Nathan Fielder’s Frenchie
Anonymous Request -
“Hello Sam! Okay, so this might be a bit weird, but I think you’re the one that can take this on. I have this fantasy of meeting Nathan in Paris, and we’re just Parisian lovers. It is the city of love after all! Could you make that work? Thanks, keep everything up!”
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They say that there are seven wonders of the world, though you don’t know exactly who the “they” that said it were, or if Paris, France, is even one of those seven. But in the end it’s still something definitely said, it’s definitely something you would say…
Or perhaps, would have said.
Of all the things you would’ve never expected in this wee world, you truly didn’t expect to want to leave Paris. Because it’s literally Paris.
You’ve known since you were a wee child that it’s a place you were destined to go to - from those shitty Michael’s French-inspired decorations almost every girl in middle school had plastered all over her room, to those buttery hollow croissants, striped mime-ass outfits, and red lipstick-stained cigarettes - you always knew Paris was the place for you…
Your experience had been anything but exceptional. You thought you would ditch all your problems behind back home. Oh, how you wrong you were. No hate to the city, but nothing seemed to be going right, it was always one thing after another and another and another and another and another and another.
First of all, you had a layover flight that would stop in London and then Paris, booking it literally the night before. But you underestimated the power of those little pink Barbie Benadryl pills you popped in your little pink Barbie mouth just moments before.
“London, and then Paris,” you remember muttering to yourself, smirking, “here I come.”
You then remember falling soundly asleep, thankfully not getting a visit from the Hat Man. Those pills were put to work.
But your dumbass inebriated self actually got a flight to London, Ohio. And you didn’t realize this until you landed in that godforsaken state, (shout out Ohio, no hate!).
So that’s one. Next, when you finally got to Paris, you got to your empty apartment, which had been advertised online to be a wee bit bigger. Instead, you got the full French experience of living in a replica of Linguini’s home from Ratatouille. But where was your rat? Let’s be real - you had no friends and you definitely didn’t want little rodents around. A girl all alone in Paris? Oh no.
You moved pretty impulsively, deciding to spend your student loans on the trip rather than going back to school, which you were inadvertently dropped from for not showing up for an entire semester. Oops your alarm didn’t work, who cares. Last you heard, something or someone called the “IRS” was at your apartment door? You weren’t sure what that was, at first you thought it stood for “It’s Ronnie and Sam” and that Jersey Shore was initially at your doorstep, but it wasn’t. In a way you were glad, Ronnie and Sam were NOT something needed to come back.
Anyway it was something about applying for scholarships that you were well not qualified for, that they wanted to see you for. Apparently you committed ‘fraud’ by opening a GoFundMe for your supposed ’re-contractment of the Bubonic plague’? You weren’t sure, it was a lot of adult words being thrown around, too much for your little brain to comprehend, and to be quite honest, it’s all in the past now. Those $30,000 that you were able to raise was all yours now, and now out of your old country, there’s nothing they can do about it now. If this was the medieval times, that GoFundMe could’ve saved billions of lives. Plus, fraud probably doesn’t even exist in France. So if you look at it that way, where’s all the harm in that?
After leaving your apartment to get some of that croissant, you felt a deep craving, an itch, for yogurt. You weren’t sure what it was, there was nothing around you that had anything remotely to do with yogurt, but you just needed it. It was something needed. You felt your heart race at the thought, mouth watering and beads of sweat dripping down, forming a puddle at your feet.
“Mommy. Wants. Her. Oui. Yogurt.” you thought.
But alas, for it being French yogurt, every store employee looked at you like it was Covid all over again and you just coughed in their face - horrified. None of them had it.
“What’s a girl gotta do to get some Oui yogurt around here, God!” you screamed at the French man. You then stomped out, ground shaking, searched for a curb not littered with cigarettes, found one and sat.
You looked around, trying to take advantage of the ambience like one of those four hour long YouTube videos.
But you realized - this isn’t Paris. This is just some recreation of Epcot’s France. No smell of baguettes in the air, no mimes harassing you in their silence, no escargot sliding along the pavement, no women wearing berets - nothing.
You felt water well up in your eyes, your head falling between your knees in defeat. Nothing was going as you planned, and you’d only been here for less than two hours. What more could go wrong? You picked up an old, squashed cigarette beside you. You placed it between your lips, trying to envision yourself as the Parisian you always wanted to be…
“Se vu me plah gyasoh pwezi cha que son gee.”
