by Jerzy Plates

Episode two: Snakepit Sexfest

"...if the Small Bladder Pride Day parade
was being held today they'd probably make
me Grand Marshall..."

The chances were good that by now Mingo was pushing up daisies in some sweltering mango republic, my sometime dream dame, Wanda LaMarr, was tossing me off like some lipstick smeared Chesterfield butt, and more to the point, if the Small Bladder Pride Day parade was being held today, they'd make me Grand Marshall. Still, I felt an odd sense of well-being, like maybe no one was going to sneak up and open an umbrella in my rectum when I wasn't looking. At least not today.

You writing this down? I'm not just making balloon juice here, you know. Keep up or keep out.

Mingo Bellman's FAX from Puerto Velveeta suggested certain murky political links that bode well for neither of our asses. Whoever was in charge down there had us both tacking paddleless down the Rio Kaka. We were enmeshed in a strategem where our seemingly only redemption was the manifestation of a profound lack of loyalty on both of our parts. And that sucks.

Wait, listen; Jules is working on something here. You remember Jules, my faithful musical companion. He's the cat who backs up everything I say with some riff that complements whatever mood I'm suggesting in this story? He seems to be laying an F major seventh scale over a D bass line. That's cool. But then he goes down a whole tone to this E-flat Major Seventh he plops on top of a C chord. Sounds a little too much like the theme from SHAFT for my taste but since I owe him two months back residuals I'll let it slide. Besides, it seems to working for this part of the story.

Mingo's cooperative in Velveeta was a certain Marcella. They made a toothsome twosome. They ran a small time scam dealing No Habit heroin; "the poor man's out". They also peddled a few time-shares in a Chinese restaurant called Noh Szech Luk. Neither
venture traded well on the big board. On top of that, a few months later, Marcella got herself summarily debriefed by the Ambassadoro Americano after grabbing his seersucker trousers and innocently inquiring, "What you got in there, sweet stuff?" Mingo soon found himself left to his own devices. His back-up had backed out.

That's where I come in.

I'm Murph, remember.

You asked me how this story goes and I'm telling you.

You guys cease to amaze me. You're a couple of charmers, you know. A couple of snake charmers. At least one of you should have major restraint of some kind. No, I mean it. I thought we had leash-laws around here.

The way I work is I'm for hire. Free-lance. Simple as that. At the time in question, I was on the payroll of an ex-ventriloquist who went by the name of Roscoe the Gat. He had a way with making dummies talk.

He could also simultaneously slip a stock-option deal past the S.E.C. while mobilizing a small army in any sector where, let's say, a shoddy industrial park might need to arise. Puerto Velveeta was the fallow soil into which this sort of seed would be sown. The fruit of this union, to overwork a metaphor, was to bear harvest somewhere in my back pocket. This culturally pre-fab Nuevo Velveeta would combine tropical efficiency with corporate charm. That's when Roscoe put me on to Mingo. He had his ears on the planning and his eyes on the big money.

You hungry? I could whip up a quick bearnaise for the carpaccio I got stashed in the dark room. Maybe a little Merlot? Yeah, I can cook. Big deal. My first wife was a second rate chef at a third class hotel on Fourth street. She could take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile. She also kept cage-dwelling pets. Go figure.

So Mingo was down in Sombreroville reeady to unbutton the mutton for a rip-roaring romp and he gets dealt a bloodbath-o-rama in spades. You know what entropy is? Don't just stand there. Go look it up. That's where Mingo stood. Right at the edge of an event horizon. In a world of too much choice, it's a grubby business, fate is. Sometimes you just don't know what's good anymore you trust you're lucky you work hard so what can you do your hands are tied. It's a clear cut case of inner-child molestation.

Competition is steep. Intentions are clear. Justice is being served. massive turnouts are expected. Witnesses are being interviewed.

Messages were left. Advice was given. Strings were pulled. Security was extraordinary. Obviously he was a major talent. Consequently his charm was wearing thin. But I digress. Live with it. Everybody else does.

Allow me to dispel your misconceptions. Rest your peeps on this; it's the dossier on the whole deal. Everything that happened at the fiesta of "La Semana de dar Gratias a Dios que no somos Mujeres". Peruse it at your leisure. And don't slam the door on your way out. And don't trip over the cleaning lady who's listening at the door. And don't forget your mittens.

To be continued