An Involuntary Interview with Taylor Lautner.

By Sam.

It was 10:00am on an otherwise pleasant Monday morning when I was awoken by a strange, clattering, banging noise from my door. I started awake and choked down the stale bile of last night's drinking binge. The left side of my face was still slick with drool that had the sour smell of wine. The banging was becoming more insistent. I could hear the protesting shriek of the hinges of my security door. I went to see what was happening.

Opening the front door I was greeted by a strange sight. There was a tanned, shirtless man with sculpted pecs and rippling abdominals. He appeared to be passionately dry-humping my security door. To be honest I felt a little bad interrupting him. It was an intimate moment.

You look a lot like a door right now.

"Yeah!" he screamed. "Yeah! Take it! Just like that!"

"Uh, can I help you?" I asked.

"You the journalist?" he demanded.

"What?"

"The journalist man, the fucking journalist. I'm meant to be having an interview now. I'm fucking Taylor fucking Lautner. I'm the fucking werewolf from fucking Twilight. My fucking agent told me I was having an interview with a fucking journalist. Fucking fuck journalist wasn't fucking at the last fifteen places I fucking fucked, so I guess it's you."

"My, that was a lot of expletives in one sentence," I observed.

"You speak like some kind of fag," he said. "Can I come in? I'm coming in."

Before I could stop him, Taylor pushed past me into my living room.

"Wow, you live in a dump man," he observed. "I bet I could take a dump in here, and you wouldn't even notice."

"Please don't," I begged him.

Taylor gave me a look that said I could beg as much as I wanted, but if it was going to happen, it would happen regardless. We stood there in silence for a few seconds before he gently shifted his weight and pulled a bunch of underwear out of his butt-crack.

The look of a man with underpants flossing his chasm.

"Would you like some tea?" I ventured.

"Are you a nineteenth century prostitute?" he demanded.

"I'll take that as a no."

"I only drink one thing man," he explained. "It's called Muscle Explosion... it's for my muscles."

"Yes thank you, I think I grasped that."

Taylor walked across and threw himself down on my couch, spreading his legs to an obscenely wide angle. He winked at me. When I ignored him he winked again. He then glanced down at his crotch and began to make suggestive grunting noises.

I realised that the easiest way to get rid of him at this point would be to interview him, so I pulled out a notebook I use to make shopping lists. I tried to look as journalistic as I possibly could while wearing my pyjamas. I sat opposite him for a good three minutes as I tried to think of a question. It didn't help that Taylor had begun to slowly grind his hips, softly humping the empty air.

"Look, do you maybe have a shirt or something you could put on?" I prompted."As impressive as your physique is, it's very distracting."

"Naw," said Taylor, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I never wear a shirt."

"Or pants apparently."

"Or pants. Got to air out my sweet muscles. Wanna see me flex?"

"Are those... are those Dora the explorer underpants?" I asked, as Taylor stood on my couch, striking poses.

He gave me a conspiratorial wink.

"The chicks," he explained, unprompted. "Chicks fucking dig Dora the Explorer. It shows I'm in touch with my feminine side."

"And the army boots?"

"That's so the chicks know that even though I have a sensitive side, I'm still dangerous."

"I have to say, that message is coming through loud and clear."

"That's the thing!" he exclaimed, leaning forward until he was only an inch from my face. "I went and got these sculpted muscles, and they called me an alpaca! Well, I'll show them an alpaca. Ee-yore! Ee-yore!"

"I think you'll find that Ee-yore is the sound a donkey makes."

"What, are you some kind of alpaca scientist now mister journalist man?" Taylor demanded.

Some men just want to watch the world burn.

He snatched up a spare pen from the coffee table, and clutched it in his fist like a knife. He began to wave it in the air in front of me, while making knife sound effects.

"Whatever you say," I tried to calm him. "Alpacas can make whatever noise you want. Please put the pen down."

"Are you checking out my crotch?"

"Definitely not."

"Because ever since I started drinking Muscle Explosion, my fucking nuts man, they're like baby testicles. I can show you, if you need a picture for your article."

"Please, I've never asked god for anything, but right now I'm asking him to grant me a world in which you keep your underwear on."

"Seriously, you should look. They're all tiny and deflated, like the floppy bits of skin under an old man's eyes."

I was slowly trying to push my chair back now, it made a dull screech as it scraped across the floor. Too soon I found myself blocked by the television. Taylor grabbed the sides of my head in his powerful grip. The Muscle Explosion had made him terrifyingly strong. His abs were heaving in and out like a blacksmith's bellows.

"I also get some vicious acne, all down my back," he sobbed. "I think Robert Pattinson gave my back syphilis. You know, I could rape him with one hand."

"Did you just say..."

"Put that in the interview," he said, releasing my head an stepping back. "I demand you put that in the interview. I want Robert Pattinson to know what I could do to him."

"It's in. I swear. It'll even be the title."

"NO, NOT THE TITLE!" Taylor yelled suddenly. "I DIDN'T SAY THE TITLE! Are you trying to provoke me reporter-gay?"

"I don't think that's actually an insult."

"I'm Taylor Lautner!"

"I know."

"Wanna see me do a cool trick with my pecs?"

Did someone order a kickin' upper body? No? No one?

Before I could move Taylor took the pen he was holding and jammed it into his own nipple. It went about an inch deep into the flesh. Taylor howled in pain. I couldn't help but wonder if this was the first time he'd tried this trick.

"Why journalist-fag?" he pleaded. "I thought we were friends?"

There were tears in his eyes. At this point I really just wanted to be anywhere but my living room with this howling, musclebound apparition.

"You've made me angry!" he screamed. "You wouldn't like me when I'm angry!"

"I don't like you now!"

Instantly he froze. It was as if I'd slapped him across the face. I could see the anger draining out of him as well as...

"What's that smell? Are you peeing?"

"You don't like me?" he asked forlornly. "That's the first time anyone's ever said that to me?"

"I find that unlikely."

"I think... I think I should go," he sniffed.

He began to shuffle dejectedly towards the exit, his army boots leaving rubbery, black scrape marks on the floor. As he reached the front door he turned back to give me one last, long, deflated look.

"Remember to tell Robert Pattinson I'm going to rape him," he said softly. "But not today... Not. Today."