Austin pulled his rented Subaru Hatchback into a parking lot near the front of the Holland Prison for Perverts. It was a circular building, domed on the top, strangely looking quite fluffy and inviting. The rust-colored walls had graffiti all over: “Faggaol”, “Gyno genangenis”, other puns implying the prisoners were gay. Austin didn’t seem to notice any of these. He got out of his car and went in.
The middle-aged lady at the front desk, protected by a thick, impenetrable looking screen of plexiglass, flipped through a magazine titled “Windmill Men”. Speakers on either side of the window connected directly to a small microphone on her desk. She continued to browse this magazine even after Austin had stood in front of the window for some time, never looking up.
Austin cleared his throat. The woman continued to flip through pages leisurely. “Ahem?” Austin said. The woman adjusted her glasses and licked her fingers to turn another page. “Excuse me miss?” The woman chuckled and flipped to another page. Austin knocked on the glass. The woman stopped for a moment and tore a page out of the magazine. “Fraulein?” Austin said, leaning into the glass and tapping on it. The woman attached tape to the page she cut out and hung it up on the wall without looking. Austin sighed and looked around for someone else to help him.
“Oh, hallo,” the woman boomed, leaning into her microphone. Austin cupped his ears. “Can you hear me okay?”
“Yes!” Austin said.
“Alright, I’ll turn it up,” she said. Her voice got much louder, and Austin could feel her breath inside of his chest. “What are you here for?”
“I’m here to see Goldmember!” He plugged his ears with his index fingers.
“Ya, I’ll getcha in.”
The speakers turned off with an audible click. Austin leaned in to see what her magazine looked like: there was a man who was a windmill, vane atop his head, hub on his nose, his arms sharpened into rotors; his penis drooped down and, amazingly, managed to crush grain, his penis a kind of sawing thing which rubbed along the top of a gear that ground it up.
“Head right through that door, it’s the last cell on the right,” the speakers boomed, startling Austin and causing him to drop a glass of milk. A set of double doors down the gray hall slowly opened.
Austin shambled down the hallway, seeing to his left a big room behind a window which was labeled “murderers”. Inside of it were buff shirtless men, all screaming at each other. One punched another hard, and neither flinched. A little farther into the hallway was another window labeled “perverts”. There were skinny pantsless men, all standing with their penises on display, smiling, faces turned down, some breathing on others’ necks. There was a window labeled “jaywalkers”, wherein a wide assortment of people from different demographics sat down on the ground looking upset. At the end of the hall was a room titled “Evil Masterminds”, where Goldmember sat, wearing his iconic(?) gold bathrobe.
“Austin?” he said through a small hole in the glass. His terrible face and white beard shone with sweat, teeth grimacing through perched lips. “Come in!”
Austin opened the door and entered into a small visitation area, a bench and a phone to talk to Goldmember through. Goldmember sat down–into the chair’s back, like Uncle Joey– in the chair on the other side. They picked up their respective handheld phones to speak through the glass.
“You remember my wife, Foxxy Cleopatra?” Austin asked, twiddling his thumbs. He looked down in shame.
“Of course, yes,” Goldmember said. “Your ex-wife was my girl before she was yours, ya.”
“Don’t you ever say her name again...” Austin muttered.
“I didn’t say it once.”
“I suppose so, yeah,” Austin, quite giddy looking. He got very sober. “She died recently. Of radiation from your tractor beam.”
“This makes sense,” Goldmember said, putting his other leg behind his head. “I have stage-six tumors all over my body. I am riddled with cancers of all kinds. The electrocution I endured was a minor pain compared to my eventual and inevitable fate.”
“I don’t believe you,” Austin said, scrunching his face up and wiggling it around a little bit. Goldmember pulled down his pantleg, shin still to his ear, and displayed a large, bulging mole, hairs growing out of it. Austin made a horrified face, one of disgust, pity, and arousal. “That’s awful, baby.”
“I know,” Goldmember said. “But I am not afraid of death, unlike you.”
“I’m not afraid of death!” Austin yelled, slamming his fist onto the glass that separated them.
“Why so mad, Austin?”
