Fri., Jun 22, 3:48 p.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar
Arthur Cole is happy to finally have returned to the bar. For one thing, it has become more and more difficult to restrain himself from gnawing at the end of his sleeve; the company of other human beings is becoming necessary for the safety of his apparel.
Art finds Sunshine seated next to Karl Cerullo, a man with whom Art cannot figure out Sunshine’s relationship. He’s a nice enough guy by Art’s standards, but still, the guy is like fifty years old, much too old… well, this is Sunshine.
“Hello, Artie,” Sunshine says, waving with her unencumbered hand. In the other is the ever present Cosmopolitan.
“Hey there, sugar britches. How’s the marathon treating you?”
“Like a well worn pair of shoes. No blisters.”
Wed, Apr 4, 7:56 p.m., Galatoire’s Restaurant
The president of the Urban League, Marc Morales, a former mayor of the city of New Orleans, arrives early for his meeting with “The Red Velveeta,” as he and his former colleagues at city hall refer to Nikolai Valentino, a man with an Italian last name and a Russian accent, but most astonishingly, a man who bears a striking resemblance to a young Josef Stalin, so much so that back at city hall, there were jokes made to the effect that Stalin was cryogenically restored by the Soviets in an effort to overthrow the United States government and brought here to the Big Easy to further the USSR’s quest for global domination. Such is Stalin’s doppelganger in this man, Nick Valentino.
Valentino stands and shakes Morales’ hand and the two men sit for dinner.
“How’s D.C. treating you?” Nick asks.
“Not too bad. I feel a bit disconnected with some stuff I have going on down here, but for the most part, I’m adjusting.”
“Well, it’s interesting that you would mention some of the so-called stuff you have here in the city, because that’s exactly why I wanted to meet with you.”
“I had guessed as much,” Morales says as his martini is delivered to the table. Galatoire’s is very well known for its service, especially its ability to cater to the city’s elite. The automatic delivery of the diner’s favorite cocktail is one of the restaurant’s many fine touches.
“It’s that whole thing about the zoning in the Quarter. See, I’m working on some plans to bring a very popular, national restaurant in the place of Chauncey’s, but I know that such a move would be loathed by the populace and, well, it will never make it out of zoning without a little bit of help.”
“I see.”
“And I’m sure that Judge Mule, well, I’m sure he will have something to say about this as well.”
Marc Morales tosses his head back slightly. “Zoning, okay, we can probably work some kind of magic there, but Mule, man Mule is tough.”
The waiter arrives once again.
“How is the pompano tonight?” Morales asks the waiter.
Fri., Jun 22, 3:57 p.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar
“The end of yet another brilliant piece of television,” Sunshine says, smiling to and speaking to no one in particular.
“I’m still at a loss,” Art says, stirring his vodka and orange juice. He knows the drink is really called a screwdriver, but Arthur Cole always says only women order screwdrivers and he really likes the taste of vodka combined with orange juice.
“It’s captured my imagination,” Karl says, placing his empty glass at the edge of the bar closest to Jackson. This is code for “get me another damn drink.”
Sunshine looks quizzically at Arthur Cole’s creole mustard-colored eyes. “You can’t see what’s going on here?”
Arthur Cole believes that coming to the bar was a bad idea. He also believes that he will return home now and eat his own shirt. “I am out of here.”
“Suit yourself,” Sunshine says, smiling adoringly at Karl Cerullo who smiles back with a nod of approval.
Fri., Jun 22, 4:36 p.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar, the restroom
“Ta-da!” Archibald says, frightening Karl Cerullo to the point that his stream of urine goes awry, flying from the urinal and painting a wet line across the wall.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry, dude. Just want to keep life interesting.”
As the flow lessens, Karl abandons his previous attempt to maneuver the cigarette butt closer to the urinal’s drain. “Well, what’s up? Why the visit in the loo?”
“I have a request.”
Fri., Jun 22, 4:38 p.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar
Karl Cerullo returns from the bathroom with a concerned look, a troubled façade which Sunshine notices immediately.
“What’s up, K? Did everything come out all right?”
“No problems with the plumbing, but it appears there’s something I must explain to you.”
“Mom did the birds and the bees with me. I’m up to speed.”
Karl Cerullo snickers. “No, nothing like that. What I’m going to explain, however, is going to require a lot more creativity and time than we have during this commercial break. Let’s start this up at five, when the marathon is over.”
“Is this about my diaphragm?”
“Just watch the show, Sunshine.”
Fri., Jun 22, 5:06 p.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar
“…so that’s why I am able to function at my ripe old age. I am actually getting younger.”
Sunshine stares intently at her Cosmopolitan, her eyes leaning into it as a sort of a mental crutch.
“After a few hundred years, considering I make it that long, I will, in fact, revert to an infant-like status.”
“I love nipples,” Sunshine says reflexively.
“I happen to share the same affinity, but that’s beside the point.”
Sunshine takes a long gulp from her drink, forming a question in her brain. “So, assuming what you’re saying isn’t the most bizarre bar story I’ve ever heard, how it is that you got here? I mean, who brought you?”
“An ostrich.”
Sunshine guffaws, unable to maintain a serious line of questioning. “An ostrich?”
“An ostrich. His name is Archibald.”
“An ostrich with a name?”
“Well, he’s not really an ostrich. He’s an alien. Archibald just took that form to make his presence a little more palatable for the humans he brings back to life. Apparently, the alien form is too horrifying for the human brain.”
Sunshine is trying to keep herself from hyperventilating, she’s laughing so hard. “So you, Vladimir Lenin, were brought, at the moment before your death, to New Orleans, Louisiana, by an ostrich, who is, in fact, an alien from another planet.”
Karl Cerullo scratches at his beard for a moment, nods, and says, “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”
“That’s one of the best stories I have ever heard. Thanks, Karl. You’ve made my day.”
“Well, that’s not just it. There’s more.”
“More?”
“Archibald wants to meet you.”
Sunshine is crying now, tears streaming down her face funneling down to her chin. “What, for a date?”
“He’s looking for a playmate.”
At which point Sunshine, having already begun hyperventilating, simply passes out, face first, right on the bar, tears dripping off her face and onto the mahogany.
Wed, Apr 4, 8:24 p.m., Galatoire’s Restaurant
Marc Morales is enjoying one of the finest examples of Pompano en Croute ever to have graced his plate. “So, I guess the question I need to ask is, well, what is in all of this for me?” he asks, savoring the perfect combination of the buttery pompano flesh with Galatoire’s unparalleled Béarnaise sauce.
“Haven’t you had your eye on that property of mine, the one just north of Armstrong Park?” Nikolai asks.
“The complex?”
“The one and the same.”
“Yes, forever. Logistically, it’s perfect.”
“Well let’s say I make that available to you for say, twenty percent under the market price. Do you think that might entice you?”
Marc Morales has never had a more tasty dish in his entire life.
Fri., Jun 22, 5:15 p.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar
Immediately after being revived, Sunshine does what any other person in her condition would do—demands another drink.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Jackson asks.
“I only passed out because he’s crazy,” she says, pointing an accusatory finger at Karl, “and besides, you hear my voice. Am I slurring?”
“As you wish,” Jackson says, retreating to do his business.
Karl isn’t sure he should press the issue, but at the same time, needs to make sure Sunshine understands what might be in store for her. “What I told you is the truth, Sunshine.”
“Thanks, Jackson,” she says, ignoring Karl as Jackson delivers her cosmo, “but can I have this in a to-go cup? I need to get out of here for a while.”
“Certainly, no problem,” Jackson replies.
After Jackson departs their area, Karl continues, shrugging, “Don’t blame me if you freak out when a walking, talking ostrich comes to visit.”
“You are a madman.”
Fri., Jun 22, 5:32 p.m., 341 Octavia
Having discarded the evil but delectable shirt in the laundry basket, Arthur Cole, now dressed in a t-shirt from the Sunset Beach Bar in St. Martin, is engaged in an online chat conversation with some woman from Ohio. He’s not sure where, just that it’s Ohio. Anytime he sees or hears a reference of that state, his mind plays back a famous joke from Bugs Bunny: “What’s hi in the middle and round on both ends?” Funny.
The woman, whose screen name is just4kicks75, is asking him what he does for a living.
just4kicks75: what u do 4 $?
velvetelvisking: I am a licensed, unarmed security guard.
just4kicks75: what does that mean?
velvetelvisking: means I am licensed but not to carry weapon.
just4kicks75: what do u do when all hell breaks loose?
velvetelvisking: try and calm people down.
just4kicks75: like how?
velvetelvisking: I tell them to cool it.
just4kicks75: like what do u say?
velvetelvisking: I like 2 use the term “Cool it.”
just4kicks75: that’s not very effective, is it?
velvetelvisking: almost never.
just4kicks75: so what do u do then?
velvetelvisking: I am supposed to not interfere and call the cops.
just4kicks75: ?
velvetelvisking: that’s what they taught us 2 do when I was getting certified. just4kicks75: ?
velvetelvisking: I have 2 do it like that 2 keep my certification.
just4kicks75: how often do u work?
velvetelvisking: twice a week. At the house of blues.
just4kicks75: hob. that is kewl.
velvetelvisking: thnx.
Approval, for Arthur Cole, is the sixth concentric circle of Dante’s Inferno, without which, he would shrivel and melt into the plastic keyboard into which his fingers type.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Chapter 06
Fri., Jun 22, 1:38 p.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar
Sunshine, holding court with Karl Cerullo, spins her empty cosmo glass on its napkin distractedly. There’s a commercial on, interrupting the Press Your Luck marathon. She motions toward Jackson for a refill.
“So, Karl, what do you think so far?”
Karl Cerullo smiles broadly. “Just as I remember. Those kids, how lovely.”
“I especially liked it in the last show when he referred to Paige as ‘Princess.’”
“That was over the top. Did you see Cheryl, the contestant to her left? Did you see the look on her face?”
“Looked to me like she just realized somebody had stolen one of her children.”
Fri., Jun 22, 1:45 p.m., 1000 Valence St.
Other than drinking someone’s booze, Archibald doesn’t like to steal from people, especially from someone with such great taste in Scotch. With that in mind, he has returned to Judge Mule’s house, this time remembering to keep himself invisible in case the housekeeper is present, in order to return the glass he was forced to disappear with during the previous evening’s surveillance of a delightfully fascinating young woman, a woman named Sunshine, with whom Archibald is probably going to go and break some rules. Well, not rules really, merely guidelines.
The literature concerning when and if one should work with the locals directly, most of it just says no, bad idea, you’re sure to cause yourself and your work irreparable damage. But there is another line of thinking, spawned by some rather liberal colleagues, that says, shit, go ahead, what do you have to lose, you’re stranded on a far away planet for who knows how long, why the hell not, it’s not like the work you’re doing is worth a damn anyway so why are you worried about tainting your research?
Archibald tends to agree more with the latter line of reasoning for two different reasons, first of which is it’s true and second of which is he really, really doesn’t give a damn other than the fact that the experiment gives him something to do. So what if his scientific method is neither scientific nor method? So what if his subjects have all gone a little insane? That proves something, to be sure. It proves that if you’re brought back to life, you go nuts. All Archibald really wants to know is just how nuts can these Earth creatures become. Insanity must have its limits.
This Judge Mule guy really does have some good Scotch, and this Laphroaig looks interesting. Perhaps Archibald will make a drink while he’s still here and he has this perfectly good glass in his claw.
If Archibald is to properly introduce himself to this Sunshine woman, he should probably start slow, through an intermediary, and since she has already befriended the perfect person, Archibald thinks there is no reason to wait. He will tell Karl to tell Sunshine who he, Karl Cerullo, really is. Once she can accept that Karl is, in fact, Vladimir Lenin, the whole Ostrich thing should be a whole lot easier for her to rationalize.
This is some fantastic scotch. He reloads the glass, no longer nursing.
Sunshine is an intriguing woman, and, well, he’s sick of socializing with all of these dead people. A little of the living would surely add some spice to his ho-hum existence on this wet little marble. As it was before he discovered J.R. Ewing, Archibald finds himself needing something more, something to make his existence worth having exist, and he is sure that this Sunshine woman holds, if not the keys, at least some new clues.