You jumped up at the voice behind you, accidentally throwing the cigarette to the street, hitting a bicyclist in the face and causing him to topple over.
It was a man who came to you. A French man. He just spat some French jargon at you and had no idea what the actual fuck he was telling you. He looked a bit concern, and you probably thought he was checking in to see if you were okay. You didn’t know how to say no thank you, you’re a stranger and this is stranger danger, so you said the only French you knew embarrassingly exceptionally well.
“C'est la vie,” you mumbled, through wet boogers and wet tears.
You rose up, as if those words brought a new life into you, and left. He stood there, still worried, watching you walk away.
But you weren’t walking for long.
It was late. A little too late. You couldn’t read French time but it was dark so that meant it was late. You needed to get back soon, so you did what you knew best, next to those three little words in French: you ran.
You started running, the most you ever ran you just ran. The tears morphed into sweat and your limbs began to ache not long after a couple blocks. The wind rushed past your eyes and it was so cold it began to make your nose numb. Fuck this running shit - you needed a taxi.
You called and called, waved down and waved down, but no yellow car would stop.
“What’s a girl gotta do to get a cab around here?” you screamed again, this time at a pigeon. He didn’t respond. “What’s a girl gotta do to be a mere femme fatale?!”
And just like that, as if the pigeon was a genie, one finally appeared.
A loud, deafening screech came from your right. You whipped your head over, giving yourself whiplash.
While making a sharp, extremely dangerous turn at the corner, a busted yellow taxi hauled ass over to you and pulled over to the side of the pavement right where you stood, blocking traffic.
“Oh my god yes, finally!” you exclaimed, running around back to the back seat and plopping your booty in. Once the door slammed behind you, you were off.
You felt your body slump deeper into the chair, succumbing to the comfort and warmth. Before you knew it, you nearly strangled yourself from the seatbelt forming something like a noose around your neck because you went down so low. You sprung back up.
“No way I’m dying in Paris”, you thought. You wondered if Jay-Z and K*nye would write about who was in Paris then if that happened.
The driver pulled up to a less busy corner, put that baby in park, and looked back to face you, hand behind the passenger’s seat headrest.
“Where we off to, pretty lady?” he asked.
You looked out the window, admiring the view. It was a trash can overfilled with trash, little Remys and Emiles scattering around. Though not traditionally visually appealing, there was something quite coquette Pinterest about it.
“Home.” you said. “I’m going home.”
You turned to face him after delivering that femme fatale line, but all the femme fatale dropped out of your system like the opposite of constipation when you’re shitting - it’s Nathan fucking Fielder.
“Oh my god, aren’t you Nathan Fielder?”
His face dropped so fast it was inhuman. He whipped around back facing forward like a dog who got caught eating toilet paper.
“No,” he said lowly. He cleared his throat. “Erm, no.” he then said more confidently, with a strange accent attached. “No, I am, um, I am jus taxi drive, no field. I, um, I eatta the baguette.”
His accent was a mixture of Borat, Jacques from Finding Nemo, and just an overall shitty (and maybe offensive) Italian impression put together.
“No way that’s what a French sounds like talking English”, you thought. But, not wanting to be rude and offend the man’s impersonation skills, you stayed quiet. This isn’t America’s Got Talent, and you’re not Randy or Simon.
“Why are you working in a taxi? Why are you in Paris?” you asked as he started driving. “Wait, is this Rehearsal? Am I on the Rehearsal? Is this the 'IRS’ trying to do a rehearsal with me?” you asked, butterflies filling up in your stomach at the thought. You began scoping out the car for any cameras, but instead you looked slightly mentally deranged with a big frightening Joker smile on your face and your head clocking it in different directions.
“I sorry, I don know who dis, dis Natan Field is, no? Um, c'est la vie? I’m just happy to be in Pari!” he chuckled nervously. His driving became more erratic as well as his breathing.
“Oh my god that like rhymed you should be a poet.” you complimented. Your mother always told you, honesty is the best policy. Except for his impersonations that was dog shit.
He began to slouch in his seat, an attempt for you not to identify him. Every time you looked over, he got lower and lower. You didn’t want to say anything, you felt it best to mind your own business. It wasn’t long until he eventually stopped and stood up straight as he almost got into several mini collisions because he couldn’t see over the wheel.
“So how long have you been working in a taxi?”
“Look, I’m gonna be honest with you,” he said, now speaking with a regular English accent, “I am Nathan Fielder. I’m sorry I lied, I just don’t want people knowing who I am. That’s why I moved to Pari, because French people aren’t that funny so they wouldn’t know me, you know what I’m saying?”
