I call my friend, there was an important question that I forgot to ask. "Mr. Blart, why are you here? You're only a fictional character, played by a terrible actor." The second I asked the question, he makes a grimace, as if this is not a topic that can be trifled with. He sits down on my couch, with a whump and a creak, and reluctantly answers the question.
"Ever heard of a doppelgänger, kid? That is who I am, or what I think I am. I do not know who or what created me. A few hours ago, I woke up in someone's backyard, and a guy threatened to shoot me! So, I hopped on my Segway and drove away, far away from that guy. And while I was driving on this road, I felt this feeling; a strange feeling, I might add, to come to your house. And..." he sighs, "Now I'm here."
Baffled by this bizarre backstory, I had no comment. I ponder what to say, but I instinctively reply with a soft "Welcome to my home." With nothing else to say, I contact my friend, Ryen, on my phone. He was not pleased.
"Karl... Why the ''FUCK''
are you calling me at midnight?!"
Startled by his exclaimation, I stumbled my words. "I-I need your help. Please come over. Paul Blart is in my home, and he gave me a scroll with a language that he didn't know."
"Paul Bla-, what are you talking about? He is not re-" Out of nowhere, Paul interrupts Ryen and exclaims, "Excuse me, do you have any Skittles?" Ryen heard him, "He's real, is he?" "Yes, he is. And could you buy some Skittles? I don't have any." Ryen was silent for a while, and reluctantly accept the offer, and hung up. I look back at Paul. "Skittles? Out of all food and beverages, you want that?" He was slightly embarassed, "I have hypoglycemia. I need sugary food."
Oh my God, this is going to be one long night.
Chapter 3: The Deciphering
15 minutes pass, and Ryen has arrived in the household. He was still perturbed by Paul's existence.
"In times like this, I would ask 'This better be good, Karl.' But the fact that Paul Blart gave you a scroll with an unknown language, and you need me to translate it, I got nothing to say." He points at the scroll, which is resting on the coffee table. "Hand me the scroll."
"Hold up!" Paul exclaims, "Where is the Skittles?" His voice express exhaustion; his blood sugar was running low. Ryen shrug, "The stores are usually closed at this hour. Sorry." Paul, much to his chagrin, collapsed. I look at Paul for a while, as he rests his upper torso on my crushed couch, and then ask Ryen, "Is he going to be okay?" "I'm not a doctor, but I think he'll be alright. Give him some chocolate bars when he wakes up. Now, hand me the scroll." I did what he asked, and gave him the scroll.
He looks at it, with a surprised look. "This is a written language I have not seen for a long time. I do believe it is...yes, it is." He looks at me, with wide eyes. "This scroll is written in Tralbart, an ancient language that was estimated to be 100,000 years old. I barely know the language, as it is considered a dead language, but I'll try my best to decipher it."
He carries the scroll to my work desk, and grabs a piece of paper and a pen. Due to his memory issues, he plops a deciphering book out of his pocket, and opens it to the language in mind. And so began the translating process, which was not a short process. He studies it, and writes the translation, one character at a time. He speaks under his breath, almost inaudible. To me, he was a mad scientist in the world of translation. After what felt like hours, I heard him cry out, "Karl, I translated it. And from what I can gather, it does not look good...at all." I got up and glanced at the piece of paper with the translated message. My eyes widen, my heart sank. I snatch the paper and hurried to Paul, who was still unconscious. I shook him with some sugary snacks, and he slowly woke up.
"Ngh... what happened?" Paul asked drowsily, as his levels revert back to normal. I read the message out loud to him,
''"To whomever read this message, you are cursed. Like an non-consensual marriage, you cannot leave from Paul Blart, as he will always follow you. However, there is a way to break free from the curse. To be lifted from the curse of Blart, one must kill the person who gave the curse. You have 24 hours, otherwise the curse will last forever. Good luck."''
I look at Paul, "24 hours?" He looks at his silver wristwatch. 12:57 AM. "We have 23 hours and 3 minutes to break this curse."
I fall down to my knees, with anxiety circulating my mind. All of these events, Paul Blart in my home, the curse, all of it...it is too much for me to handle. What do I do? What do I do...?
Wait. Eureka, I conceived an idea. I sprang up with resilience, and looked for the bootlegged DVD.
"Coral, or whatever your name is...what are you doing?" I hurry back with the DVD in my right hand. "It took me a while, but I figured out a way to find the man who brought the curse on me." I hand Paul the DVD. "Now, I got this movie at a Goodwill for a dollar. We need to go in there and find out who donated that DVD. The reason being is because I believe that it was the ''bootlegged DVD'' that got me cursed, and by watching it today, I got cursed. Therefore, if we find the person who donated and/or made the bootleg, we will punish him."