Fri., Jun 22, 2:06 p.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar
Yet another commercial break. Sunshine has herself sort of wedged in-between two barstools while actually seated on a third, slightly shorter stool. This is for balance. Sunshine has lost count of the number of Cosmopolitans consumed but has not let that fact hinder her from continuing her quest to consume as many of those pink, sparkly little glasses of merriment as possible.
Jackson has the drink delivery timed at once every other commercial, and since there is nobody else except Karl at the bar, he too has found himself somewhat engrossed into the drama taking place on the Game Show Network. It’s kind of like when he became addicted to Days of Our Lives in college. Nothing better to do. This commercial break requires a refill for Sunshine.
Karl Cerullo also requests a vodka. “But not that damn Swedish stuff you keep trying to pawn off on me,” he stammers.
“This game show thing is really quite interesting,” Jackson replies, ignoring the venom of the consistently surly but harmless Karl Cerullo.
“As promised,” Sunshine says, still without slurring her words. Of all of Sunshine’s gifts, her ability to stay verbally adept while the rest of her body becomes useless is one of her more admirable skills.
Karl Cerullo has something to add. “Have you noticed that Paige’s cleavage has become more and more apparent as the shows have continued?”
“Yes, I think I have noticed that,” Sunshine replies.
“Do you think, and I’m just speculating here because I’m not, nor have I ever been, a woman, but do you think that she’s doing the whole cleavage thing in order to keep Mr. Tomarken’s attention?”
“It’s keeping my attention,” Jackson chimes.
Sunshine thinks for a moment and then says, “It could be. There are all different breeds of women. Some, like myself, for instance, who are just so naturally beautiful, and have been all their lives, that there’s no reason for all of that foolishness. Perhaps she has low self esteem. Maybe she was an ugly kid and thinks she needs to keep upping the ante, or the antes in this case, to keep the very attractive, immaculately dressed and well spoken attentions of the great Peter Tomarken.”
“Or that,” Jackson says before turning his back and walking down to the other end of the bar.
“I can see your logic, Sunshine. Perhaps, as things develop here, we’ll learn more.”
“Oh, there’s a whole lot more to come. Fireworks, Karl. These two…”
Fri., Jun 22, 2:18 p.m., 341 Octavia
Arthur Cole notices something strange about his new shirt. He bought it from a local store down in the Quarter a few days ago, noting then, as he does now, that it is the softest fabric, by far, he has ever felt. He liked it so much that he would have bought more, but, of course, that would cut into his drinking funds.
The shirt, made by the brand “Valentino,” has an airy-like feeling that is both completely breathable, and yet somehow entirely opaque. And its whiteness, this being a white shirt, is, well, in his estimation, whiter than what he would consider white, and its texture in his fingers doesn’t seem to have any friction to it, as if it were totally smooth like a piece of plastic wrap, betrayed, of course, that the fabric is so very breathable.
And then something even stranger happens.
Arthur Cole suddenly believes that he wants to eat his own shirt, right off of his body.
Not eat as in devour the whole thing, no. It’s more of a desire to gnaw on the sleeve for a moment, just to get a taste, maybe sort of like chewing on a sliver of beef jerky. The shirt looks to him, for lack of a better word, appetizing.
Art, because he does like the shirt so much, manages to keep his instincts at bay and does not follow his impulse to gnaw on the hem of the sleeve. Maybe later, however, if he’s hungry, he might try a piece just at the bottom hem, if he decides to tuck the shirt in, which he has, for now, forgone.
Fri., Jun 22, 3:41 p.m., The Law Offices of Gibson Pratt
Earl Patton winces inwardly as he is called into Gibson Pratt’s office. The unknown awaits.
“Mr. Patton,” Gibson Pratt says, amicably enough. “I understand you’ve found yourself into a bit of a situation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well let me assure you, by coming in to see me, you’ve made the best decision you could possibly make.”
“I am glad to hear you say that.”
“But let’s talk for a moment about the circumstances surrounding your, ahem, arrest.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Well,” Gibson Pratt says with a chuckle, “I am somewhat interested in your mental state on the date in question.”
“How so?”
Pratt laughs out loud. “Taped, naked, in the Bentley of the most well connected judge in town. And you’re wondering why I am questioning your mental state?”
“Sure, I understand.”
“So?”
“Well, there is this girl.”
“I was hoping. For several reasons.”
Earl pauses, waiting for elaboration. None is forthcoming. Finally, he asks, “So what is the plan of action from here?”
“You don’t need to worry about the details. Just keep yourself clean, and when the time comes, we’ll discuss what else you’ll need to do going forward.”
“So I just sit back and wait to hear from you?”
“The less you know, the better it is for you.”
Sunshine, holding court with Karl Cerullo, spins her empty cosmo glass on its napkin distractedly. There’s a commercial on, interrupting the Press Your Luck marathon. She motions toward Jackson for a refill.
“So, Karl, what do you think so far?”
Karl Cerullo smiles broadly. “Just as I remember. Those kids, how lovely.”
“I especially liked it in the last show when he referred to Paige as ‘Princess.’”
“That was over the top. Did you see Cheryl, the contestant to her left? Did you see the look on her face?”
“Looked to me like she just realized somebody had stolen one of her children.”
Fri., Jun 22, 1:45 p.m., 1000 Valence St.
Other than drinking someone’s booze, Archibald doesn’t like to steal from people, especially from someone with such great taste in Scotch. With that in mind, he has returned to Judge Mule’s house, this time remembering to keep himself invisible in case the housekeeper is present, in order to return the glass he was forced to disappear with during the previous evening’s surveillance of a delightfully fascinating young woman, a woman named Sunshine, with whom Archibald is probably going to go and break some rules. Well, not rules really, merely guidelines.
The literature concerning when and if one should work with the locals directly, most of it just says no, bad idea, you’re sure to cause yourself and your work irreparable damage. But there is another line of thinking, spawned by some rather liberal colleagues, that says, shit, go ahead, what do you have to lose, you’re stranded on a far away planet for who knows how long, why the hell not, it’s not like the work you’re doing is worth a damn anyway so why are you worried about tainting your research?
Archibald tends to agree more with the latter line of reasoning for two different reasons, first of which is it’s true and second of which is he really, really doesn’t give a damn other than the fact that the experiment gives him something to do. So what if his scientific method is neither scientific nor method? So what if his subjects have all gone a little insane? That proves something, to be sure. It proves that if you’re brought back to life, you go nuts. All Archibald really wants to know is just how nuts can these Earth creatures become. Insanity must have its limits.
This Judge Mule guy really does have some good Scotch, and this Laphroaig looks interesting. Perhaps Archibald will make a drink while he’s still here and he has this perfectly good glass in his claw.
If Archibald is to properly introduce himself to this Sunshine woman, he should probably start slow, through an intermediary, and since she has already befriended the perfect person, Archibald thinks there is no reason to wait. He will tell Karl to tell Sunshine who he, Karl Cerullo, really is. Once she can accept that Karl is, in fact, Vladimir Lenin, the whole Ostrich thing should be a whole lot easier for her to rationalize.
This is some fantastic scotch. He reloads the glass, no longer nursing.
Sunshine is an intriguing woman, and, well, he’s sick of socializing with all of these dead people. A little of the living would surely add some spice to his ho-hum existence on this wet little marble. As it was before he discovered J.R. Ewing, Archibald finds himself needing something more, something to make his existence worth having exist, and he is sure that this Sunshine woman holds, if not the keys, at least some new clues.
Fri., Jun 22, 2:06 p.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar
Yet another commercial break. Sunshine has herself sort of wedged in-between two barstools while actually seated on a third, slightly shorter stool. This is for balance. Sunshine has lost count of the number of Cosmopolitans consumed but has not let that fact hinder her from continuing her quest to consume as many of those pink, sparkly little glasses of merriment as possible.
Jackson has the drink delivery timed at once every other commercial, and since there is nobody else except Karl at the bar, he too has found himself somewhat engrossed into the drama taking place on the Game Show Network. It’s kind of like when he became addicted to Days of Our Lives in college. Nothing better to do. This commercial break requires a refill for Sunshine.
Karl Cerullo also requests a vodka. “But not that damn Swedish stuff you keep trying to pawn off on me,” he stammers.
“This game show thing is really quite interesting,” Jackson replies, ignoring the venom of the consistently surly but harmless Karl Cerullo.
“As promised,” Sunshine says, still without slurring her words. Of all of Sunshine’s gifts, her ability to stay verbally adept while the rest of her body becomes useless is one of her more admirable skills.
Karl Cerullo has something to add. “Have you noticed that Paige’s cleavage has become more and more apparent as the shows have continued?”
“Yes, I think I have noticed that,” Sunshine replies.
“Do you think, and I’m just speculating here because I’m not, nor have I ever been, a woman, but do you think that she’s doing the whole cleavage thing in order to keep Mr. Tomarken’s attention?”
“It’s keeping my attention,” Jackson chimes.
Sunshine thinks for a moment and then says, “It could be. There are all different breeds of women. Some, like myself, for instance, who are just so naturally beautiful, and have been all their lives, that there’s no reason for all of that foolishness. Perhaps she has low self esteem. Maybe she was an ugly kid and thinks she needs to keep upping the ante, or the antes in this case, to keep the very attractive, immaculately dressed and well spoken attentions of the great Peter Tomarken.”
“Or that,” Jackson says before turning his back and walking down to the other end of the bar.
“I can see your logic, Sunshine. Perhaps, as things develop here, we’ll learn more.”
“Oh, there’s a whole lot more to come. Fireworks, Karl. These two…”
Fri., Jun 22, 2:18 p.m., 341 Octavia
Arthur Cole notices something strange about his new shirt. He bought it from a local store down in the Quarter a few days ago, noting then, as he does now, that it is the softest fabric, by far, he has ever felt. He liked it so much that he would have bought more, but, of course, that would cut into his drinking funds.
The shirt, made by the brand “Valentino,” has an airy-like feeling that is both completely breathable, and yet somehow entirely opaque. And its whiteness, this being a white shirt, is, well, in his estimation, whiter than what he would consider white, and its texture in his fingers doesn’t seem to have any friction to it, as if it were totally smooth like a piece of plastic wrap, betrayed, of course, that the fabric is so very breathable.
And then something even stranger happens.
Arthur Cole suddenly believes that he wants to eat his own shirt, right off of his body.
Not eat as in devour the whole thing, no. It’s more of a desire to gnaw on the sleeve for a moment, just to get a taste, maybe sort of like chewing on a sliver of beef jerky. The shirt looks to him, for lack of a better word, appetizing.
Art, because he does like the shirt so much, manages to keep his instincts at bay and does not follow his impulse to gnaw on the hem of the sleeve. Maybe later, however, if he’s hungry, he might try a piece just at the bottom hem, if he decides to tuck the shirt in, which he has, for now, forgone.
Fri., Jun 22, 3:41 p.m., The Law Offices of Gibson Pratt
Earl Patton winces inwardly as he is called into Gibson Pratt’s office. The unknown awaits.
“Mr. Patton,” Gibson Pratt says, amicably enough. “I understand you’ve found yourself into a bit of a situation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well let me assure you, by coming in to see me, you’ve made the best decision you could possibly make.”
“I am glad to hear you say that.”
“But let’s talk for a moment about the circumstances surrounding your, ahem, arrest.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Well,” Gibson Pratt says with a chuckle, “I am somewhat interested in your mental state on the date in question.”
“How so?”
Pratt laughs out loud. “Taped, naked, in the Bentley of the most well connected judge in town. And you’re wondering why I am questioning your mental state?”
“Sure, I understand.”
“So?”
“Well, there is this girl.”
“I was hoping. For several reasons.”
Earl pauses, waiting for elaboration. None is forthcoming. Finally, he asks, “So what is the plan of action from here?”
“You don’t need to worry about the details. Just keep yourself clean, and when the time comes, we’ll discuss what else you’ll need to do going forward.”
“So I just sit back and wait to hear from you?”
“The less you know, the better it is for you.”
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Chapter 05
Wed, Jun 20, 10:02 a.m. GMT, Stamford Bridge, London, England
Chelsea Football Club, PLC, Abridged Board of Directors meeting.
Members attending:
Roman Abramovich, Chairman of the Board (through an interpreter)
Peter Kenyon, Chief Executive Officer
James Gill, Director of Communications
(meeting already in progress)
“May I remind you, Mr. Abramovich, that Mr. Valentino is, in fact, Josef Stalin reincarnated, and that Mr. Valentino is very good friends with the aforementioned Premier Putin, a man without whom, it is my understanding, you could just as easily be in a jail in Siberia instead of here in the fashionable west end of London.” Mr. Kenyon glances at the translator who is frenetically, albeit quizzically relating this statement to Mr. Abramovich. “I believe it is in your best interests, sir.”
