DESCENDED MASTERS

Wait...no...I'm sure of it now...

EPISODE IX: descended masters, or "Crying Games"

(If you've no idea what's going on...I can't do nothin' for ya, man. The Man done got me down.)


A sober half-wit will always be wiser than the most gifted, chessmaster intellectual who is drunk. Despite Jesse’s nonsense wino rhetoric, no bottle of booze in existence—regardless of malt, price range, or reputation among other inebriates—has ever been, nor ever will be, a “wise liquor,” a “spiritual drink,” any “worker of love,” or anything apart from an alcoholic pipe dream…a “bourbon legend.” It was mere logic: The piss-ant, when pissed on, does not become more “ant.” Thus, no drunken man, upon further drinking, has ever become more “man.” However, some have compared favorably with the aforementioned ant.

As I wandered past some vile watering hole that smacked of every movie strip club I ever saw, there was Rick—ineffectively hailing a cab for Jesse, who was rubbing party beads like rosaries, and hailing Mary.

Rick cried, “Dude! Help me get rid of him!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh man…I just met the hottest chick! She wants me to go home with her!”

“I see. Look…I’ll watch Jesse for a while; you two go back to the motel for a bit. I don’t think it’s a great idea to go home with anybody…um…there’s some weird shit in this town….that’s all.”

Rick lowered his voice, and pulled me to the side. “Look, guy—she just smoked me in the bathroom, and I totally creamed her face! Totally! This is an all-nighter, man—I wanna ice her donuts! There’s no way I’m leaving tomorrow morning! I’ll catch a bus or something—I won’t lose this!”

Before the curses could leave my lips, Rick’s Lady of the Soon-To-Be-Iced-Donuts wrapped her full-figured form around his. She was very pretty, but familiar.

Rick exclaimed in pride, “Dude! This is Xandria!”

I shook her long, bony but well-manicured hand. “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I love your catalog.” She smiled and winked in return.

Rick pulled me to the side again, as Jesse’s cab finally arrived. “Dude,” he whispered, as I prepared to concede him a victory, “Isn’t she fine? I met her at the Oz!”

I paused for a moment. I, the prolific writer, was grasping for a single word at reach. “Not possible…” is all I remembered stammering at the moment. This was sitcom territory.

Rick caught my startle, and replied, “Now wait a second, guy—I know what you’re thinking!”

I drearily nodded, “Do you?”

“Dude, of course! But the Oz must be a franchise or something. There’s more than one!”

“Oh. I see. That clears that up, doesn’t it?”

“She is, like, so eager! I bet she knows a lot of tricks!”

“I’m sure she does. Big ones.”

Rick lowered his voice even softer, “Damn straight. Hey, I bet she even takes it up the ass, dude!”

“Rick,” I paused, “I would bet my life on it. Enjoy yourself, man.”

And with that, he thanked me as the greatest, and left me—and my blank stare—far behind.


TO BE CONTINUED...


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