Paul looked at me with contempt. "You know that is illegal, right? Breaking in to find out information and murdering someone?"
I sighed with frustration with the timer running in my mind. "Alright, alright, alright. We will wait till tomorrow, when they open, and we ask them to find out who donated this, and then we'll give the person justice, alright?" Paul nods, "Alright. I'm game."
Ryen comes back with all of his stuff packed up, "If you don't need me anymore, I'll be heading on my way back tonight. Goodnight, all."
With the plan in mind, Paul and I sleep for the night.
Chapter 4: The Redacts in Goodwill
Morning came, and the hourglass was ticking. No time to stall. I woke up, and woke Paul up too. With no time to lose, he and I sprint to my car, and drove our way to Goodwill.
"Karl, I'm hungry."
"But you had chocolate waffles for breakfast, how are you hungry?"
"It's not enough. I want McDonald's. Big Mac, yeah, a Big Mac."
"They don't sell Big Macs at 9:30 AM. You have to wait an hour or two, which is something we cannot wait."
"Fine. But after we go to Goodwill, we eat?"
I groan, "Ugh... Yes, Paul."
Paul was more annoying in real life than he was in the movie.
Finally, we arrived at the Goodwill that I got the bootlegged DVD. At the front entrance was the manager.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Do you know who donated this DVD?" I handed her the film. She look back at me with a look of strictness.
"Sir, we do not reveal one's personal information over the donation of a DVD. We can return it for some credit, but-" "WAIT!" Paul cried, as he catches up. He was exhausted, after running 10 meters! What a lethargic man! He pants heavily, trying to catch his breath. "We....we...we need the information.. We are cursed. Please..." Paul lets out a good exclamation, like a howler monkey flexing his vocal cords.
"I'm sure there is a good reason, fellas. But it's persona-" "Karl, I don't feel good.."
''YOU GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!''
Like a towering tree, he falls, and the manager was the cushioning. The keys to the office flung out of her hands. I pick them up, and...idea! I will use the keys and go into the admin's office, and investigate the donation logs for whoever donated the bootlegged DVD.
So, like a ninja, I sneaked my way to the office. The staff were like Skyrim NPCs. They could not detect me, even with a bucket on their head. In fact, they were busy preoccupying themselves by flipping a plastic water bottle. Millennials these days. Either way, I arrive to the office, and I rummage the entire area for the binder. It took me a while, but I found it. It was right next to a box filled with yaoi. How peculiar, indeed. I open it, and rummaged it.
4/16/17 - ISSAC COSTANZO, ''Toaster Oven''
4/16/17 - TERENCE D'ARBY, ''Video Game Console''
4/16/17 -██████████████████''wed DVD''
4/16/17 - GODDY DIVIERTAS, ''History Book''
Strange...whoever donated a DVD had their name redacted... Maybe if I can scratch it off.
...
Much to my chagrin, the ink of the donation log was scratched, making the name barely legible.
R-e- Y-v-s-l-k.
Re Yvslk? Who is-
"YOU! Get out of my office!"
Oh no, the manager.
Paul came out behind her, with handcuffs.
"Sorry, Karl...I didn't mean to fall down on her."
The manager grabs her phone out, and dials 911. "YOU...You're under arrest, fucker!"
Well, shit. We're going to jail.
Chapter 5: Secrets and Bereavement
"So... we're not going to McDonald's?"
I turned at Paul Blart, who was somehow eating a glazed donut.
"Well, gee, Paul. I don't know! Maybe we won't be able to, because ''we're in jail!''" I respond to him, in a snarky manner. I was completely tired of this crap. I'm cursed, we got five hours left. Fucking hurray.
Suddenly, there was a mysterious voice out in the shadows. A deep voice, gravelly. It was similar to Johnny Cash, albeit more sinister. "You...you're the Monster...Pāvils..." Me and Paul look at the source of the strange voice, wondering who could it be. Turns out it was just a old man, in his 80s, at least. He had a beard, with heterochromatic eyes, one green and one blue. He was a strange man, indeed.