“Of course, Nathan,” you said, “I understand. I understand completely. Did HBO fire you?”
He didn’t reply for some time. That some time went on for about forty minutes.
“They did. But I don’t want to talk about it.”
You were nearly in your REM stage when he finally answered, forcing your eyes awake. You forgot what you asked, and didn’t realize how far you ran from your apartment as you two were still driving.
“So do you know any fun facts?” you asked, attempting to keep the conversation flowing.
“I do, actually!” he said, an excited smile growing on his face. He seemed to be bottling this in for some time, waiting for a person to ask. “Did you know OJ Simpson was nicknamed 'Stinky’ in prison?”
“No I didn’t. Where are you from?”
“Vancouver. British Columbia.” he answered.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry about the Queen. She was a queen,” you said.
“Do you know this song? It’s one of my favorites,” Nathan asked, seemingly intentionally ignoring what you just said. He turned the radio up, and familiar whistles echoed through the car. It was Moves Like Jagger by Maroon 5. “I love this song, it just brings out a boogie in me that I’ve never experienced in my lifetime before.”
“I actually don’t like this song, can you shut it off?” you said. His excited face dropped, and he turned off the radio at your command.
Your eyes began to close again, but you couldn’t help but feel another set of them on you. Something was watching, and it wasn’t Nathan - he’s watching the road, being a safe driver - no something was watching you. You crank your head over just a bit, still hurting from the whiplash from the screeeeeching. Your brain couldn’t process what was in the seat beside you.
“Are those….” you gulped.
One was all white, had blue beady eyes, a yellow beak, and a long tail that went all the way down to the floor, cosplaying as the Pope.
Another was all black, had purple beady eyes, a yellow beak, piercings and a large pentagram necklace on its chest.
Another was modded out to look like a giant moth, like a final boss in some World of Warcraft shit, head too small for its torso that seemed to resemble the size of a medium-sized dog.
Another was covered and smothered in cold baked beans. It also had a yellow beak.
Another was also all black but eyes blood red, still with a yellow beak.
Another was molded into the body of a centipede, crawling all over the interior of the car.
And lastly, perhaps most disturbing, were two that had been sewed together to resemble conjoined twins.
You gulped again. Your body was in shock, immovable. You would’ve rather seen the Hat Man.
“Sweet furb collection.” you were able to muster up.
“Ahh, yes, my customized furby collection! No ones noticed, you’re the first!”
You weren’t sure how that was possible. The only way of that being the case was if one of the customers he drove was blind.
“How have they not noticed? They take up the entire back row?” Before you knew it, you were pushing some extra furbies with your feet as they had taken up and overflowed the entire floor, pushing against you.
All their heads were facing you - their beady eyes making you the center of their attention, their world…
There was an uncanny valley vibe to them that made you want to incinerate them. It brought a sense of violence in you that you had never experienced before. They were unnatural and made you queasy.
“I don’t know, they just don’t. They’ve never complimented me. You know, they’re hard to come by, especially the custom ones. During World War II, the Germans stole them, you know, it wasn’t just those paintings they took, but they don’t teach you that in history. They don’t want you to know the truth,”
As he began rambling on about the seizing and burning of the historical documents on the Great Furby Siege of 1942, the staring contest between you and the modded out robots became intensified. Eventually, your ears started to ring. Those balls of sweat returned. Your hands got clammy and your chest started to hurt.
There was a presence to them, something that made them force your eyes onto them. They had the full authority of that back seat, and you were the next contender to challenge them. They dared you to keep staring, but you had no choice. Their magnetic forces and gravitational pulls towards their direction was too powerful. Your fight or flight mode was now on full activation.
“..And so that’s how German officials actually got the baked beans one to be made, apparently they were a big fan of that cuisine, but weren’t a big fan when they had to auction them off to pay reparations to all the countries they destroyed. Personally, I’m not a fan of baked beans, but I still needed to buy it. I mean, how could you not? Look at the little thing!”
Nathan turned over to you several times, looking for validation. But he hadn’t realized that you were currently locked in a battle with the furbies.
Finally, from after what seemed like hours, Nathan pulled over to your apartment building. He fully turned to you, concerned like that French man.
“Hey, you don’t look so good,” he said. You didn’t. You looked like you had just gone through a withdrawal.
Safe to say, you were able to break free from the chains of those furbies. You rubbed your eyes so hard you saw those little purple and pink stars. Your consciousness was regained.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “They’re just, they’re just like, really strong.”