Roman Abramovich, oil billionaire, clad, as usual, in a silk shirt and blue jeans, scratches the thin gray beard he has just begun growing. Sunshine, had she been present, would probably refer to Roman Abramovich as being prematurely gray, noting that he is only forty-two years old, quite young considering all of his billions. “Just how much is Mr. Valentino asking we contribute?” he asks through his interpreter.
“He is asking that the Chelsea Football Club contribute two billion in American dollars and in return, we will be given top priority in all of the member restaurants’ product placement schemes, not to mention a forty-nine percent interest in the Applebee’s corporation.” Peter Kenyon waits while this information is translated to Mr. Abramovich.
Roman Abramovich raises his eyebrows. “I would expect a controlling interest, considering we’re going to be footing ninety-eight percent of the bill.”
“Well, so would I, sir, but Premier Putin would consider this to be a huge favor.”
Roman Abramovich sighs. “Fuck me.”
“Apparently,” Peter Kenyon replies.
Fri., Jun 22, 12:34 p.m.. 3931 ½ Prytania
“Muffin? It’s Earl again.”
“Hello Earl.”
“You got that number for me?”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:35 p.m.. 3931 ½ Prytania
“Fuck this headache. I’m going back to bed.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:36 p.m., 341 Octavia
“Hey Art?”
“Yes.”
“Earl Patton.”
“Hi, Earl. How are you doing?”
“Not so well. I guess you heard.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Gwen?”
“Who else.”
“Next time I see her, I’m going to get some tape and do something with that mouth.”
“From what Sunshine says, I figured you were about done with tape.”
“She told you that?”
“I’m afraid, for both of our sakes, yes.”
“Unfortunate. Speaking of Sunshine, have you seen her?”
Arthur Cole pauses at the edge of a precipice. “Just this morning, at C.C.’s.”
“So you don’t know where she is right now?”
“No idea.”
“Well, if you see her, could you have her give me a call? Sunshine and I have a few things we need to discuss.”
“I will pass your message along.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:39 p.m., 341 Octavia
Art calls Sunshine’s number. The call goes immediately to voice mail. “She must have her phone turned off,” he says to his pet turtle, the same turtle who is gnawing on a small volcanic rock in the bottom of its tank. “Well, I guess that message will have to wait.” The turtle is disinterested.
Arthur Cole feels that today could finally be the day he wins a velvet Elvis on e-bay. The auction ends in twelve minutes and his is still the highest bid. Still, however, there is the e-bay ninja effect, those assholes who wait until the last second to place a bid, therefore annulling his relentless pursuit of the prized Velvis.
It would look good on the wall next to his Budweiser clock and his signed publicity photo of Jean-Claude Van Damme. Still, though, it would be a whole lot cooler if he were to get a hold of a real, old time Marlboro man billboard sections. Especially a section with the actual Marlboro man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Unfortunately, those are currently going for more money than Art has budgeted for wall design. That would cut into his drinking budget, an unacceptable sacrifice at any time.
Still, the Marlboro man would be really cool. Maybe Sunshine would see it and realize, yet again, that Art is the kind of man she could consider dating. Sure, there are plenty more women out there, but there is something about Sunshine, an intangible, magical quality, almost a buzz that is here but not here, a feeling he gets when he’s around her, a sense she has, whether she knows it or not, a direct line to the realm of divinity and that she can, at any given moment, dial up the supernatural and harness its powers. Arthur Cole also realizes that this makes him slightly insane. Yet, he still can’t escape the feeling that she is somehow different, better in a way than the rest of the human race. And it’s not because of the way he feels towards her romantically, no. This is something that his primitive senses perceive.
Son of a bitch. Some fucker has raised the bid. Three minutes left. Okay, they want to play that way? Up another dollar. Stick that in your Velvis and smoke it.
It’s not an angelic thing. That would be the last way to describe Sunshine, but it is magical, a sort of buzzing invisible fog around her, charging the atmosphere with…
Fuck. Up ten dollars? Asshole e-bay ninja. That’s it. Raise it another ten. Two minutes remaining.
Back when he and Sunshine were dating, he remembers how she could pick up on current events before they happened, kind of like she had a built in news radio in her head. She would often predict the resignation of high level Presidential cabinet members before it was reported on the news. Stranger too, that she had absolutely no interest in politics. Sunshine would just, out of thin air, mention in passing that so and so was going to resign and then make no mention of it afterward. And if you asked her again, often, she wouldn’t remember who she had said and never, ever knew what position that person actually held.
You have been outbid. Auction complete. Damn it to hell!
Fri., Jun 22, 6:44 p.m. GMT, Abidjan, Cote d’Ivorie, Home of Didier Drogba
Didier Drogba, the twenty-eight year-old star striker for the Chelsea Football Club, sits anxiously in front of his computer, counting the seconds.
“Come on, Didier!” yells twenty-nine year-old Ghanaian international midfielder and Chelsea teammate, Michael Essien. “We’re going to be late!”
“Just a few more seconds!” replies Didier.
And then it comes up on the screen, “You are the winning bidder of item number 3873882, VINTAGE VELVET ELVIS BLACK FRAMED ALOHA HAWAII.”
“Gol!” he yells, before getting up from his desk and admiring the fifty-eight velvet Elvis prints stacked in the corner of his office.
Essien comes in to see what is happening.
“Michael,” he says, “I am going to corner the market. The next time somebody wants to buy one of these things, they’re going to have to come to the Ivory Coast. I’m telling you, I’m going to hold the world ransom.”
“Didier, I have to tell you this because you’re a close friend. You’re insane.”
Fri., Jun 22, 1:32 p.m., The Law Offices of Matt Winters
“Earl, we’ve known each other a long time. In college, we both did a lot of stupid things. But this, well…”
“Don’t remind me. But what I need to know is, how are you going to get me out of this?”
“Well, let’s start with the charges. First, there’s the criminal trespass, okay, no big deal. Then, there’s the breaking and entering. This one’s a little more dicey. So let’s see, we also have simple burglary, and then, my personal favorite, possession of stolen property.” Matt Winters chuckles. “In your case, I think it was the other way around, the property was in possession of you.”
“Ha, ha.”
“I have my moments. So anyway, in the grand scheme, any one of these by themselves, aren’t particularly trivial, but they’re also no big deal. Put them all together, slap on top of this that you perpetrated them against a sitting judge, and, well, I’m sure, even with your limited legal experience, you can see that this is, by no means, a trivial situation.”
“Which is, of course, why I am here.”
Matt Winters opens his desk drawer, shuffles around for a moment until he finds a business card. “This isn’t my arena. Call this number. I don’t think it will cost much, financially.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“This guy usually prefers to be paid in favors.”
“Favors?”
“Nothing sexual.”
“But favors, in quotes, nevertheless?”
“It’s easier that way. Less of a paper trail.”
“Are you sure I should do this?”
“If you had done this to anyone else, we could remedy the situation a lot more easily. Shit, Earl, any other judge would have been better.”
“Damn it.”
“You’ve got that right. Anyway, it’s not like you’re going to the mob for help, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Well, yes, it does. Who am I going to, anyway?”
“An attorney.”
“Well, I figured that, but the attorney for whom?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
Chelsea Football Club, PLC, Abridged Board of Directors meeting.
Members attending:
Roman Abramovich, Chairman of the Board (through an interpreter)
Peter Kenyon, Chief Executive Officer
James Gill, Director of Communications
(meeting already in progress)
“May I remind you, Mr. Abramovich, that Mr. Valentino is, in fact, Josef Stalin reincarnated, and that Mr. Valentino is very good friends with the aforementioned Premier Putin, a man without whom, it is my understanding, you could just as easily be in a jail in Siberia instead of here in the fashionable west end of London.” Mr. Kenyon glances at the translator who is frenetically, albeit quizzically relating this statement to Mr. Abramovich. “I believe it is in your best interests, sir.”
Roman Abramovich, oil billionaire, clad, as usual, in a silk shirt and blue jeans, scratches the thin gray beard he has just begun growing. Sunshine, had she been present, would probably refer to Roman Abramovich as being prematurely gray, noting that he is only forty-two years old, quite young considering all of his billions. “Just how much is Mr. Valentino asking we contribute?” he asks through his interpreter.
“He is asking that the Chelsea Football Club contribute two billion in American dollars and in return, we will be given top priority in all of the member restaurants’ product placement schemes, not to mention a forty-nine percent interest in the Applebee’s corporation.” Peter Kenyon waits while this information is translated to Mr. Abramovich.
Roman Abramovich raises his eyebrows. “I would expect a controlling interest, considering we’re going to be footing ninety-eight percent of the bill.”
“Well, so would I, sir, but Premier Putin would consider this to be a huge favor.”
Roman Abramovich sighs. “Fuck me.”
“Apparently,” Peter Kenyon replies.
Fri., Jun 22, 12:34 p.m.. 3931 ½ Prytania
“Muffin? It’s Earl again.”
“Hello Earl.”
“You got that number for me?”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:35 p.m.. 3931 ½ Prytania
“Fuck this headache. I’m going back to bed.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:36 p.m., 341 Octavia
“Hey Art?”
“Yes.”
“Earl Patton.”
“Hi, Earl. How are you doing?”
“Not so well. I guess you heard.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Gwen?”
“Who else.”
“Next time I see her, I’m going to get some tape and do something with that mouth.”
“From what Sunshine says, I figured you were about done with tape.”
“She told you that?”
“I’m afraid, for both of our sakes, yes.”
“Unfortunate. Speaking of Sunshine, have you seen her?”
Arthur Cole pauses at the edge of a precipice. “Just this morning, at C.C.’s.”
“So you don’t know where she is right now?”
“No idea.”
“Well, if you see her, could you have her give me a call? Sunshine and I have a few things we need to discuss.”
“I will pass your message along.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:39 p.m., 341 Octavia
Art calls Sunshine’s number. The call goes immediately to voice mail. “She must have her phone turned off,” he says to his pet turtle, the same turtle who is gnawing on a small volcanic rock in the bottom of its tank. “Well, I guess that message will have to wait.” The turtle is disinterested.
Arthur Cole feels that today could finally be the day he wins a velvet Elvis on e-bay. The auction ends in twelve minutes and his is still the highest bid. Still, however, there is the e-bay ninja effect, those assholes who wait until the last second to place a bid, therefore annulling his relentless pursuit of the prized Velvis.
It would look good on the wall next to his Budweiser clock and his signed publicity photo of Jean-Claude Van Damme. Still, though, it would be a whole lot cooler if he were to get a hold of a real, old time Marlboro man billboard sections. Especially a section with the actual Marlboro man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Unfortunately, those are currently going for more money than Art has budgeted for wall design. That would cut into his drinking budget, an unacceptable sacrifice at any time.
Still, the Marlboro man would be really cool. Maybe Sunshine would see it and realize, yet again, that Art is the kind of man she could consider dating. Sure, there are plenty more women out there, but there is something about Sunshine, an intangible, magical quality, almost a buzz that is here but not here, a feeling he gets when he’s around her, a sense she has, whether she knows it or not, a direct line to the realm of divinity and that she can, at any given moment, dial up the supernatural and harness its powers. Arthur Cole also realizes that this makes him slightly insane. Yet, he still can’t escape the feeling that she is somehow different, better in a way than the rest of the human race. And it’s not because of the way he feels towards her romantically, no. This is something that his primitive senses perceive.
Son of a bitch. Some fucker has raised the bid. Three minutes left. Okay, they want to play that way? Up another dollar. Stick that in your Velvis and smoke it.
It’s not an angelic thing. That would be the last way to describe Sunshine, but it is magical, a sort of buzzing invisible fog around her, charging the atmosphere with…
Fuck. Up ten dollars? Asshole e-bay ninja. That’s it. Raise it another ten. Two minutes remaining.
Back when he and Sunshine were dating, he remembers how she could pick up on current events before they happened, kind of like she had a built in news radio in her head. She would often predict the resignation of high level Presidential cabinet members before it was reported on the news. Stranger too, that she had absolutely no interest in politics. Sunshine would just, out of thin air, mention in passing that so and so was going to resign and then make no mention of it afterward. And if you asked her again, often, she wouldn’t remember who she had said and never, ever knew what position that person actually held.