“I’m not mad, I’m randy, baby, and the one true love of my life has been killed by a madman. How am I supposed to get my rocks off?”
“Incredibly shallow. I love gold,” Goldmember said, looking to the camera, “fuck it and everything, and yet I have a healthier attitude about it than you. When my gold was taken away, I yearned as a dog does for its departed master, and I await the day when I am broken out of prison and can reunite with my bullion. I respect my gold, take care of it, polish it. It seems you saw your wife as little more than sexual object.”
“I don’t see my dead wife as little more than sexual object!” Austin yelled, standing up and picking up the chair and dropping it repeatedly.
“Alright. This is all an internal thing, Austin. Let it out if you need, but don’t take it out on me. I had other matters I wished to discuss.”
“Other matters, baby, whatever do you mean? I got us together for this shindig,” Austin, elbowing the glass suggestively.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come bury the hatchet,” Goldmember said, looking off to the sides of the room with a prissy facial expression. “Now, listen closely. Your fader hasn’t been honest with you.”
“Your fader,” Goldmember confirmed. “Now, do you remember the Scottish fellow who used to work with Dr. Evil?”
“Scottish fellow…” Austin said, rubbing his chin. “No, I don’t think I do.”
“No…” Austin looked truly perplexed.
“The big guy?” Goldmember said.
“Big guy… Nope, not ringing a bell.”
“He used to be a great big fat guy, but then he slimmed down. His name? Was Fat Bastard.”
“Fat Bastard?” Austin said excitedly. “Oh, yeah, baby, I know him! I just thought he was Japanese!”
Goldmember gave Austin a disgruntled look and put his legs back down to the ground. “Ask your fader about Fat Bastard.”
“Just do it. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Goldmember removed from his pocket that day’s special Sunday edition of The New York Times, displaying the front page story to Austin, headline: AUSTIN POWERS RACIST?
“Oh, come on, no, baby, no!”
“This should come as no surprise,” Goldmember read, “as Austin has a history of tokenizing and diminishing the identities of people of color in his clubs. Japanese twins Fuk Yu and Fuk Mi, who frequented Austin’s Electric Shagadelic Pussycat Swingers Club say that ‘Austin was always making fun of our names. Not just us, but the other girls too, who I won’t name for fear of their safety. It wasn’t okay then and it isn’t okay now, but no one ever said anything.”
“Hey, it wasn’t a racial thing, baby!” Austin said, defensive. “I’m always making fun of everyone’s names!”
“I don’t know, you know,” Goldmember said. “I’m Dutch and I can see how this is problematic. Can you give me some examples?”
“Felicity Shagwell, baby,” Austin said. “I said somethin’ like: I bet you can! Alotta Fagina: I said somethin’ like: I bet you have that! Or, how about Ivana Humpalot. I said somethin’ like: I bet you do!”
“I’m not sure. Those all seem to be ethnic names. I can see a kind of issue there. ‘Ivana’, that wouldn’t sound like ‘I wanna’ at all in the Russian language, so to place some sexuality on it is a bit rude to her, don’t you think?”
“No, baby, it’s just funny,” Austin insisted. “It’s a joke! I make sex jokes all the time, it’s my thing, yeah, baby, yeah!”
“This is a changing world, Austin. It wouldn’t hurt you to be a bit less sexual, especially towards women. And to be less racially sexual. It’s strange.”
“No, no, baby. You don’t understand. It’s just my culture. It’s just swinger culture! It’s just swinging, baby.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Goldmember said. “Your culture, your heritage, your birthright, it all gets very toxic. When the way you perform your culture harms people, you must renounce it or die like a dog.”
“Come on baby, a little love never hurt nobody!”
“I’m not so sure it was ever love,” Goldmember said. “I look upon my past with shame. That’s the privilege I have with these cancerous tumors and my confinement; the privilege to think about the things I would have done differently. The truth is that I should have been celibate. I never felt anything anyways, because of my golden, key-shaped penis. Why did I ever even have sex with all these rollerskating vixens? Because I felt I needed to or I wouldn’t be a man. It was wrong. It hurt me, and it hurt the girls. Now begone.”
Austin thought of his licensed Swedish penis pump.