Saturday, March 8, 2008


He’s on the expensive, combination cellpone/email/iPod/pocket pussy.  It’s attached to his ear in the thumping nightclub and he’s making “the Deal.”  Capital D.  “The” Deal.  This is the one that puts all the deals he’s made in the past irrelevant.  Sure, he had a lot riding on the other ones, but this one is the be-all, end-all in his mind.  His $700 coat swishes by the unimportant people in the room.  He has that tattered look that costs more than what most of these schlubs make in a month.  And that look is premeditated.  It says, “I’m just like you, only better.”  The product in his hair does the same.  Disheveled, unkempt.  Always a five’o’clock shadow.  But this is a manicured five’o’clock.  More like 6:30 on the dot.  Again, better.  This Deal is the one, and all the stars in the sky are so in alignment that they spell out his name:  Marty Biggins.  On the other end of the pocket pussy is a high roller.  The highest of the rollers.  A man who shits doubloons on his lunch break.  And he’s talking to Morty from another thumping party in an even more important city, if you can believe that.  Morty certainly can’t.  All attention on both ends of the pussy is honed, focused on the other end.  Bank is made.  Payroll is laid out.  Billions of toilet doubloons are set aside for the Deal.  And when Morty runs his clean fingernails through his scalp, it’s calculated.  So calculated that each strand of hair is commanded to lay just right, in an unkempt way of course.  When all of the nobodies surrounding these two men have gone home for the night, sliding into their poor beds, the Deal will dwarf their pathetic lives and change the universe.  And all of this goes on within the confines of Morty’s sad, nicely quaffed head as he talks into the pocket pussy with no one on the other end.



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