You have been outbid. Auction complete. Damn it to hell!
Fri., Jun 22, 6:44 p.m. GMT, Abidjan, Cote d’Ivorie, Home of Didier Drogba
Didier Drogba, the twenty-eight year-old star striker for the Chelsea Football Club, sits anxiously in front of his computer, counting the seconds.
“Come on, Didier!” yells twenty-nine year-old Ghanaian international midfielder and Chelsea teammate, Michael Essien. “We’re going to be late!”
“Just a few more seconds!” replies Didier.
And then it comes up on the screen, “You are the winning bidder of item number 3873882, VINTAGE VELVET ELVIS BLACK FRAMED ALOHA HAWAII.”
“Gol!” he yells, before getting up from his desk and admiring the fifty-eight velvet Elvis prints stacked in the corner of his office.
Essien comes in to see what is happening.
“Michael,” he says, “I am going to corner the market. The next time somebody wants to buy one of these things, they’re going to have to come to the Ivory Coast. I’m telling you, I’m going to hold the world ransom.”
“Didier, I have to tell you this because you’re a close friend. You’re insane.”
Fri., Jun 22, 1:32 p.m., The Law Offices of Matt Winters
“Earl, we’ve known each other a long time. In college, we both did a lot of stupid things. But this, well…”
“Don’t remind me. But what I need to know is, how are you going to get me out of this?”
“Well, let’s start with the charges. First, there’s the criminal trespass, okay, no big deal. Then, there’s the breaking and entering. This one’s a little more dicey. So let’s see, we also have simple burglary, and then, my personal favorite, possession of stolen property.” Matt Winters chuckles. “In your case, I think it was the other way around, the property was in possession of you.”
“Ha, ha.”
“I have my moments. So anyway, in the grand scheme, any one of these by themselves, aren’t particularly trivial, but they’re also no big deal. Put them all together, slap on top of this that you perpetrated them against a sitting judge, and, well, I’m sure, even with your limited legal experience, you can see that this is, by no means, a trivial situation.”
“Which is, of course, why I am here.”
Matt Winters opens his desk drawer, shuffles around for a moment until he finds a business card. “This isn’t my arena. Call this number. I don’t think it will cost much, financially.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“This guy usually prefers to be paid in favors.”
“Favors?”
“Nothing sexual.”
“But favors, in quotes, nevertheless?”
“It’s easier that way. Less of a paper trail.”
“Are you sure I should do this?”
“If you had done this to anyone else, we could remedy the situation a lot more easily. Shit, Earl, any other judge would have been better.”
“Damn it.”
“You’ve got that right. Anyway, it’s not like you’re going to the mob for help, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Well, yes, it does. Who am I going to, anyway?”
“An attorney.”
“Well, I figured that, but the attorney for whom?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
Monday, April 14, 2008
Chapter 04
Fri., Jun 22, 11:57 a.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar
“I wonder if Earl is still in the pokey,” Sunshine mutters through a mouthful of her Cosmopolitan. It is her second cosmo since she and Art arrived, and the Press Your Luck marathon hasn’t even started.
“You sure are preoccupied. I don’t know and I’m not sure I really care all that much,” Art replies. “And I’m pretty sure there’s no way I’m going to be able to sit through a marathon of twenty year old game show reruns with you, Sunshine. I’m sorry, but I think I am going to have to leave you here in peace.”
Sunshine shrugs. “Suit yourself, but don’t forget to take the red wagon and park it back at the house.”
“I would never forget the wagon, Sunshine.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:08 p.m., 303 Exposition Blvd.
Earl Patton has gone through five or six names in his phone book before he gets to Gwen. “Have you seen Sunshine?” he asks.
“I guess this means you’re out of jail.”
“Thanks for spreading the news. Everyone I’ve spoken to so far seems to know.”
“It’s who I am. As for Sunshine, I saw her this morning, at C.C.’s.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“I assume they went back home.”
“Who is they?”
“Sunshine and Art, who else.”
“Oh, of course. No, nobody was at the house. I checked a few minutes ago. Do you have any idea where they may have gone?”
“This is Sunshine we’re talking about.”
“Point conceded. She’s turned off her cell. Do you have Art’s number by any chance?”
“Afraid not. Try Muffin. She’s bound to have it, you know, free drinks and all that.”
“Thanks, Gwen.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:14 p.m.. 3931 ½ Prytania
“Lush Muffin?”
“Yes,” she replies, without voice, willing words from her throat. “Who is this?”
“It’s Earl.”
“Earl, don’t you know better than to call me this early?”
“It’s after noon.”
“Oh. I should get up then.”
“Well, anyway, I was wondering if you could give me your friend Art’s number. I’m looking for Sunshine and she’s not answering her phone.”
Lush Muffin pauses, trying in her half-conscious brain to make sense of the words that were just spoken to her. When, after a few moments, the sentence begins to make sense, she replies, “That would require me getting out of bed. Call back in twenty minutes. I should be up then.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:27 p.m., Place d’Armes Hotel
Nobody ever really tells Nikolai Valentino what to do. They might intimate he should take a particular course of action, but the decision is always his to make, because, of course, he is the smartest man alive. So when there was a decision to be made whether to shutter the classic, always popular and once profitable Chauncey’s Restaurant on the corner of Iberville and Chartres streets, it was, essentially, only Nick’s.
“I want branding. I will be Microsoft of the restaurant business. And Chauncey’s does not fit into that vision. Vision, people.” Nick Valentino has become a big believer in power words, with “vision” being one of his personal favorites. “The marketplace’s dynamics require us to focus not only on the synergy of restaurant and people, but also the synergy we can attain from incorporating new ideas, new, cutting edge strategies to divide and conquer the four corners of the culinary industry, those being food, aesthetics, atmosphere and last, and most importantly, product placement.” Nikolai Valentino smiles widely at his last, shrewd bullet point. “You’ve seen it in the movies, people, the synergy between Pepsi Co. and Back to the Future was a stroke of brilliance. Sales of Diet Pepsi went through the roof. We are going to bring that dynamic to the restaurant business.” He takes a moment to let what he has said sink in. “In that vein, I have decided to buy the Applebee’s chain of restaurants and mold them into this new image, one of great food, comfortable aesthetics, great atmosphere and last, and certainly not least, abundant product placement.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:29 p.m., Judge Mule’s Private Chambers
“Deidre!”
“Yes sir?”
“Have you read this?”
From the Fri., Jun 22nd edition of the New Orleans Times-Picayune
Local Firm To Buy Applebee’s
NEW ORLEANS (AP)
The New Orleans based Valentino Fine Linens and the London, England based Chelsea Football Club, PLC, have announced they have entered into an agreement to purchase the Overland Park, KS based Applebee’s Restaurant Corporation for an undisclosed sum on Tuesday.
In a statement, Tuesday, Chelsea Football Club, PLC’s Chairman of the Board, Russian billionaire oil tycoon Roman Abramovich, said the following through an interpreter: “I am very excited being a part of the acquisition of this fine line of dining establishments.”
Nikolai Valentino, CEO of Valentino Fine Linens, had this to say, “Today is a day of synergy. With this purchase, we have a vision to bring Applebee’s into the twenty-first century.”
The following is a quote from the investor relations section of the Applebee’s website.
“Applebee’s® International, Inc., headquartered in Overland Park, Kansas, develops, franchises and operates casual dining restaurants in 49 states, one US territory, and 16 international countries under the Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill & Bar® brand.
Each Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill & Bar is designed as an attractive, friendly, neighborhood establishment featuring moderately priced, high-quality food and beverage items, table service and a comfortable atmosphere that appeals to all ages. As "America’s Favorite Neighbor®," each Applebee’s restaurant reflects its local neighborhood. The decor conveys this theme with photographs and memorabilia highlighting hometown heroes, local schools and area history.
Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill & Bar is the largest casual dining concept in America, both in terms of number of restaurants and market share. As of Dec. 31, there were 1,930 Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill & Bar restaurants, of which 1,409 were operated by franchisees and 521 were operated by the company.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:30 p.m., Judge Mule’s Private Chambers
“Don’t you see, Deidre? Valentino Fine Linens owns Chauncey’s. They plan to turn Chauncey’s into an Applebee’s, in, of all places, the French Quarter. Do you know what that means?”
“Oh, Applebee’s has a great chicken salad.”
Judge Mule stares at Deidre, dumbstruck.
“I’m sorry, sir. I think I’m missing the point.”
“As per usual.”
“Sorry again, sir.”
“What will come next? A Starbucks?”
“Good coffee.”
“Deidre!”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I will speak slowly so you will understand the ramifications of such an endeavor.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Judge Mule clears his throat. “Arnaud’s becomes Pizza Hut. Galatoire’s is now a Burger King. Brennan’s, Denny’s.”
“Sir?”
Judge Mule shakes his head. “Just get out of my office.”
“Are you being that word again? Facetious?”
“Close, Deidre. Today, I am being hyperbolic.”
“Hyperbolic,” Deidre repeats deliberately, as if by speaking the word she will glean its meaning.
Judge Mule smiles. “Applebee’s in the Quarter? Not going to happen. Not on my watch.”
“I wonder if Earl is still in the pokey,” Sunshine mutters through a mouthful of her Cosmopolitan. It is her second cosmo since she and Art arrived, and the Press Your Luck marathon hasn’t even started.
“You sure are preoccupied. I don’t know and I’m not sure I really care all that much,” Art replies. “And I’m pretty sure there’s no way I’m going to be able to sit through a marathon of twenty year old game show reruns with you, Sunshine. I’m sorry, but I think I am going to have to leave you here in peace.”
Sunshine shrugs. “Suit yourself, but don’t forget to take the red wagon and park it back at the house.”
“I would never forget the wagon, Sunshine.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:08 p.m., 303 Exposition Blvd.
Earl Patton has gone through five or six names in his phone book before he gets to Gwen. “Have you seen Sunshine?” he asks.
“I guess this means you’re out of jail.”
“Thanks for spreading the news. Everyone I’ve spoken to so far seems to know.”
“It’s who I am. As for Sunshine, I saw her this morning, at C.C.’s.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“I assume they went back home.”
“Who is they?”
“Sunshine and Art, who else.”
“Oh, of course. No, nobody was at the house. I checked a few minutes ago. Do you have any idea where they may have gone?”
“This is Sunshine we’re talking about.”
“Point conceded. She’s turned off her cell. Do you have Art’s number by any chance?”
“Afraid not. Try Muffin. She’s bound to have it, you know, free drinks and all that.”
“Thanks, Gwen.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:14 p.m.. 3931 ½ Prytania
“Lush Muffin?”
“Yes,” she replies, without voice, willing words from her throat. “Who is this?”
“It’s Earl.”
“Earl, don’t you know better than to call me this early?”
“It’s after noon.”
“Oh. I should get up then.”
“Well, anyway, I was wondering if you could give me your friend Art’s number. I’m looking for Sunshine and she’s not answering her phone.”
Lush Muffin pauses, trying in her half-conscious brain to make sense of the words that were just spoken to her. When, after a few moments, the sentence begins to make sense, she replies, “That would require me getting out of bed. Call back in twenty minutes. I should be up then.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:27 p.m., Place d’Armes Hotel
Nobody ever really tells Nikolai Valentino what to do. They might intimate he should take a particular course of action, but the decision is always his to make, because, of course, he is the smartest man alive. So when there was a decision to be made whether to shutter the classic, always popular and once profitable Chauncey’s Restaurant on the corner of Iberville and Chartres streets, it was, essentially, only Nick’s.
“I want branding. I will be Microsoft of the restaurant business. And Chauncey’s does not fit into that vision. Vision, people.” Nick Valentino has become a big believer in power words, with “vision” being one of his personal favorites. “The marketplace’s dynamics require us to focus not only on the synergy of restaurant and people, but also the synergy we can attain from incorporating new ideas, new, cutting edge strategies to divide and conquer the four corners of the culinary industry, those being food, aesthetics, atmosphere and last, and most importantly, product placement.” Nikolai Valentino smiles widely at his last, shrewd bullet point. “You’ve seen it in the movies, people, the synergy between Pepsi Co. and Back to the Future was a stroke of brilliance. Sales of Diet Pepsi went through the roof. We are going to bring that dynamic to the restaurant business.” He takes a moment to let what he has said sink in. “In that vein, I have decided to buy the Applebee’s chain of restaurants and mold them into this new image, one of great food, comfortable aesthetics, great atmosphere and last, and certainly not least, abundant product placement.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:29 p.m., Judge Mule’s Private Chambers
“Deidre!”