Paul was the first to respond to this stranger. "Why, yes. I am Paul, but I don't recall being a king." The stranger cries out in agony, "You! You are the monster, and you killed my brother! I'll never forgive you, you bastard!" I looked at Paul with confusion. He was equally as confused. "What? Me murdering something? No.. I could never have done such a thing." The stranger was not pleased. He got up, on his feet, and lunged at Paul, with a bloodcurdling cry, only to be snagged by the leash on his neck that was attached to the wall. "Quit lying, you malicious bastard! You killed my brother, 66 years ago!" I looked at Paul, once again, but with anger. "Paul. Tell me, did you do this?" He was still confused, as if this was something ''new'' to him. I ask the stranger, "I don't understand, what did he do?" The stranger sat down calmly, like a monk in the mountains.
July 9th, 1951. Down in Wilmington, two brothers lived in the suburbs. Edgar Bancroft, 23, and Lionel Bancroft Jr., 15. Edgar was an amateur dark magician, but he would never use the Dark Arts for harm. Rather, he wants to use the magic to help the Army for wars to come. Lionel, on the other hand, was just a student, and he loved to draw. However, Edgar was a quite protective brother, but for a different reason. Their parents were members of the military, and both tragically passed away during World War II. Their father, a seaman, died in the attacks in Pearl Harbor, and their mother, a nurse, died from lung cancer two years later. They had nothing but themselves, and with Edgar being the oldest member in the family, sworn to protect Lionel at all costs.
However, on that day, July 9th, Edgar decided to try a new spell in his book of the Dark Arts. A new spell, with no description. However, Edgar was a man with a strong sense of curiosity. So, without thinking, he tries the spell. With a wave of his right hand, he cries out the magic spell.
''"Modo gallico fricta cum velis!"''
At first, there was silence. Then, a cry. But it was a cry that Edgar recognize. It was...no, that is impossible. But then, the silence came back.
Edgar dropped his book, and ran to his brother's room, only to see a demonic creature, with the blood of his brother on his hands. Edgar did not scream, rather whispered regret. "What have I done..." The creature looked at Edgar, and growled at it. It had a voice similar to Paul, but it was much deeper.
"Tu neprātīgs cilvēks. Jūs nevarat uzzināt burvestību un dziedāt to kā neko. Esmu Pāvils, Memeļu karalis. Pārliecinieties, ka tas nav pirmais tikšanās reizē."
Then, the monster disappeared, into a cloud of smoke. Edgar realized what he has done, and he cried. Cried to whoever was listening from above, and begged for mercy.
After the tragedy, Edgar was arrested, after he confessed that it was him who killed his brother. He was sentenced for life in prison. To this day, 66 years later, the wound in Edgar's soul was never cleansed. Never cleaned, he regretted crying out the spell, and hope that forgiveness will come at the end of his life.
Paul was speechless. He didn't understand it, but he could feel something. I, on the other hand, felt disgusted. "Did you do that, Paul?" He was silent. "Answer me!" Paul was still silent, presumably with regret. He gave an empty look, staring at the floor. Finally, Paul gave an alibi. "I'm sorry, Karl. I didn't know." I slugged his shoulder hard, "Don't fucking bullshit me, Paul." He reacted from the slug and the hiss of my voice, but did not spoke a word. "We have a grieving man, who believes you killed his brother. Now, answer my question. Did you do it?" After a moment to think about it, Paul nodded. I took a step back. This reveal came to me like a flood, and I was emotionally swept away from this.
I walked my way to Edgar, with my back against Paul. "I need you to use your magic." Edgar hissed at me, with the same tone. "No! I cannot trifle with dark magic anymore! I might cause harm again!" "I understand, Edgar. But this is critically important. I need you to use your magic to summon the monster." Edgar, like a distressed child, cried. "I told you, kid! I will not do it!" "Fine. I will do it." I groaned, reluctantly. I got up, and inhaled deeply. "No!" exclaimed Paul and Edgar, in unison.
"Awaken, Pāvils, King of Memes!" I cry out. I did not know the words, but Paul had a reaction to it. He roared ferociously, and it eyes were blacker than night. Paul was no more. Paul was a demon.
Paul's form did not change. However, his personality and the tone of voice was more aggressive. Almost animal-like. He looked at me, and cried in anger. "Karl... tu esi kļūdījies..." He was attempting to disappear. Edgar looked at him with fear. "That's him! That's the monster!" I dived at Paul's leg, to prevent him from disappearing. Suddenly, everything was pitch black. I couldn't see. I knew that I was still holding onto Paul's leg, but I did not know where I was.
Chapter 6: Hell
Darkness.
Hell was dark. Literally. I could not see shit. I guess demons have special eyes or some shit, because I need those right now. Who knows, I might accidentally step on a ghoulish stalagmite. Whoever was there, I called out "Can somebody turn on the lights? I can't see jack-shit!"