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.