“Yes sir?”
“Have you read this?”
From the Fri., Jun 22nd edition of the New Orleans Times-Picayune
Local Firm To Buy Applebee’s
NEW ORLEANS (AP)
The New Orleans based Valentino Fine Linens and the London, England based Chelsea Football Club, PLC, have announced they have entered into an agreement to purchase the Overland Park, KS based Applebee’s Restaurant Corporation for an undisclosed sum on Tuesday.
In a statement, Tuesday, Chelsea Football Club, PLC’s Chairman of the Board, Russian billionaire oil tycoon Roman Abramovich, said the following through an interpreter: “I am very excited being a part of the acquisition of this fine line of dining establishments.”
Nikolai Valentino, CEO of Valentino Fine Linens, had this to say, “Today is a day of synergy. With this purchase, we have a vision to bring Applebee’s into the twenty-first century.”
The following is a quote from the investor relations section of the Applebee’s website.
“Applebee’s® International, Inc., headquartered in Overland Park, Kansas, develops, franchises and operates casual dining restaurants in 49 states, one US territory, and 16 international countries under the Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill & Bar® brand.
Each Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill & Bar is designed as an attractive, friendly, neighborhood establishment featuring moderately priced, high-quality food and beverage items, table service and a comfortable atmosphere that appeals to all ages. As "America’s Favorite Neighbor®," each Applebee’s restaurant reflects its local neighborhood. The decor conveys this theme with photographs and memorabilia highlighting hometown heroes, local schools and area history.
Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill & Bar is the largest casual dining concept in America, both in terms of number of restaurants and market share. As of Dec. 31, there were 1,930 Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill & Bar restaurants, of which 1,409 were operated by franchisees and 521 were operated by the company.”
Fri., Jun 22, 12:30 p.m., Judge Mule’s Private Chambers
“Don’t you see, Deidre? Valentino Fine Linens owns Chauncey’s. They plan to turn Chauncey’s into an Applebee’s, in, of all places, the French Quarter. Do you know what that means?”
“Oh, Applebee’s has a great chicken salad.”
Judge Mule stares at Deidre, dumbstruck.
“I’m sorry, sir. I think I’m missing the point.”
“As per usual.”
“Sorry again, sir.”
“What will come next? A Starbucks?”
“Good coffee.”
“Deidre!”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I will speak slowly so you will understand the ramifications of such an endeavor.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Judge Mule clears his throat. “Arnaud’s becomes Pizza Hut. Galatoire’s is now a Burger King. Brennan’s, Denny’s.”
“Sir?”
Judge Mule shakes his head. “Just get out of my office.”
“Are you being that word again? Facetious?”
“Close, Deidre. Today, I am being hyperbolic.”
“Hyperbolic,” Deidre repeats deliberately, as if by speaking the word she will glean its meaning.
Judge Mule smiles. “Applebee’s in the Quarter? Not going to happen. Not on my watch.”
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Chapter 03
Fri., Jun 22, 11:20 a.m., Dos Jefe’s Bar
After securing the red wagon with a bicycle lock to the bus stop sign on the corner of Joseph and Tchoupitoulas streets, Art follows Sunshine into Dos Jefe’s Bar.
“Jackson,” she barks to the bartender, “have you forgotten what awaits us today?”
“What is the what?” a bewildered Jackson replies.
“Press Your Luck. It’s the marathon.”
“Right.” Jackson fumbles with the remote until it finds the Game Show Network on the menu. “Doesn’t start until noon.”
“I know. But I made sure to get here early so I wouldn’t miss anything.”
Jackson shakes his head and wanders off.
Arthur Cole believes Sunshine is an abandoned mine field and he is a foot soldier.
“Why on Earth are you so intent on watching this show?” he asks.
Sunshine nods several times confidently, eyes on the bar, and then cocks her head back up to meet Art’s eyes. “Have you seen the movie Quiz Show?”
“Yes.”
“And are you aware that it is based on a true story?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, in that movie, there was this game show in the fifties, I believe it was called Twenty-One, and this game show was hugely popular.”
“I recall.”
“Yes, but the reason it is so popular is because it is rigged. See, the producers put somebody in who is compelling for some reason or another, in the case of the movie, it is at first because the guy is ugly and Jewish. When the ratings start to sag, they replace him with a guy who is a wasp and is also happens to be a brilliant historian or English professor, or some such nonsense.”
“Right, and when the ugly Jew is told he has to purposefully lose, he goes batshit and all hell breaks loose.”
“Correct, but that’s not the point in this instance. The point is that the movie is a true story and that the show was rigged.”
“Okay, go on.”
“Anywhoo. So these same producers, in real life, the same guys who produced Twenty-one in real life, also produced…”
“Press Your Luck,” Art says.
“Ding, ding.”
“Great to know. But how is that compelling? Now we’re going to watch reruns of an eighties game show that was rigged? That smacks of Sisyphus, and you know how I am averse to tragedy of any kind.”
“Liz and I watched an entire season of Press Your Luck reruns, in order, on the USA network during college, instead of going to class.”
“Of course.”
Arthur Cole now believes that Sunshine is no longer a minefield, but instead has morphed into one giant bomb cluster bomb, destined eradicate his personal airport’s runway, fragmenting his life’s aviation-life-giving pavement into a million little pieces at any moment.
Sunshine is becoming giddy with excitement. “So the host, a guy by the name of Peter Tomarken, who is, in my opinion, the best and wittiest host in the history of game shows, the host, well, one day, this girl, her name is Paige, she comes on the show. The lights go up, their eyes meet, and they fall in love. Big money, no whammies.”
“I remember the whammies.”
“So, for the next month or so, this Paige girl goes on a quote-unquote miraculous winning streak, and the whole time, Peter Tomarken and Paige are flirting, literally non-stop. And it gets so bad that, after a few shows go by, the other contestants are getting cranky—they’ve seen through the charade and realize they’re nothing more than window dressing; they don’t have an Eskimo’s chance in hell of winning because, of course, during commercial breaks, Tomarken and Paige are probably doing it in the janitor’s closet.”
“So does she ever lose?”
“Well, that’s the thing. One day, she’s just gone and there’s no mention of her ever having been on the show. She has this remarkable, month-long winning streak and then, boom, it’s as if she never existed.”
“Heh.”
“But I could see it in the host’s eyes. He no longer had the lust for the game. The jokes were flat and he just looked sad, the show’s momentum abruptly and forever halted. I felt terrible for him.”
“I wonder what happened?”
“Well, Artie, that’s what we’re here today and for the next week to find out. I need clues. I need to see when it appears their relationship is faltering, body language, that sort of thing.”
“And you’re including me in this, why?”
“Because I am certain there are life lessons to be learned.”
Arthur Cole can see the lack of irony oozing out of Sunshine’s lips. “You can’t be serious. Life lessons? Considering your conduct last night, you’d probably qualify for a remedial course on life lessons.”
“Speaking of last night,” Sunshine says, “I wonder if Earl is out of jail yet?”
Fri., Jun 22, 11:40 a.m., Judge Mule’s Private Chambers
The stench from the cloves always made Deidre a little sick, and the way the judge is puffing away today, she is pretty sure she is going to hurl all over his desk, right there on top of all of the legal papers she doesn’t really understand; being his personal secretary and not one of his legal assistants, she’s not particularly versed, nor does she care what that stuff is and does. It’s the law, and the law bores her.
“Deidre,” the judge says, waving his stinking lit clove in the air in little semicircles, “just what is the world coming to?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“Seriously. Do you think we’re at the cusp of Armageddon?”
“Sir, I usually leave that kind of stuff to the priests and the Pope and those kind of people. I don’t really know what the coming of an Armageddon is supposed to look like.”
“Well, Deidre, I’ll tell you. Just six months ago, to the day, mind you, I woke up for my morning cigarette and found my car sitting in my front lawn, and not by my doing, mind you. Somebody had broken into my house while I was sleeping, gone into the garage and rolled the car into the yard.”
“Did they take anything?”
“No, nothing was stolen, but that’s irrelevant.”
“Well I’m glad you didn’t get robbed.”
“Nothing gone, and again, Deidre, that’s not the point. So, last evening, around two in the morning, I thought I heard a rustle in my house. I didn’t think anything of it at first because, well, when one is sleeping and in and out of consciousness, one tends not to be in a one hundred percent realistic state of mind. But then I realized, in some sort of moment of clarity, that today, when I did the math in my semi-conscious head, was the six month anniversary, to the day, of the morning I found my car had been moved to the lawn.”
“You must be really good with dates. I used to forget my ex-husband’s birthday…”
“So now, recognizing the symmetry, I dart out of bed, down the hall and into the living room. And do you know what I see there, raiding the liquor at the wet bar?”
“No?”
“An ostrich.”
Deidre draws back in confusion. “An ostrich?”
Judge Mule emits and angry cackle and leans forward on his desk. “Not just any ostrich. This one was wearing a top hat and a bow tie and was singing to himself a little song, ‘Archibald loves cocktails, other peoples’ cocktails,’ and making himself a toddy off of my twenty-year-old scotch.”
“Sir?”
“The ostrich was a little startled when I walked into the room and noticed him at my bar. So do you know what he said?”
“I didn’t know that ostriches could speak.”
“This one could.”
“Oh.”
“So do you know what he said?”
“I have no idea.”
“He says, ‘Oh, I forgot to turn this on,’ at which point he reaches with his claw to a button on his top hat and vanishes, right there into thin air, like he was never there in the first place. When he vanished, this ostrich, the cocktail glass he was drinking from disappeared with him.”
“Sir?”
“I know it sounds insane, but Deidre, you’ve been with me for how many years?”
“Going on twelve, sir.”
“And you know me to be a grounded man, one not to wander into hyperbole.”
“Hyperbole, sir?”
“Exaggerations, crazy stuff.”
“No, not in my experience, sir.”
Judge Mule lights up another one of his repugnant clove cigarettes. “So, in that context, I decide, sure, I’m still dreaming.”
“That’s a relief.”
“It would be.”
“Sir?”
“So I wander to my front window, and what do I see, but my Bentley parked right there, in my front yard.”
“Again?”
“As if on cue.”
Deidre is confused. “But wait, you’re dreaming, right?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Sir?”
Judge Mule takes a deep puff from his cigarette. “What I’m trying to say, Deidre, is that I am not sure that I didn’t see the ostrich. I wasn’t dreaming. He is a hallucination to be sure, but I am not sure that the two aren’t connected.”
Deidre says nothing and allows her boss to collect his thoughts and continue.
“Although the fact that I saw the ostrich before I saw my car in the lawn is a little disconcerting to me, to say the least.”
“Maybe you were sleepwalking and seeing the car woke you up.”
“No, Deidre, I’m convinced it’s LSD.”
Deidre gasps. “LSD, sir?”
“I haven’t finished the story. So I call the police to tell them that, yet again, some pranksters have put my car in the front lawn, and that this time, I want them found and apprehended.”
“So did they find them?”
“Well, yes, and that’s where the story gets even more disturbing.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yes. So the police arrive and you know what they found in my car?”
“What.”
“There is a young man in there who had stripped off all of his clothes and duck taped himself to my steering wheel.”
“He did what?”
“Obviously, this disturbed young man was on the influence of something, LSD if you ask my personal opinion.”
“Drugs are going to ruin this country.”
“And I’m convinced that, in his drug crazed frenzy, this young… scoundrel came into my house and injected me, while I was sleeping, with one of his LSD pills. That’s the only thing that would explain both the ostrich and his bizarre behavior.”
“Sir, you’ve been through a lot.”
“Deidre, you’re right. But you know what they say, adversity breeds character.”
“That it does, sir. That it does.”
After securing the red wagon with a bicycle lock to the bus stop sign on the corner of Joseph and Tchoupitoulas streets, Art follows Sunshine into Dos Jefe’s Bar.
“Jackson,” she barks to the bartender, “have you forgotten what awaits us today?”
“What is the what?” a bewildered Jackson replies.
“Press Your Luck. It’s the marathon.”
