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.”