He laughed anxiously. “Hey, do you mind if,” he spoke lowly, “do you mind if I get some food from your apartment? I spent my last three hundred dollars on this furby from Russia, it’s supposed to be RuPaul themed. I’m really hungry.”
“Yeah sure, I actually didn’t have any money on me to pay for the fare, so I guess me feeding you will call it even?”
“It’s even.” He smiled, extending his hand for you to shake. You wanted to, but your hands were too moist and clammy. You couldn’t embarrass yourself in front of him by touching him with the state your hands were in. Gross.
“Um, uh, I don’t know how to shake hands,” you spat. “Anyway, let’s go!”
You climbed out of the car and ran into your apartment. He did the same, sprinting.
You two finally got to your wee teeny apartment.
“Wow, this is pretty spacious,” he said, looking around in awe.
“What do you mean, are you blind?” you asked.
“No, I can see pretty good. What do you have to eat?”
You started to realize that since you just moved, you literally didn’t have anything in the fridge, instead hopeful for that crate of Oui yogurt. You checked anyway, as if a charcuterie board would just randomly appear.
You flung that door open and oh my god it’s a charcuterie board.
“Perfect!” you thought. Nathan was gonna love you so much.
“Here, voila! That’s French for a charcuterie board!”
You plopped it on the table, the only furniture you had. Nathan, without thought, started to rummage through, nibbling away at the cheeses and slices of ham and grapes and salami and olives and crackers. You watched, smiling to yourself all warm inside. Something about taking care and feeding him brought you such a sense of fulfillment, a sense of comfort.
“Is this what Gusteau felt like?” you thought. “Is this what Linguini felt like he when he literally triggered Anton Ego into a revelation he had back thirty years before into his childhood?”
As he made a little nibbling noise as he ate, holding the food with at the top of his little fingers, it resembled to you something of a mouse…
It hit you, hit you so hard you felt yourself light-headed and took a seat on the ground since there were no chairs in your empty apartment. You felt as if the furbies had casted their demonic spells onto you again.
Nathan was just that. He was your rat, your friend, your Remy.
He was that companion you needed, the little rodent in your life to live out the rest of it in Paris with. Something had finally gone right.
He continued to eat, lost in his own world, half the charcuterie board empty.
You pondered deeper on the thought. If you didn’t know this was Nathan Fielder and wasn’t already comfortable with him, then getting into a taxi man’s taxi and seeing an entourage of furbies would be pretty weird. But since it was Nathan, you weren’t weirded out? Despite those customized furbies having a psychological grip on your subconscious and concept of what it was to be a human in control of themselves, they were separate from Nathan. He probably never experienced that from them. Or maybe he did? Maybe he’s under their influence, that’s why he spent his rent money on a Russian RuPaul? Because those furbies had altered his paradigm shifts. Those paradigms were shifting.
The point is, had that been any other person, you would’ve been alarmed at the niche and fear that commenting on it would result in you getting yourself on some girl’s unsolved crime mukbang video on her YouTube channel. But you didn’t fear that with Nathan, no, you had to let him embrace it. You had to be his safe space. And God so help you, you would be.
“Oh my god, that was delicious, Y/N,” Nathan burped, so loud and forceful the empty charcuterie board flew off the table.
“Wait, how’d you know my name was Y/N?” you asked.
“The furbies told me, silly,” he laughed, lifting his shirt and rubbing his belly. “I’m so full, that was the best meal I’ve ever had!”
“I’m glad you liked it, Nathan. You’re like my little Remy!”
“Thanks, Y/N! Can I live here?!”
“Of course, Nathan!” You jump up to hug him, he hugs tightly back, he then throws you on the hard floor and you feel his member pressed against your leg. He begins kissing you, his tongue licking your lips for entrance. You let him in. Your tongues fight for dominance but you let him win. He eventually starts going down on you, taking your “Paris, Je t'aime” shirt you got at the Ohio airport off, and starts kissing your labia.
“This…this is a labia” he says.
You lift your legs as he begins to eat you out, his wet breath on your cooter. He holds your foot up and raises himself, ready to press his member intro your entrance. Your eyes are closed, ready to take the boy from British Columbia in. This is it. No furbies, no IRS, no college, nothing - just you and Nathan.
Your new life was about to begin. You were now sure, Nathan was that seventh wonder of the world.
Hope you enjoyed!
xoxo,
~Sam St. Clair