“Right.” Jackson fumbles with the remote until it finds the Game Show Network on the menu. “Doesn’t start until noon.”
“I know. But I made sure to get here early so I wouldn’t miss anything.”
Jackson shakes his head and wanders off.
Arthur Cole believes Sunshine is an abandoned mine field and he is a foot soldier.
“Why on Earth are you so intent on watching this show?” he asks.
Sunshine nods several times confidently, eyes on the bar, and then cocks her head back up to meet Art’s eyes. “Have you seen the movie Quiz Show?”
“Yes.”
“And are you aware that it is based on a true story?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, in that movie, there was this game show in the fifties, I believe it was called Twenty-One, and this game show was hugely popular.”
“I recall.”
“Yes, but the reason it is so popular is because it is rigged. See, the producers put somebody in who is compelling for some reason or another, in the case of the movie, it is at first because the guy is ugly and Jewish. When the ratings start to sag, they replace him with a guy who is a wasp and is also happens to be a brilliant historian or English professor, or some such nonsense.”
“Right, and when the ugly Jew is told he has to purposefully lose, he goes batshit and all hell breaks loose.”
“Correct, but that’s not the point in this instance. The point is that the movie is a true story and that the show was rigged.”
“Okay, go on.”
“Anywhoo. So these same producers, in real life, the same guys who produced Twenty-one in real life, also produced…”
“Press Your Luck,” Art says.
“Ding, ding.”
“Great to know. But how is that compelling? Now we’re going to watch reruns of an eighties game show that was rigged? That smacks of Sisyphus, and you know how I am averse to tragedy of any kind.”
“Liz and I watched an entire season of Press Your Luck reruns, in order, on the USA network during college, instead of going to class.”
“Of course.”
Arthur Cole now believes that Sunshine is no longer a minefield, but instead has morphed into one giant bomb cluster bomb, destined eradicate his personal airport’s runway, fragmenting his life’s aviation-life-giving pavement into a million little pieces at any moment.
Sunshine is becoming giddy with excitement. “So the host, a guy by the name of Peter Tomarken, who is, in my opinion, the best and wittiest host in the history of game shows, the host, well, one day, this girl, her name is Paige, she comes on the show. The lights go up, their eyes meet, and they fall in love. Big money, no whammies.”
“I remember the whammies.”
“So, for the next month or so, this Paige girl goes on a quote-unquote miraculous winning streak, and the whole time, Peter Tomarken and Paige are flirting, literally non-stop. And it gets so bad that, after a few shows go by, the other contestants are getting cranky—they’ve seen through the charade and realize they’re nothing more than window dressing; they don’t have an Eskimo’s chance in hell of winning because, of course, during commercial breaks, Tomarken and Paige are probably doing it in the janitor’s closet.”
“So does she ever lose?”
“Well, that’s the thing. One day, she’s just gone and there’s no mention of her ever having been on the show. She has this remarkable, month-long winning streak and then, boom, it’s as if she never existed.”
“Heh.”
“But I could see it in the host’s eyes. He no longer had the lust for the game. The jokes were flat and he just looked sad, the show’s momentum abruptly and forever halted. I felt terrible for him.”
“I wonder what happened?”
“Well, Artie, that’s what we’re here today and for the next week to find out. I need clues. I need to see when it appears their relationship is faltering, body language, that sort of thing.”
“And you’re including me in this, why?”
“Because I am certain there are life lessons to be learned.”
Arthur Cole can see the lack of irony oozing out of Sunshine’s lips. “You can’t be serious. Life lessons? Considering your conduct last night, you’d probably qualify for a remedial course on life lessons.”
“Speaking of last night,” Sunshine says, “I wonder if Earl is out of jail yet?”
Fri., Jun 22, 11:40 a.m., Judge Mule’s Private Chambers
The stench from the cloves always made Deidre a little sick, and the way the judge is puffing away today, she is pretty sure she is going to hurl all over his desk, right there on top of all of the legal papers she doesn’t really understand; being his personal secretary and not one of his legal assistants, she’s not particularly versed, nor does she care what that stuff is and does. It’s the law, and the law bores her.
“Deidre,” the judge says, waving his stinking lit clove in the air in little semicircles, “just what is the world coming to?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
“Seriously. Do you think we’re at the cusp of Armageddon?”
“Sir, I usually leave that kind of stuff to the priests and the Pope and those kind of people. I don’t really know what the coming of an Armageddon is supposed to look like.”
“Well, Deidre, I’ll tell you. Just six months ago, to the day, mind you, I woke up for my morning cigarette and found my car sitting in my front lawn, and not by my doing, mind you. Somebody had broken into my house while I was sleeping, gone into the garage and rolled the car into the yard.”
“Did they take anything?”
“No, nothing was stolen, but that’s irrelevant.”
“Well I’m glad you didn’t get robbed.”
“Nothing gone, and again, Deidre, that’s not the point. So, last evening, around two in the morning, I thought I heard a rustle in my house. I didn’t think anything of it at first because, well, when one is sleeping and in and out of consciousness, one tends not to be in a one hundred percent realistic state of mind. But then I realized, in some sort of moment of clarity, that today, when I did the math in my semi-conscious head, was the six month anniversary, to the day, of the morning I found my car had been moved to the lawn.”
“You must be really good with dates. I used to forget my ex-husband’s birthday…”
“So now, recognizing the symmetry, I dart out of bed, down the hall and into the living room. And do you know what I see there, raiding the liquor at the wet bar?”
“No?”
“An ostrich.”
Deidre draws back in confusion. “An ostrich?”
Judge Mule emits and angry cackle and leans forward on his desk. “Not just any ostrich. This one was wearing a top hat and a bow tie and was singing to himself a little song, ‘Archibald loves cocktails, other peoples’ cocktails,’ and making himself a toddy off of my twenty-year-old scotch.”
“Sir?”
“The ostrich was a little startled when I walked into the room and noticed him at my bar. So do you know what he said?”
“I didn’t know that ostriches could speak.”
“This one could.”
“Oh.”
“So do you know what he said?”
“I have no idea.”
“He says, ‘Oh, I forgot to turn this on,’ at which point he reaches with his claw to a button on his top hat and vanishes, right there into thin air, like he was never there in the first place. When he vanished, this ostrich, the cocktail glass he was drinking from disappeared with him.”
“Sir?”
“I know it sounds insane, but Deidre, you’ve been with me for how many years?”
“Going on twelve, sir.”
“And you know me to be a grounded man, one not to wander into hyperbole.”
“Hyperbole, sir?”
“Exaggerations, crazy stuff.”
“No, not in my experience, sir.”
Judge Mule lights up another one of his repugnant clove cigarettes. “So, in that context, I decide, sure, I’m still dreaming.”
“That’s a relief.”
“It would be.”
“Sir?”
“So I wander to my front window, and what do I see, but my Bentley parked right there, in my front yard.”
“Again?”
“As if on cue.”
Deidre is confused. “But wait, you’re dreaming, right?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Sir?”
Judge Mule takes a deep puff from his cigarette. “What I’m trying to say, Deidre, is that I am not sure that I didn’t see the ostrich. I wasn’t dreaming. He is a hallucination to be sure, but I am not sure that the two aren’t connected.”
Deidre says nothing and allows her boss to collect his thoughts and continue.
“Although the fact that I saw the ostrich before I saw my car in the lawn is a little disconcerting to me, to say the least.”
“Maybe you were sleepwalking and seeing the car woke you up.”
“No, Deidre, I’m convinced it’s LSD.”
Deidre gasps. “LSD, sir?”
“I haven’t finished the story. So I call the police to tell them that, yet again, some pranksters have put my car in the front lawn, and that this time, I want them found and apprehended.”
“So did they find them?”
“Well, yes, and that’s where the story gets even more disturbing.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yes. So the police arrive and you know what they found in my car?”
“What.”
“There is a young man in there who had stripped off all of his clothes and duck taped himself to my steering wheel.”
“He did what?”
“Obviously, this disturbed young man was on the influence of something, LSD if you ask my personal opinion.”
“Drugs are going to ruin this country.”
“And I’m convinced that, in his drug crazed frenzy, this young… scoundrel came into my house and injected me, while I was sleeping, with one of his LSD pills. That’s the only thing that would explain both the ostrich and his bizarre behavior.”
“Sir, you’ve been through a lot.”
“Deidre, you’re right. But you know what they say, adversity breeds character.”
“That it does, sir. That it does.”
Monday, April 7, 2008
Chapter 02
Fri., Jun 22, 10:45 a.m., Orleans Parish Prison
Jail isn’t a place a man like Earl Patton spends much of his time. Hardly any at all. In fact, the only time before this time he’d ever visited a jail was during his high school years in a scared straight program. But that was in the relatively antiseptic confines of the Jefferson Parish Prison. The Orleans Parish Prison is an entirely different animal, with animal being the proper term.
The cell, a holding cell for him and the other various criminals awaiting to go where they will eventually begin their journey towards justice is a ten by ten foot slab of cement surrounded on all sides by iron bars; it is, for the guards, a three hundred sixty degree zoo exhibit. The benches, raised concrete slabs lining the bars are only interrupted by the opening for the gate on one corner and at the other corner, by a toilet, a toilet abused to such a degree that Earl’s description of it as repulsively vile would underscore the tragic, brutally filth-ridden contents of both its vessel and adjacent surfaces, a fecal-vomit-urine stew. It’s as if somebody installed a snow blower directly in front of the toilet and, instead of snow, they filled the machine with bodily waste and let it go to town on this toilet, the septic antithesis of the Mona Lisa.
The second bologna sandwich of the day arrives, with the same slimy, Technicolor meat-like substance and flimsy white bread barely holding itself together, much like quickly unraveling Earl Patton. The only way to tell time in the O.P.P. is by the arrival of the bologna sandwich. Earl suspects he’s been in for about ten hours now. It’s an internal clock, one of an inmate, one he’s discovered through incarceration that he actually owns. Earl Patton, criminal.
He takes a bite into the partially liquefied bread, and the kaleidoscopic bologna tastes of mud, semen and sewer water, as did the previous sandwich. Fuck, he is hungry. Choosing this culinary offering as sustenance is dubious, probably dangerous, but his stomach is speaking to him of its necessity. He grimaces as he is about to take his second bite, but, just then, his name is called; he’s being released! Earl throws the partially eaten sandwich to the ground and races to the gate.
Fri., Jun 22, 10:47 a.m., Place d’Armes Hotel
The name of the Limousine owned by one of Archibald’s experiment’s subjects (that insufferable Josef Stalin, a.k.a. Nikolai Valentino) is Dallas (name of the car, mind you), although Archibald doesn’t know why the car is named as such, but nevertheless, the limo makes the all too inquisitive Archibald hearken back to the days he followed the happenings of J.R. Ewing, one of the most influential figures in Archibald’s life. During Archibald’s yearly pilgrimage to Southfork, he often thinks about the car, Dallas, and what he, Archibald, would do differently if he were on another planet. But business is business and this planet is home for the time being. This blue and white blob, Earth, has been home for almost a hundred trips around the run-of-the-mill star the locals call The Sun.
If it weren’t for that television show, Dallas, he might have lost his mind. But Dallas gave Archibald a focus, and for him, in J.R. Ewing, a way to properly understand the human race.
Fri., Jun 22, 10:49 a.m., East Jefferson Hospital, Psychiatric Ward
“Okay, so this is patient number 13921, Maggie Flick. Ms. Flick is suffering from a rare form of panic disorder that caused her to have delusions and hallucinations in order to cope with her panic episodes.”
“What sort of delusions and hallucinations?”
“In the case of Ms. Flick, she believed she saw Ingrid Bergman, who at this time, here in the twenty first century, is alive and living in our fair city, here in New Orleans.”
“That is odd.”
“Oh, there’s more. She also believed that the aforementioned Mrs. Bergman only leaves the hotel room in which she resides after donning a San Diego Chicken costume.”
“That would get warm in these summer months.”
“Yes, well, it would.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Upon intake here, Ms. Flick’s condition was aggravated by the fact that she refused to drink anything except Chartreuse, which, of course, we cannot give her here at this institution.”
“Isn’t Chartreuse is a color?”
“Well, yes, but it’s also a type of liquor.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Anyway, back to Ms. Flick.”
“Certainly.”
“She allowed us to give her milk, and then we found out Ms. Flick is severely lactose intolerant.”
“Messy.”
“I emphasize the word severely.”
“Oh, goodness.”
“But that only lasted a couple of days. She got thirsty, gave in and started drinking water.”
“Well that’s certainly good news.”
“Yes, and after a good deal of therapy, she has since rescinded her belief in her delusions and is scheduled to be released today.”
“Is that so?”
“That it is. That it is.”
“Good to see that the state of Louisiana is getting our money’s worth at this hospital. Nice work, doctor.”
Fri., Jun 22, 11:05 a.m., 500 block, Octavia St.
“Sunshine, why on earth would you duck tape somebody to the wheel of a stolen car, a Bentley, no matter, and why would he allow himself to be taped to said car?”
“We rolled the Judge’s car in the front yard. Just like you and I did.”
“I am so freaking offended,” Art wallows. “You should have known better than to try that trick a second time. It was kind of brilliant when we did it, but still.” Art continues pulling Sunshine’s red wagon, complete with Sunshine, streamers and a yellow bow on the front, down Octavia Street.
“Artie, do you think I would have done it if I would have thought for one minute that Judge Mule would have woken up and called the cops?”
“I don’t presume that you ever think.”
“That’s not nice.”
“Well it was dumb.”
“Yeah, but I was smart enough to get the hell out of there when I heard the sirens.”
“I’m glad your fear reflexes are in place. That places you, intelligence-wise, just ahead of the amoeba and in a dead heat with the ostrich.” Just then, the strangest thing happens. Arthur Cole feels as if somebody just kicked him in the ass. But his head had been turned around, speaking to Sunshine and she hadn’t done anything. He stops, drops the wagon handle, sort of walks around himself, inspecting the empty air around him, but no errant boot in sight.
“I’m not dumb, Artie. Foolish, perhaps, but not dumb.” She stops, wondering why Arthur is spinning. “And what is it that you’re doing, anyway? Hallucinations?”
Art shakes his head like a saturated golden retriever having just swum out of a pond. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Well I don’t really care what you think about me and my failed rendezvous with Earl Patton. He’s the dumb ass for letting me tape him to the wheel.”
“There’s that again,” Art says, scratching his head. “Why did you tape him to the wheel?”
“I don’t know. I found some duck tape on the passenger seat and it just kind of happened. I wonder if Earl got out of jail yet.”
“Poor fucker.”
“Hey and why are we just sitting here? Mush camel! I must get to my watering hole before the Press Your Luck marathon comes on. Drive us to Dos Jefe’s at once!”
Arthur Cole grabs the handle of the wagon and continues pulling Sunshine to her promised land, the bar from which they will theoretically turn the rest of the day into night. That’s what alcohol does. Day into night. If he could, he would whinny. He is a wagon horse. His name should be Rudolph, although he does not possess a fluorescent nose. And Sunshine has not the beard. Not yet, anyway. Merry Christmas. In June.
Fri., Jun 22, 11:07 a.m., 3931 ½ Prytania St.
Lush Muffin’s eyes are seemingly sealed together with a layer of eye-crust the strength of contractor-grade concrete, and she can hear her cranium breathing; it’s a cavern inside her head, a cavern filled with an army of small robots who insist on stabbing her brain with their tiny robot spears, jabbing with a unity and a purpose one can only get from specially trained brain pain robots. They seem to congregate at the temple and just behind the aforementioned eye-crusted eyes’ cavities, and they are in no mood to be shifted from their positions. When the head moves, the robots become even angrier.
Not one to normally wake before noon, Lush Muffin finds herself in a common predicament: she has no money and therefore needs a job, or, at the very least, a handsome benefactor. There had been a few benefactors the previous evening, but they were just buying drinks. What she needs is somebody who will be willing to pay the bills and entertain her while keeping her as far away from entering into the world of commerce, i.e., a job, as possible. And this needs to happen soon.
Lush Muffin is left with the decision, whether to open her eyes, wake up, get out of bed, take a Percodin, shower, get dressed, grab the classifieds, circle a couple of waitressing or bartending jobs, make the calls, drop off her resume with a healthy smile on her face, hoping that the manager is a man because, well, Lush Muffin is hot, and then accept the job but regret to inform the aforementioned manager that she cannot start for a week because of previous commitments, those commitments being the fact she will have to get some serious partying out of her system, or she can just stay in bed and wait for the handsome benefactor thing which will, of course, alleviate the need for any of the aforementioned nonsense to ever have to take place.
Fri., Jun 22, 11:08 a.m., 3931 ½ Prytania St.
Door number two, handsome benefactor. Check.
Jail isn’t a place a man like Earl Patton spends much of his time. Hardly any at all. In fact, the only time before this time he’d ever visited a jail was during his high school years in a scared straight program. But that was in the relatively antiseptic confines of the Jefferson Parish Prison. The Orleans Parish Prison is an entirely different animal, with animal being the proper term.
The cell, a holding cell for him and the other various criminals awaiting to go where they will eventually begin their journey towards justice is a ten by ten foot slab of cement surrounded on all sides by iron bars; it is, for the guards, a three hundred sixty degree zoo exhibit. The benches, raised concrete slabs lining the bars are only interrupted by the opening for the gate on one corner and at the other corner, by a toilet, a toilet abused to such a degree that Earl’s description of it as repulsively vile would underscore the tragic, brutally filth-ridden contents of both its vessel and adjacent surfaces, a fecal-vomit-urine stew. It’s as if somebody installed a snow blower directly in front of the toilet and, instead of snow, they filled the machine with bodily waste and let it go to town on this toilet, the septic antithesis of the Mona Lisa.
The second bologna sandwich of the day arrives, with the same slimy, Technicolor meat-like substance and flimsy white bread barely holding itself together, much like quickly unraveling Earl Patton. The only way to tell time in the O.P.P. is by the arrival of the bologna sandwich. Earl suspects he’s been in for about ten hours now. It’s an internal clock, one of an inmate, one he’s discovered through incarceration that he actually owns. Earl Patton, criminal.
He takes a bite into the partially liquefied bread, and the kaleidoscopic bologna tastes of mud, semen and sewer water, as did the previous sandwich. Fuck, he is hungry. Choosing this culinary offering as sustenance is dubious, probably dangerous, but his stomach is speaking to him of its necessity. He grimaces as he is about to take his second bite, but, just then, his name is called; he’s being released! Earl throws the partially eaten sandwich to the ground and races to the gate.
Fri., Jun 22, 10:47 a.m., Place d’Armes Hotel
The name of the Limousine owned by one of Archibald’s experiment’s subjects (that insufferable Josef Stalin, a.k.a. Nikolai Valentino) is Dallas (name of the car, mind you), although Archibald doesn’t know why the car is named as such, but nevertheless, the limo makes the all too inquisitive Archibald hearken back to the days he followed the happenings of J.R. Ewing, one of the most influential figures in Archibald’s life. During Archibald’s yearly pilgrimage to Southfork, he often thinks about the car, Dallas, and what he, Archibald, would do differently if he were on another planet. But business is business and this planet is home for the time being. This blue and white blob, Earth, has been home for almost a hundred trips around the run-of-the-mill star the locals call The Sun.
If it weren’t for that television show, Dallas, he might have lost his mind. But Dallas gave Archibald a focus, and for him, in J.R. Ewing, a way to properly understand the human race.
Fri., Jun 22, 10:49 a.m., East Jefferson Hospital, Psychiatric Ward
“Okay, so this is patient number 13921, Maggie Flick. Ms. Flick is suffering from a rare form of panic disorder that caused her to have delusions and hallucinations in order to cope with her panic episodes.”
“What sort of delusions and hallucinations?”
“In the case of Ms. Flick, she believed she saw Ingrid Bergman, who at this time, here in the twenty first century, is alive and living in our fair city, here in New Orleans.”
“That is odd.”
“Oh, there’s more. She also believed that the aforementioned Mrs. Bergman only leaves the hotel room in which she resides after donning a San Diego Chicken costume.”
“That would get warm in these summer months.”
“Yes, well, it would.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Upon intake here, Ms. Flick’s condition was aggravated by the fact that she refused to drink anything except Chartreuse, which, of course, we cannot give her here at this institution.”
“Isn’t Chartreuse is a color?”
“Well, yes, but it’s also a type of liquor.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Anyway, back to Ms. Flick.”
“Certainly.”
“She allowed us to give her milk, and then we found out Ms. Flick is severely lactose intolerant.”
“Messy.”
“I emphasize the word severely.”
“Oh, goodness.”
“But that only lasted a couple of days. She got thirsty, gave in and started drinking water.”
“Well that’s certainly good news.”
“Yes, and after a good deal of therapy, she has since rescinded her belief in her delusions and is scheduled to be released today.”
“Is that so?”
“That it is. That it is.”
“Good to see that the state of Louisiana is getting our money’s worth at this hospital. Nice work, doctor.”
Fri., Jun 22, 11:05 a.m., 500 block, Octavia St.
“Sunshine, why on earth would you duck tape somebody to the wheel of a stolen car, a Bentley, no matter, and why would he allow himself to be taped to said car?”
“We rolled the Judge’s car in the front yard. Just like you and I did.”
“I am so freaking offended,” Art wallows. “You should have known better than to try that trick a second time. It was kind of brilliant when we did it, but still.” Art continues pulling Sunshine’s red wagon, complete with Sunshine, streamers and a yellow bow on the front, down Octavia Street.
“Artie, do you think I would have done it if I would have thought for one minute that Judge Mule would have woken up and called the cops?”
“I don’t presume that you ever think.”
“That’s not nice.”
“Well it was dumb.”
“Yeah, but I was smart enough to get the hell out of there when I heard the sirens.”
“I’m glad your fear reflexes are in place. That places you, intelligence-wise, just ahead of the amoeba and in a dead heat with the ostrich.” Just then, the strangest thing happens. Arthur Cole feels as if somebody just kicked him in the ass. But his head had been turned around, speaking to Sunshine and she hadn’t done anything. He stops, drops the wagon handle, sort of walks around himself, inspecting the empty air around him, but no errant boot in sight.
“I’m not dumb, Artie. Foolish, perhaps, but not dumb.” She stops, wondering why Arthur is spinning. “And what is it that you’re doing, anyway? Hallucinations?”
Art shakes his head like a saturated golden retriever having just swum out of a pond. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Well I don’t really care what you think about me and my failed rendezvous with Earl Patton. He’s the dumb ass for letting me tape him to the wheel.”
“There’s that again,” Art says, scratching his head. “Why did you tape him to the wheel?”
“I don’t know. I found some duck tape on the passenger seat and it just kind of happened. I wonder if Earl got out of jail yet.”
“Poor fucker.”
“Hey and why are we just sitting here? Mush camel! I must get to my watering hole before the Press Your Luck marathon comes on. Drive us to Dos Jefe’s at once!”
Arthur Cole grabs the handle of the wagon and continues pulling Sunshine to her promised land, the bar from which they will theoretically turn the rest of the day into night. That’s what alcohol does. Day into night. If he could, he would whinny. He is a wagon horse. His name should be Rudolph, although he does not possess a fluorescent nose. And Sunshine has not the beard. Not yet, anyway. Merry Christmas. In June.
Fri., Jun 22, 11:07 a.m., 3931 ½ Prytania St.
Lush Muffin’s eyes are seemingly sealed together with a layer of eye-crust the strength of contractor-grade concrete, and she can hear her cranium breathing; it’s a cavern inside her head, a cavern filled with an army of small robots who insist on stabbing her brain with their tiny robot spears, jabbing with a unity and a purpose one can only get from specially trained brain pain robots. They seem to congregate at the temple and just behind the aforementioned eye-crusted eyes’ cavities, and they are in no mood to be shifted from their positions. When the head moves, the robots become even angrier.
Not one to normally wake before noon, Lush Muffin finds herself in a common predicament: she has no money and therefore needs a job, or, at the very least, a handsome benefactor. There had been a few benefactors the previous evening, but they were just buying drinks. What she needs is somebody who will be willing to pay the bills and entertain her while keeping her as far away from entering into the world of commerce, i.e., a job, as possible. And this needs to happen soon.
Lush Muffin is left with the decision, whether to open her eyes, wake up, get out of bed, take a Percodin, shower, get dressed, grab the classifieds, circle a couple of waitressing or bartending jobs, make the calls, drop off her resume with a healthy smile on her face, hoping that the manager is a man because, well, Lush Muffin is hot, and then accept the job but regret to inform the aforementioned manager that she cannot start for a week because of previous commitments, those commitments being the fact she will have to get some serious partying out of her system, or she can just stay in bed and wait for the handsome benefactor thing which will, of course, alleviate the need for any of the aforementioned nonsense to ever have to take place.
Fri., Jun 22, 11:08 a.m., 3931 ½ Prytania St.
Door number two, handsome benefactor. Check.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Chapter 01
Friday, June 22 (and vicinity), 2007
Fri., Jun 22, 9:15 a.m., 341 – 343 Octavia St.
Arthur Cole thinks Sunshine smells like a Studebaker.
“Why do you smell like a dirty car?”
Sunshine is smitten with the conversation. “I had an incident. Had to hide under somebody’s Lexus.”
“An incident?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“You know him. Dresses like Warren Beatty from that vain song.”
Art snickers. “Not that Earl guy, the one who doesn’t wear socks? Sunshine…”
“I know.”
“That’s dirty enough, all by itself. Without hiding under a car.”
Sunshine smiles and rubs her unadorned earlobe distractedly. “I didn’t sleep with him.”
Art cocks his head, unconvinced.
“Nothing biblical. I’m pretty sure.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“No. I do remember tying him up and making him watch Steel Magnolias.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Of course it is.”
Fri., Jun 22, 9:45 a.m., CC’s Coffee.
Art walks down the street pulling Sunshine in her little red wagon. It’s only a few blocks from their shared shotgun double to the local CC’s Coffee House. When they arrive, she orders some kind of iced coffee; Art opts for bottled water. They go and sit at a table outside.
Arthur Cole sees Sunshine as gleaming toothpaste commercial this morning, her smile reflective and California wholesome.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Had a Fresca and a cigarette for breakfast. I’m stuffed.”
An acquaintance of theirs stops by the table. Her name is Gwen.
Gwen needs some matches. “Jesus Christ. Somebody stole my lighter. Can you believe that?”
“Here,” Sunshine offers, digging a small book of matches from her purse.
The cigarette twitches violently in between Gwen’s fingers as she flails at the matchbook, attempting ignition. Upon the third match, she has finally attained fire; the success is short lived as the flame is extinguished by a slight breeze before she can get the cigarette lit. “Fuck,” she snorts, flicking the latest failed match to the ground.
Art glances at Sunshine. She is rolling her eyes. “Give me that,” she says, grabbing for Gwen’s cigarette.
“I’ve got it,” Gwen hisses back, finally managing to connect flame to paper and inhaling a quick, shallow puff. She passes the matchbook back to Sunshine. “Thanks for the fire.”
Sunshine grunts something unintelligible.
“Anyway,” Gwen continues, “Sunshine, did you hear about your friend Earl?”
“Hear what?”
“He got arrested last night.”
Sunshine feigns ignorance. “Arrested?”
“Yeah. He was caught trying to steal Judge Mule’s Bentley.”
Art grunts out a sudden, uncontrollable, yet stifled laugh. Gwen’s mouth curls into a grin.
Sunshine, to her credit, remains unaffected. “That Earl has always been a bit of a kleptomaniac.”
“Just thought you’d want to know,” Gwen adds before leaving. “Too-do-loo!”
Once Gwen is out of earshot, Art turns to Sunshine. “The Bentley? Sunshine, I’m offended.”
Sunshine reaches into her purse and pulls out a smoke of her own . “You suppose he’s still in the pokey?”
“Probably. Even if Earl’s family posted bail, it’s at least twelve hours before anybody ever gets out of Orleans Parish Prison.” Even having never been there himself, Art shudders in recollection of the stories of time served in the O.P.P.
Sunshine bears down on the cigarette, sucking the toxins with her slightly chapped lips. “I don’t think I’d like prison,” she says finally, speaking only after finishing her exhale, after which, she raises her sunglasses over her eyes and props them atop her blonde mane. “Artie?” she asks with a fair amount of trepidation.
“Yes?”
“Have you ever been to Judge Mule’s house?”
He looks at Sunshine as one would eye a toddler when informed by that young child of the existence of fecal matter. “I think you know the answer to that.”
“I do.”
Sunshine’s cigarette is taking the full brunt of her rising anxiety, not that Sunshine cares. She was there, last night, hiding under a car when Earl got arrested.
“Steel Magnolias got boring. I’ve seen it a million times, and Earl, well, you know, Earl’s a boy like you. Nothing puts a drunk boy to sleep faster than that damn movie. And we’d already done whatever it is we did, saving you the details, but I was wide awake and wanted to do something more than just go to sleep—it couldn’t have been past two in the morning and I guess I was still horny, not that Earl doesn’t get that part right, but, well, sometimes a woman has needs and last night was one of those. But I wasn’t particularly horny for sex. Horny for excitement is more appropriate.”
“You know how you get.”
“I know.”
“I’m starting to feel like I know where this is going.”
“You do.” Sunshine smirks. “Anywhoo.”
“Anywhoo.”
“So I decide that I want Earl to do me in a car.”
“But not any car, right?”
“Well, my first inclination was to break into the neighbor’s Explorer, but Earl wasn’t very impressed. He said we should go find a Porsche, you know, like in that movie.”
“Risky Business.”
“Right.”
“So you’re the prostitute.”
“Well, I didn’t quite get that far with it in my head, but I can see that Earl might have been thinking that.”
“It would have fulfilled an adolescent fantasy I still carry to this day,” he says, snatching a cigarette from Sunshine’s purse.
“Men and their fetishes.”
Art raises his eyebrows, cocks his head downward and glares at Sunshine.
“Okay, I admit to my fair share. Anywhoo.”
“Anywhoo.”
Sunshine extinguishes her cigarette in the screw top of Art’s water bottle.
“But why Judge Mule’s house? I’m hurt, Sunshine. That is our place.”
“Yes, I know Artie, but it wasn’t supposed to be at Judge Mule’s house. That just kind of happened.”
“Spilled coffee just kind of happens,” he says, pointing at a stain on Sunshine’s napkin. “Breaking into Judge Mule’s garage to have sex in his Bentley doesn’t just kind of happen.”
“We actually wandered through the whole house.”
“Still, my point is that I’m offended. That is our place, not you and Earl’s place, although I guess it’s really now more you and Earl’s place than ours, considering the jail thing. Speaking of, how is it that you’re not there with him right now?”
“I think it’s because of the duck tape.”
“The duck tape.”
“Yes, Artie. The duck tape.”
Fri., Jun 22, 9:15 a.m., 341 – 343 Octavia St.
Arthur Cole thinks Sunshine smells like a Studebaker.
“Why do you smell like a dirty car?”
Sunshine is smitten with the conversation. “I had an incident. Had to hide under somebody’s Lexus.”
“An incident?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“You know him. Dresses like Warren Beatty from that vain song.”
Art snickers. “Not that Earl guy, the one who doesn’t wear socks? Sunshine…”
“I know.”
“That’s dirty enough, all by itself. Without hiding under a car.”
Sunshine smiles and rubs her unadorned earlobe distractedly. “I didn’t sleep with him.”
Art cocks his head, unconvinced.
“Nothing biblical. I’m pretty sure.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“No. I do remember tying him up and making him watch Steel Magnolias.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Of course it is.”
Fri., Jun 22, 9:45 a.m., CC’s Coffee.
Art walks down the street pulling Sunshine in her little red wagon. It’s only a few blocks from their shared shotgun double to the local CC’s Coffee House. When they arrive, she orders some kind of iced coffee; Art opts for bottled water. They go and sit at a table outside.
Arthur Cole sees Sunshine as gleaming toothpaste commercial this morning, her smile reflective and California wholesome.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Had a Fresca and a cigarette for breakfast. I’m stuffed.”
An acquaintance of theirs stops by the table. Her name is Gwen.
Gwen needs some matches. “Jesus Christ. Somebody stole my lighter. Can you believe that?”
“Here,” Sunshine offers, digging a small book of matches from her purse.
The cigarette twitches violently in between Gwen’s fingers as she flails at the matchbook, attempting ignition. Upon the third match, she has finally attained fire; the success is short lived as the flame is extinguished by a slight breeze before she can get the cigarette lit. “Fuck,” she snorts, flicking the latest failed match to the ground.
Art glances at Sunshine. She is rolling her eyes. “Give me that,” she says, grabbing for Gwen’s cigarette.
“I’ve got it,” Gwen hisses back, finally managing to connect flame to paper and inhaling a quick, shallow puff. She passes the matchbook back to Sunshine. “Thanks for the fire.”
Sunshine grunts something unintelligible.
“Anyway,” Gwen continues, “Sunshine, did you hear about your friend Earl?”
“Hear what?”
“He got arrested last night.”
Sunshine feigns ignorance. “Arrested?”
“Yeah. He was caught trying to steal Judge Mule’s Bentley.”
Art grunts out a sudden, uncontrollable, yet stifled laugh. Gwen’s mouth curls into a grin.
Sunshine, to her credit, remains unaffected. “That Earl has always been a bit of a kleptomaniac.”
“Just thought you’d want to know,” Gwen adds before leaving. “Too-do-loo!”
Once Gwen is out of earshot, Art turns to Sunshine. “The Bentley? Sunshine, I’m offended.”
Sunshine reaches into her purse and pulls out a smoke of her own . “You suppose he’s still in the pokey?”
“Probably. Even if Earl’s family posted bail, it’s at least twelve hours before anybody ever gets out of Orleans Parish Prison.” Even having never been there himself, Art shudders in recollection of the stories of time served in the O.P.P.
Sunshine bears down on the cigarette, sucking the toxins with her slightly chapped lips. “I don’t think I’d like prison,” she says finally, speaking only after finishing her exhale, after which, she raises her sunglasses over her eyes and props them atop her blonde mane. “Artie?” she asks with a fair amount of trepidation.
“Yes?”
“Have you ever been to Judge Mule’s house?”
He looks at Sunshine as one would eye a toddler when informed by that young child of the existence of fecal matter. “I think you know the answer to that.”
“I do.”
Sunshine’s cigarette is taking the full brunt of her rising anxiety, not that Sunshine cares. She was there, last night, hiding under a car when Earl got arrested.
“Steel Magnolias got boring. I’ve seen it a million times, and Earl, well, you know, Earl’s a boy like you. Nothing puts a drunk boy to sleep faster than that damn movie. And we’d already done whatever it is we did, saving you the details, but I was wide awake and wanted to do something more than just go to sleep—it couldn’t have been past two in the morning and I guess I was still horny, not that Earl doesn’t get that part right, but, well, sometimes a woman has needs and last night was one of those. But I wasn’t particularly horny for sex. Horny for excitement is more appropriate.”
“You know how you get.”
“I know.”
“I’m starting to feel like I know where this is going.”
“You do.” Sunshine smirks. “Anywhoo.”
“Anywhoo.”
“So I decide that I want Earl to do me in a car.”
“But not any car, right?”
“Well, my first inclination was to break into the neighbor’s Explorer, but Earl wasn’t very impressed. He said we should go find a Porsche, you know, like in that movie.”
“Risky Business.”
“Right.”
“So you’re the prostitute.”
“Well, I didn’t quite get that far with it in my head, but I can see that Earl might have been thinking that.”
“It would have fulfilled an adolescent fantasy I still carry to this day,” he says, snatching a cigarette from Sunshine’s purse.
“Men and their fetishes.”
Art raises his eyebrows, cocks his head downward and glares at Sunshine.
“Okay, I admit to my fair share. Anywhoo.”
“Anywhoo.”
Sunshine extinguishes her cigarette in the screw top of Art’s water bottle.
“But why Judge Mule’s house? I’m hurt, Sunshine. That is our place.”
“Yes, I know Artie, but it wasn’t supposed to be at Judge Mule’s house. That just kind of happened.”
“Spilled coffee just kind of happens,” he says, pointing at a stain on Sunshine’s napkin. “Breaking into Judge Mule’s garage to have sex in his Bentley doesn’t just kind of happen.”
“We actually wandered through the whole house.”
“Still, my point is that I’m offended. That is our place, not you and Earl’s place, although I guess it’s really now more you and Earl’s place than ours, considering the jail thing. Speaking of, how is it that you’re not there with him right now?”
“I think it’s because of the duck tape.”
“The duck tape.”
“Yes, Artie. The duck tape.”
